He's a coward an' his mother's a coward before him。〃
The smile faded from Larry's lips。 His face which had been pale flamed a quick red； then as quickly became dead white。 He turned from Joe and looked at the boy who was tormenting him。 Mop was at least four years older； strongly and heavily built。 For a moment Larry stood as though estimating Mop's fighting qualities。 Then apparently making up his mind that on ordinary terms； owing to his lack in size and in strength； he was quite unequal to his foe； he looked quickly about him and his eye fell upon a stout and serviceable beechwood stake。 With quiet deliberation he seized the club and began walking slowly toward Mop； his eyes glittering as if with madness； his face white as that of the dead。 So terrifying was his appearance that Mop began to back away。 〃Here you； look out；〃 he cried； 〃I will smash you。〃 But Larry still moved steadily upon him。 His white face； his burning eyes； his steady advance was more than Mop could endure。 His courage broke。 He turned and incontinently fled。 Whirling the stick over his head； Larry flung the club with all his might after him。 The club caught the fleeing Mop fairly between the shoulders。 At the same time his foot caught a root。 Down he went upon his face； uttering cries of deadly terror。
〃Keep him off； keep him off。 He will kill me； he will kill me。〃
But Larry having shot his bolt ignored his fallen enemy； and without a glance at him； or at either of the other boys； or without a word to any of them； he walked away through the wood； and deaf to their calling disappeared through the cedar swamp and made straight for home and to his mother。 With even； passionless voice； with almost no sign of penitence； he told her the story of the day's truancy。
As her discriminating eye was quick in discerning his penitence； so her forgiveness was quick in meeting his sin。 But though her forgiveness brought the boy a certain measure of relief he seemed almost to take it for granted； and there still remained on his face a look of pain and of more than pain that puzzled his mother。 He seemed to be in a maze of uncertainty and doubt and fear。 His mother could not understand his distress； for Larry had told her nothing of his encounter with Mop。 Throughout the evening there pounded through the boy's memory the terrible words； 〃He is a coward and his mother is a coward before him。〃 Through his father's prayer at evening worship those words continued to beat upon his brain。 He tried to prepare his school lessons for the day following； but upon the page before his eyes the same words took shape。 He could not analyse his unutterable sense of shame。 He had been afraid to fight。 He knew he was a coward； but there was a deeper shame in which his mother was involved。 She was a Quaker； he knew； and he had a more or less vague idea that Quakers would not fight。 Was she then a coward？ That any reflection should be made upon his mother stabbed him to the heart。 Again and again Mop's sneering； grinning face appeared before his eyes。 He felt that he could have gladly killed him in the woods； but after all； the paralysing thought ever recurred that what Mop said was true。 His mother was a coward！ He put his head down upon his books and groaned aloud。
〃What is it； dear？〃 inquired his mother。
〃I am going to bed； mother；〃 he said。
〃Is your head bad？〃 she asked。
〃No； no； mother。 It is nothing。 I am tired；〃 he said； and went upstairs。
Before she went to sleep the mother； as was her custom； looked in upon him。 The boy was lying upon his face with his arms flung over his head； and when she turned him over to an easier position； on the pillow and on his cheeks were the marks of tears。 Gently she pushed back the thick； black； wavy locks from his forehead； and kissed him once and again。 The boy turned his face toward her。 A long sobbing sigh came from his parted lips。 He opened his eyes。
〃That you； mother？〃 he asked； the old whimsical smile at his lips。 〃Good…night。〃
He settled down into the clothes and in a moment was fast asleep。 The mother stood looking down upon her boy。 He had not told her his trouble； but her touch had brought him comfort； and for the rest she was content to wait。
CHAPTER II
A FIGHT FOR FREEDOM
The village schoolhouse was packed to the door。 Over the crowded forms there fell a murky light from the smoky swinging lamp that left dark unexplored depths in the corners of the room。 On the walls hung dilapidated maps at angles suggesting the interior of a ship's cabin during a storm； or a party of revellers； returning homeward； after the night before； gravely hilarious。 Behind the platform a blackboard； cracked into irregular spaces； preserved the mental processes of the pupils during their working hours； and in sharp contrast to these the terribly depressing perfection of the teacher's exemplar in penmanship； which reminded the self… complacent slacker that 〃Eternal vigilance is the price of freedom。〃
It was an evangelistic meeting。 Behind the table； his face illumined by the lamp thereon； stood a man turning over the leaves of a hymn book。 His aspect suggested a soul； gentle； mild and somewhat abstracted from its material environment。 The lofty forehead gave promise of an idealism capable of high courage； indeed of sacrificea promise； however； belied somewhat by an irresolute chin partly hidden by a straggling beard。 But the face was sincere and tenderly human。 At his side upon the platform sat his wife behind a little portable organ； her face equally gentle； sincere and irresolute。
The assemblywith the extraordinary patience that characterises public assemblieswaited for the opening of the meeting； following with attentive eyes the vague and trifling movements of the man at the table。 Occasionally there was a rumble of deep voices in conversation； and in the dark corners subdued laughterwhile on the front benches the animated and giggling whispering of three little girls tended to relieve the hour from an almost superhuman gravity。
At length with a sudden acquisition of resolution the evangelist glanced at his watch； rose； and catching up a bundle of hymn books from the table thrust them with unnecessary energy into the hands of a boy who sat on the side bench beside his mother。 The boy was Lawrence Gwynne。
〃Take these；〃 said the man； 〃and distribute them； please。〃
Lawrence taken thus by surprise paled； then flushed a quick red。 He glanced up at his mother and at her slight nod took the books and distributed them among the audience on one side of the room while the evangelist took the other。 As the lad passed from bench to bench with his books he was greeted with jocular and slightly jeering remarks in undertone by the younger members of the company； which had the effect of obviously increasing the ineptitude of his thin nervous fingers； but could not quite dispel the whimsical smile that lingered about the corners of his mouth and glanced from the corners of his grey…blue eyes。
The meeting opened with the singing of a popular hymn which carried a refrain catchy enough but running to doggerel。 Another hymn followed and another。 Then abruptly the evangelist announced；
〃Now we shall have a truly GREAT hymn； a hymn you must sing in a truly great way； in what we call the grand style； number three hundred and sixty…seven。〃
Then in a voice； deep； thrilling； vibrant with a noble emotion； he read the words：
〃When I survey the wondrous cross On which the Prince of Glory died； My richest gain I count but loss； And pour contempt on all my pride。〃
They sang the verse； and when they had finished he stood looking at them in silence for a moment or two； then announced solemnly：
〃Friends； that will not do for this hymn。 Sing it with your hearts。 Listen to me。〃
Then he sang a verse in a deep； strong baritone。
〃Now try。〃
Timidly they obeyed him。
〃No； no； not at all；〃 he shouted at them。 〃Listen。〃
Again with exquisitely distinct articulation and in a tone rich in emotion and carrying in it the noble； penetrating pathos of the great words in which is embodied the passion of that heart subduing world tragedy。 He would not let them try it again； but alone sang the hymn to the end。 By the spell of his voice he had gripped them by the heart。 The giggling girls in the front seat sat gazing at him with open mouths and lifted eyes。 From every corner of the room faces once dull were filled with a great expectant look。
〃You will never sing those words as you should；〃 he cried； 〃until you know and feel the glory of that wondrous cross。 Never； never； never。〃 His voice rose in a passionate crescendo。
After he had finished singing the last great verse； he let his eyes wander over the benches until they rested upon the face of the lad on the side bench near him。
〃Aha； boy；〃 he cried。 〃You can sing those words。 Try that last verse。〃
The boy stared； fascinated； at him。
〃Sing the last verse； boy；〃 commanded the evangelist； 〃sing。〃
As if impelled by another will than his own； the boy slowly； with his eyes still fastened on the man's face； threw back his head and began to sing。 His voice rose； full； strong； in a quaint imitation in method of articulation and in voice production of the evangelist himself。 At the third line of the verse the evangelist joined in great massive tones； beating time vigorously in a rallentando。
〃Love so amazing； so divine； Demands my soul； my life； my all。〃
The effect was a great emotional climax； the spiritual atmosphere was charged with fervour。 The people sat rigid； fixed in their places； incapable of motion； until released by the invitation of the leader； 〃Let us pray。〃 The boy seemed to wake as from a sleep； glanced at his mother； then at the faces of the people in the room； sat down； and quickly covered his face with his hands and so remained during the prayer。
The dramatic effect of the singing was gradually dispelled in the prayer and in a Scripture reading which followed。 By the time the leader was about to begin his address； the people had almost relapsed into their normal mental and spiritual condition of benevolent neutrality。 A second time a text