ire to cry had come over him--to fling himself into
someone's arms and cry his heart out.

She had not sat there for long. She had got up and moved
about--flitted rather--so that Robert, who had never heard of a
metaphor, thought of a brown leaf dancing in little gusts of wind. And
then suddenly she had seen him and stood still. His heart had begun to
pound against his ribs. For it was just like that that in his dreams
his mother stood, looking at him. She, too, had grey eyes, serene and
grave, penetrating into one's very heart.

And after a moment she had smiled.

"Hallo!"

Robert's voice, half choked with tears had croaked back "Hallo!" and
she had come a little nearer to him.

"What's your name?"

"Robert--Robert Stonehouse."

"Where do you come from?"

He had jerked his head vaguely in the direction of the hill, for he did
not want her to know.

"Over there."

"Why are you crying?"

"I--I don't know."

"Would you like to play with us?"

"Yes--I--I think I would."

She had called the other children and they had come at once and stood
round her, gazing wide-eyed at him, not critically or unkindly, but
like puppies considering a new companion. The girl in the green serge
frock had taken him by the hand.

"This is a friend of mine, Robert Stonehouse. He's going to play with
us. Tag--Robert!"

And she had tapped him on the arm and was off like a young deer.

All his awkwardness and shyness had dropped from him like a disguise.
No one knew that he was a strange little boy or that his father owed
money to all the tradespeople. He was just like anyone else. And he
had run faster than the fastest of them. He had wanted to show her
that he was not just a cry baby. And whenever he had come near her he
had been all warm with happiness.

In three days the nice children had become the Brothers Banditti with
Robert Stonehouse as their chief. Having admitted the stranger into
their midst he had gone straight to their heads like wine. He was a
rebel and an outlaw who had suddenly come into power. At heart he was
older than any of them. He knew things about reversions and bailiffs
and life generally that none of them had ever heard of in their
well-ordered homes. He was strong and knew how to fight. The nice
children had never fought but they found they liked it. Once, like an
avenging Attila, he had led them across the hill and fallen upon his
ancient enemies with such awful effect that t