The boy clasped his frail hands, and strove to conceal the abject fear in his eyes. “When, my brave one?” “To-morrow I will go, my father.” “So be it then, beloved one.” In the silence which followed the tense breathing of the frail form could be heard to surmount the ticking of the clock, the creaking of the fire, the little voice of the wind, the gurgle of water, and the great roar of London. “Are all heroes in bitter fear, my father, when first they go to school?” asked the boy. “Indeed, yes.” “Do they ever tremble like cravens, and do their eyes grow dark?” “Yes, beloved one.” “Have not these great ones a strange cowardice, my father?” “Is not the cowardice of heroes the measure of their courage?” “Can it be, O my father,” said the boy, with a deepening pallor, “that these great ones derive their valour from their craven hearts?” “Truly, beloved, if they learn the secret.” “The secret, my father?” “The secret which is only to be learned in the school which is in the streets of the great city.” The face of the boy grew like death. “To-morrow then, my father,” he said in a faint and small voice, “Achilles will adventure forth to this school which is in the streets of the great city, that he too may learn this secret. He should have known that one like himself should not only have great learning, wisdom and constancy, but also a noble valour.” “True, a thousand times! This is indeed Achilles!” “I give you good-night, my father. Pray remember me in your vigil.” The boy threw his arms round the man’s neck, and pressed his cheek against him. It seemed to burn like a flame. The boy took a candle from the chimney-piece, lighted it, and in his great fear of the darkness, was accompanied by his father up the stairs. When the white-haired man had enveloped the frail form in the blankets with a woman’s tenderness, he left the light in the chamber burning at its fullest, and returned to the little room. It was then near to midnight. The massive old tome in which he had been reading was open still upon the table. He knelt before it, pressing his eyes upon the yellow parchments. On the clock in the little room the hands made their tardy circuit: midnight passed; one o’clock; two o’clock; three o’clock. Throughout these hours the man remained thus, not heeding that all about him was darkness; for the lamp and the fire had burned themselves out long ago. Near to the hour of four a ghostly figure, pale but luminous, crept into the silence of the room. It was the boy, clad in a white gown and bearing a lighted candle. He touched the kneeling figure softly. “My father,” he breathed; “how you tremble, my father, and how cold you are!” The man rose to his feet with a slight shiver. “The fire is low,” he said. “Are we not ever cold when the fire is low?” “The fire is out, my father,” said the boy. “Is the fire ever out, beloved,” said his father, “while one ember is still faintly burning? May we not draw it into flame perhaps?”