The Bars of Iron. Ethel M. Dell

said Piers.

      The old man's mouth took a bitter, downward curve. "You see, you're rather young," he observed.

      Piers' eyes fell away from his abruptly. "Yes, I know," he said, in a tone that seemed to hide more than it expressed.

      Sir Beverley continued to stare at him, but he did not lift his eyes again. They were fixed steadily upon the ruby light that shone in the wine in front of him.

      The silence lengthened and became oppressive. Sir Beverley still watched Piers' intent face. His lips moved soundlessly, while behind his silence the storm of his wrath gathered.

      What did the boy mean by treating him like this? Did he think he would endure to be set aside thus deliberately as one whose words had no weight? Did he think—confound him!—did he think that he had reached his dotage?

      A sudden oath escaped him; he banged a furious fist upon the table. He would make himself heard at least.

      In the same instant quite unexpectedly Piers leaped to his feet with uplifted hand. "What's that?"

      "What do you mean?" thundered Sir Beverley.

      Piers' hand descended, gripping his arm. "That, sir, that! Don't you hear?"

      Voice and gesture compelled. Sir Beverley stopped dead, arrested in full career by his grandson's insistence, and listened with pent breath, as Piers was listening.

      For a moment or two he heard nothing, then, close outside the window, there arose the sound of children's voices. They were singing a hymn, but not in the customary untuneful yell of the village school. The voices were clear and sweet and true, and the words came distinct and pure to the two men standing at the table.

      "He comes, the prisoners to release

       In Satan's bondage held,

       The gates of brass before Him burst,

       The iron fetters yield."

      Piers' hand tightened all-unconsciously upon Sir Beverley's arm. His face was very white. In his eyes there shone a curious hunger—such a look as might have gleamed in the eyes of the prisoners behind the gates.

      Again came the words, triumphantly repeated:

      "The gates of brass before Him burst,

       The iron fetters yield."

      And an odd sound that was almost a sob broke from Piers.

      Sir Beverley looked at him sharply; but in the same moment he drew back, relinquishing his hold, and stepped lightly across the room to the window.

      There was a decided pause before the next verse. Piers stood with his face to the blind, making no movement. At last, tentatively, like the song of a very shy angel, a single boy's voice took up the melody.

      "He comes, the broken heart to bind,

       The bleeding soul to cure,

       And with the treasures of His grace

       To bless the humble poor."

      Sir Beverley sat down again at the table. Half mechanically his eyes turned to the pictured face on the wall, the face that smiled so enigmatically. Not once in a year did his eyes turn that way. To-night he regarded it with half-ironical interest. He had no pity to spare for broken hearts. He did not believe in them. No man could have endured more than he had had to endure. He had been dragged through hell itself. But it had hardened, not broken his heart. Save in one respect he knew that he could never be made to suffer any more. Save for that charred remnant, there was nothing left for the flame to consume.

      And so through all the bitter years he had borne that smiling face upon his wall, cynically indifferent to the beauty which had been the rapture and the agony of his life—a man released from the place of his torment because his capacity for suffering was almost gone.

      Again there were two children's voices singing, and that of the shy angel gathered confidence. With a species of scoffing humour Sir Beverley's stony eyes travelled to the window. They rested upon his boy standing there with bent head—a mute, waiting figure with a curious touch of pathos in its pose. Sir Beverley's sudden frown drew his forehead. What ailed the youngster? Why did he stand as if the whole world were resting on his shoulders?

      He made an impatient movement. "For Heaven's sake," he said testily, "tell those squalling children to go!"

      Piers did not stir. "In a moment, sir!" he said.

      And so, clear through the night air, the last verse came unhindered to an end.

      "Our glad hosannas, Prince of peace,

       Thy welcome shall proclaim;

       And Heaven's eternal arches ring

       With Thy beloved Name.

       And Heaven's eternal arches ring

       With Thy beloved Name."

      Piers threw up his head with a sudden, spasmodic movement as of a drowning man. And then without pause he snatched up the blind and flung the window wide.

      "Hi, you kiddies! Where are you? Don't run away! Gracie, is that you?"

      There was a brief silence, then chirpily came the answer. "Pat did the solo; but he's gone. He would have gone sooner—when we saw your shadow on the blind—only I held him so that he couldn't."

      Piers broke into a laugh. "Well, come in now you are here! You're not afraid anyhow, what?"

      "Oh no!" laughed Gracie. "I'm not a bit afraid. But I'm supposed to be in bed; and if Father finds out I'm not—" She paused with her customary sense of the dramatic.

      "Well?" laughed Piers. "What'll happen then?"

      "I shall cop it," said Gracie elegantly.

      Nevertheless she came to him, and stood on the grass outside the window. The lamplight from within shone on her upturned face with its saucy, confiding smile. Her head was uncovered and gleamed golden in the radiance. She was wearing a very ancient fur cloak belonging to her mother, and she glowed like a rose in the sombre drapery.

      Piers stooped to her with hands invitingly outstretched. "Come along, Pixie! We shan't eat you, and I'll take you home on my shoulder afterwards and see you don't get copped."

      She uttered a delighted little laugh, and went upwards into his hold like a scrap of floating thistledown.

      He lifted her high in his arms, crossed the room with her, and set her down before the old man who still sat at the table, sardonically watching. "Miss Gracie Lorimer!" he said.

      "Hullo, child!" growled Sir Beverley.

      Gracie looked at him with sparkling, adventurous eyes. As she had told Piers, she was not a bit afraid. After the briefest pause she held out her hand with charming insouciance.

      "How do you do?" she said.

      Sir Beverley slowly took the hand, and pulled her towards him, gazing at her from under his black brows with a piercing scrutiny that would have terrified a more timid child.

      Timidity however was not one of Gracie's weaknesses. She gave him a friendly smile, and waited without the smallest sign of uneasiness for him to speak.

      "What have you come here for?" he demanded gruffly at length.

      "I'll tell you," said Gracie readily. She went close to him, confidingly close, looking straight into the formidable grey eyes. "You see, it was my idea. Pat didn't want to come, but I made him."

      "Forward young minx!" commented Sir Beverley.

      Gracie laughed at the compliment.

      Piers, smoking his cigarette behind her, stood ready to take her part, but quite obviously she was fully equal to the occasion.

      "Yes, I know," she agreed, with disarming amiability. "But it wouldn't have mattered a bit if you hadn't found out who it was. You won't tell anyone, will you?"

      "Why