"Miss Woodford—I'm—I'm in trouble."
"Yes, I guessed so. Can't I help you?" she added, the rare sympathy of her voice reaching his ear.
The boy rolled over, and sat up, and something she saw in his face filled her with a nameless anxiety.
"Tell me all about it. I—-I shall understand," she said kindly. "However bad it is, don't be afraid."
Her tones and manner seemed to give the boy confidence.
"Miss Woodford, I'm often in trouble, as you know," he said, a little bitterly. "I can stand a licking all right, but—but my father never seems to think—to think I try. He never believes in me; he's told me I'm a rotter so—often. He's fond of Ellice—but sometimes I think he hates me——"
"Oh, no—no, don't say or think that for a moment," broke in Margaret, a great pity tugging at her heart. "He doesn't quite understand, that is all. You must go on trying, Bob, however hard it is. You will win his regard yet—I am sure—sure."
There was a pause, and then the boy continued, almost as if she had not spoken:
"He will never forgive me for this. He won't listen to explanations. I got in a rage about something this morning—I can't tell you what for—a boy said something, and I knocked him down. I had a cricket stump in my hand—and—I hurled it at him. I think for the moment I was mad with indignation; I don't quite know what happened for a minute. I think I was blind with rage. I just rushed away afterwards to the edge of the field to get alone. Later a prefect came and told me the Headmaster wanted me. He gave me this note to deliver to my father, and sent me home with it. He said—I'd hurt—the boy—he'd been unconscious. He asked me to explain what I did it for—but—I couldn't."
"What a pity," said Margaret; "it might have made a difference."