We stood, a nervous group, in the shadow of the waiting-room.
"Poor boy—poor little chap," said the vicar at last. "We must cheer him up—God bless him."
Youth is not careless of grief, but God has made it the master of sorrow, and Tommy's eyes were bright, as he jumped onto the platform.
He smiled complacently into our anxious faces—so genuine a smile that our poor carved ones relaxed into reality.
"I've got a ripping chameleon," he observed cheerfully.
[VII]
IN WHICH MADGE WHISTLES IN A WOOD
Through the still boughs the sunlight fell, as it seemed to me, in little molten streams, and I pushed back my chair still deeper into the shadow of the elm.