"He will never forgive me for this. He won't listen to explanations. I got in a rage about something this morning--I can't tell you what for--a boy said something, and I knocked him down. I had a cricket stump in my hand--and--I hurled it at him. I think for the moment I was mad with indignation; I don't quite know what happened for a minute. I think I was _blind_ with rage. I just rushed away afterwards to the edge of the field to get alone. Later a prefect came and told me the Headmaster wanted me. He gave me this note to deliver to my father, and sent me home with it. He said--I'd hurt--the boy--he'd been unconscious. He asked me to explain what I did it for--but--I couldn't." "What a pity," said Margaret; "it might have made a difference." "Yes--I think he would have understood; he's just--but I felt I couldn't. I would not repeat the boy's words--I should have got mad again." "Poor Bob, I am sorry, dear! Now what can you do? You have a note there, you say. Your father comes home early to-day; let's go at once and tell him--tell him everything and get it over; perhaps he will understand." "No--he won't, because I can't tell him; if I could, he would, because my father is a gentleman." Something that sounded like pride echoed in the boy's voice--pride of the right sort--pride that spoke of a secret admiration for the man who yet had never troubled to fathom the depths of his boy's heart. Margaret felt a hope for better things spring up within her as she noted it. Oh, if only she could bring these two together in a great bond of friendship! The wife and mother seemed a little more aloof, her half Spanish nationality a little bridge always to be crossed, where national character and custom might be at variance. But the boy and the man were essentially English; the strong control evident in both, with a reserve which hid, as she felt sure, hearts of gold. "Come, Bob dear, let's go--it is nearly lunch-time." "Miss Woodford, I would rather--rather run away than face my father with this." The boy spoke a little desperately, and the fingers which held the Headmaster's note trembled as he thrust it back into his pocket. "Bob, I know you are no coward," said Margaret gently; "to run from a difficult post is coward's work. You won't do it, I know. You are trying to be a servant of Christ; isn't that so?" "I was," he muttered, "but it seems no use."