Eternally be,
Who round us hath shed
His own marvellous light,
And called us from darkness
His glory to see."
Young Ralph Bardon had come into the room, and stood by the door while the last verse was being sung. He was there to give an invitation from his father, for every year the Squire provided the choristers with a mild debauch at Flightshot. Robert had been to several of these, and they glittered in his memory—the laughter and games, the merry fooling, the grand supper table gay with candles. What a joke it had been when someone had given the salt to Rosie Hubble instead of the sugar to eat with her apple pie, and when some other wag had pulled away Ern Ticehurst's chair from under him....
"Thank you, sir—thank you kindly."
The invitation had been given, and the choristers were crowding towards the door. Robert followed them mechanically. It was raining hard.
"Oh, dear, oh, dear," said Bessie, "I never brought my cloak."