“Those two shirts of yours, Henry—those last two blue ones—have shrunk terribly. I’ll never go to that place in Oxford Street again. They’ve shrunk so dreadfully,” or “If you think you’d rather have those thicker socks next time you must tell me.... Do you like them better?” Henry was always vexed by such questions. He thought that he should have been managing his own clothes at his age, and he also could not be bothered to give his mind seriously to socks. “I don’t know, mother.” “But you must care for one or the other.” “No, I don’t.” “I think the thick ones are better. They don’t feel quite so comfortable perhaps.... Ah! there’s the bell stopping. We shall be late.” In church, influenced by the flickering candles, the familiar chants, the sense of a cosy and intimate trust in a Power who would see one safely through the night, just as one’s burning night-light had guarded one when one had been very small, Henry became sentimental and happy. He looked out of the corner of his eye at his mother, at the so familiar wave of her hair, the colour and shape of her cheek, the solid comfort of her figure, and suddenly thought how old she was looking. This came as a revelation to him: he fancied that even in the last week there had been a little change. He moved closer to her: then he saw that her eye was fixed upon a small choir-boy who had been eating sweets. The eye was stern and so full of command and assurance that Henry’s sentiment suddenly shrivelled into nothing. His mother wanted nobody’s help—he sighed and thought about other things. Soon he was singing “Abide with me” in his ugly, untuneful voice, pleased that the choir lingered over it in an abominable fashion, trying now and then to sing ‘second’, and miserably failing. But, although he did not know it, Mrs. Trenchard had realised her son’s mood.... * * * * *