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 “Here he is, Miss Trueman,” he said. “Better give me a receipt for him.” With that he turned and walked with elaborate nonchalance out of the church.

Mary made room for Angus beside her. Crane, whose genial smile had slipped from his face at Angus’s entrance, recovered himself, and went on with the announcement he was making, but his smile was gone for that day. The school arose to sing, but few eyes were on the books. Whispers flew from child to child, from teacher to teacher, from class to class. The place of worship rustled; a tenseness of waiting fell upon it. Angus had been recognized at once.

Mary saw how her boys had drawn away from Angus, crowding themselves as far as possible to the other end of the pew, whence they gazed at her and at Angus with that vacancy of expression which, in the active boy, conceals thought and portends action. Angus noticed the commotion and the drawing away, for he pressed closer to Mary and looked up into her face uneasily. She smiled and circled his shoulders with her arm.

“I’m glad you came, Angus,” she said. “You didn’t forget.”

“No,” he said, glancing at the boys quickly, apprehensively, and then back to her face.

“You feel a little strange at first,” she said.