"One must fight error, Miss Forsyth."
"At any rate it's brave of you to try--to do what you think is right." And
now it seemed she was trying to find something that would comfort
him--just as she had once given Robert peppermint balls when he had hurt
himself. "If ever you feel inclined, won't you come again--and read to
us?"
He looked at her with dark, tragic eyes.
"Thank you, thank you."
Robert went with him to the door, and for a moment he wavered on the
steps, blinking, and squeezing his soft hat between his bony hands.
"A great woman--a kind woman--you must be worth her while, Stonehouse."
And then, without so much as a "good night," he limped down the steps and
along the street, flitting in and out of the lamplight like a hunted bat.
It was the first of many tiresome evening visits. But the next day he was
always himself again, and the class wilted under his merciless,
contemptuous sarcasms. Only Robert was not afraid. He knew that the lash
would never come his way, and he could feel the little man's unspoken
pride, when he showed himself quicker than his companions, like a secret
Masonic pressure of the hand. And there was something else. It was a
discovery that made him at first almost dizzy with astonishment. He
wasn't stupid. Just as he was stronger, so he was cleverer than boys
older than himself. He could do things at once over which they botched
and bungled. He outstripped them when he chose.
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