This was the first time for a long while that the boy of my heart had spoken to me about religion. It prepared me for what I came upon accidentally next day in a private drawer which he had happened to leave not only unlocked, but yawning open--an ivory crucifix. I stood and looked at the sacred thing, as it lay partly hidden and partly revealed among a few boyish treasures that included a few letters that I had written him at the rare times when we had been separated. That crucifix hidden away in his drawer meant more, far more, than even I could guess. It told a story of strange workings in the deeps of his soul. I knew better than to say a word to him about it. But that night, when I went to see him in bed, my kiss was warmer and my arm under his head tenderer even than usual. "Dear Big Yeogh Wough! Dear Big Yeogh Wough!" he murmured caressingly. "How is it, Roland, that you never say 'darling'? I don't think I've ever heard you say it in your life, any more than I've ever heard you talk slang." "I don't know. I don't want to say it, somehow. You know, you yourself say it's cheap." "It's cheap when a woman says it, because women generally say it too easily; but it can be a grand word when a man speaks it--or a boy. Still, I am quite satisfied that you should call me just Big Yeogh Wough. I know I am dearer to you than anyone else in the world can ever be--at least, until you grow up and fall in love." I had spoken with a laugh, but he answered me gravely. "I shall have to find a very special sort of girl before I leave you for her." A few minutes later, when I had risen from beside his bed and was opening his window, he said: "Did you see those Territorials coming along just as we turned in at the gate here? Did you see how well they marched? Of course, they were only Territorials and people always laugh at them, but there's something so splendid in the sound of marching feet that I can't get it out of my head. It made me feel for the first time almost sorry that I'm never going to be a soldier." Oh, that splendid sound of marching feet, so grand, so gay, and yet so heartbreaking! He was to hear it often enough in a very few years to come! CHAPTER IX THE WAY OF A BROTHER There was one thing which more than any other had power to rouse whatever demon of Temper lurked far down under the sweetness of Little Yeogh Wough's nature; and that was Croquet. It is no wonder that a well-known judge said a year or two ago in his court that from personal experience he knew croquet to be more trying to the temper than anything else in the world. And the objectionable game was at the root of a good deal of trouble that arose at this time between the Boy and me. He never could bear to be beaten at anything. This feeling has been his driving power in all his life. Even Old Nurse knew of it, for one day when I had said to her that he never told a lie, she answered me: