THE WANING OF THE YEAR 175

Nick was eager to be out in all this blindman’s holiday ;
but, “Nay,” said Carew; “not so much as thy nose. A
fog like this would steal the croak from a raven’s throat,
let alone the sweetness from a honey-pot like thine—and
bottom crust is the end of pie!” With which, bang went
the door, creak went the key, and Carew was off to the
Falcon Inn.

So went the winter weather, and so went Carew; for
there was no denying that both had fallen into a very bad
way. Yet another change came creeping over Carew all
unaware.

Nick’s face had from the first attracted him; and now,
living with the boy day after day, housed up, a prisoner,
yet cheerful through it all, the master-player began to feel
what in a better man had been the prick of conscience,
but in him was only an indefinite uneasiness like a blunted
cockle-bur. For the lad’s patient perseverance at his work,
his delight in singing, and the tone of longing threaded
through his voice, crept into the master-player’s heart in
spite of him; and Nick’s gentle ways with Cicely touched
him more than all the rest: for if there was one thing in
all the world that Gaston Carew truly loved, it was his
daughter Cicely. So for her sake, as well as for Nick’s
own, the master-player came to love the lad. And this
was shown in queer ways.

In the wainscot of the dining-hall there was a carven
panel just above the Spanish chest. At night, when the
house was still and all the rest asleep, Carew often came