THE SKYLARK’S SONG 151

out for home. In his fancy the wind seemed rippling
over the Avon, and the elm-leaves rustled like rain upon
the roof above his bed. There were red and white wild-
roses in the hedge, and in the air a smell of clover and of
new-mown hay. The mowers would be working in the
clover in the moonlight. He could almost see the sweep
of the shining scythes, and hear the chink-a-chank, chink-
a-chank of the whetstone on the long, curving blades.
Chink-a-chank, chink-a-chank—’t was but the clock, and
he in London town.

Carew, sitting there behind the carven prompter’s-
screen, put down his head between his hands and listened.
There were murmurings a little while, then silence.
Would the boy never begin? He pressed his knuckles
into his temples and waited. Bow Bells rang out the
hour; but the room was as still as a deep sleep. Would
the boy never begin ?

The precentor sniffed. It was a contemptuous, incred-
ulous sniff. Carew looked up—his lips white, a fierce red
spot in each cheek. He was talking to himself. “By the
whistle of the Lord High Admiral!” he said—but there
he stopped and held his breath. Nick was singing.

Only the old madrigal, with its half-forgotten words
that other generations sang before they fell asleep. How
queer it sounded there! It was a very simple tune, too;
yet, as he sang, the old precentor started from his chair
and pressed his wrinkled hands together against his breast.
He quite forgot the sneer upon his face, and it went fad-
ing out like breath from a frosty pane.

He had twelve boys who could sing a hundred songs at