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.