Little beasts! He'd punish them! As he moved along behind the ranks of boys—each boy with his friend—the familiar mantle of loneliness, that he had known so long, swept him in its somber folds. He saw Comber in the distance, turned to avoid him, and suddenly confronted Mrs. Comber and Miss Desart. He pulled himself up with a sudden effort of one who, feeling at his very worst, has immediately to appear at his very best, and the struggle was glaring to the observer, in the nervous clutching of the buttons of his coat and his uneasy, agitated laugh. Mrs. Comber was always at her noisiest and most affable with Mr. Perrin, because she didn't like him, and she always tried to cover that dislike with an increased amiability. Isabel stood rather gravely by and watched the game. “We appear to be winning,” said Perrin, glaring as he spoke at three small hoys who had looked up at the sound of his voice. “We appear—um—to be winning. Morton has secured a try.” “Yes, I'm so glad,” gasped Mrs. Comber—she was out of breath. “Morton's a nice boy—we had him once in our house, and I do hope the school will win, because it's so nice for everybody's tempers, and the boys like it—and there's that nice Mr. Traill playing and running about most beautifully.” Perrin started. He hadn't noticed that Traill was playing. He looked at Isabel and saw that she was watching the game with deep attention. Traill was certainly in his element. The ball came suddenly in his direction. He had it in his hands and was off with it. There was a breathless, hushed pause; then, as he sped along, just inside the touch-line, swerved past his opposing three-quarter to the center of the field, and flew for the goal, the silence broke into a roar. Miss Desart gave a long-drawn “Oh!” Mrs. Comber a little scream, Mr. Perrin moodily stroked his mustache. The back was outwitted, and came floundering to the ground—a very pretty try. “Good old Traillers!” “That's something like!” “Isn't he spiffing?”—and then Miss Desart's, “Oh! that was splendid!” beat about Mr. Perrin's poor head, that was aching horribly. “That nice Mr. Traill! I do like to see people run like that. Oh! it's half-time.” Mrs. Comber caught Mr. Perrin slowly into her vision again and prepared once more to be volubly pleasant. But Mr. Perrin had had enough. On the opposite side of the field, on the top of the hill against the china white of the autumn sky, were three trees, gnarled, bent, gaunt, like three old men. Quite alone they stood and watched, impersonally and gravely, the game. Mr. Perrin felt suddenly as though he, too, were really one of them. Behind them sheets of white light, falling from the hidden sun, flooded the long, brown fields.