The rebuke, spoken civilly, came from Raymond Trace, who happened to overhear the words, and who never willingly offended anybody. Not that Trace was a favourite in the college; none of them liked him much, without being able to explain why. Dick Loftus turned with a quick, scared look, wondering whether Mr. Trace had also overheard a private colloquy he had been holding with a very chosen companion, Tom Smart. He did not answer Trace; as a rule the younger fellows had to obey the seniors. At the sound of a bell, they began to hurry into a small place, called the robing-closet, where their caps and gowns were kept. Putting on the gowns, and carrying the caps in their hands, they went to the call-room, waiting there to be marshalled into chapel. The caps, or trenchers, were used always; the gowns were worn in chapel and on what might be called state occasions, such as the examinations, also at lectures; sometimes they wore them out of doors, but not in school ordinarily, nor when they were at play. The masters' gowns, worn always in public, were of the same make as the boys': the caps were all alike in form, but the masters' were distinguished by a scarlet tassel in addition to the black one. It was a small pretty chapel, the size of an ordinary room, the lectern slightly raised, and a standing desk for the lessons. The senior boys, meaning those of the first desk, read the lessons in turn. Part of the service was intoned, part read, part sung. Mr. Long, a good musician, took the organ to-night, and Dr. Brabazon, as was mostly usual, was in the reading desk. Mr. Loftus, as first senior present, left his place to read the first lesson. He read very well; clearly and distinctly, though somewhat coldly. Raymond Trace read the second lesson. His voice was subdued; its accent to some ears almost offensively humble—offensive because there was a ring in it of affected piety that could never be genuine. No such voice as that, no such assumption of humility, ever yet proceeded from a truly honest nature. "That young man is a hypocrite!" involuntarily thought the new master, Mr. Henry. "Heaven forgive me!" he added, a moment after; "what am I that I should judge another?" He did not know the name of the reader; he did not know yet the name of any one of the boys surrounding him; but he had been studying their faces, as it was natural he should do, considering that he had come to live amongst them. Instinct led Mr. Henry to study the human countenance—to be studying it always, unconsciously; and he was rarely deceived in it.