tle boy, but thou art not like other boys; thy
father is not just like other fathers."

"I know it."

"He is very sad."

"Yes."

"And his life which he has to live will be a sad one."

The child began to weep again. I had to pause. How was I to open my lips
to instruct this baby upon the fearful, profound abyss of a subject--the
evil and the sorrow that are in the world--how, how force those little
tender, bare feet, from the soft grass on to the rough up-hill path all
strewed with stones, and all rugged with ups and downs? It was horribly
cruel.

"Life is very sad sometimes, _mein_ Sigmund."

"Is it?"

"Yes. Some people, too, are much sadder than others. I think thy father
is one of those people. Perhaps thou art to be another."

"What my father is I will be," said he, softly; and I thought that it
was another and a holier version of Eugen's words to me, wrung out of
the inner bitterness of his heart. "The sins of the fathers shall be
visited upon the children, even unto the third and fourth generation,
whether they deserve it or not." The child, who knew nothing of the
ancient saying, merely said with love and satisfaction swelling his
voice to fullness, "What my father is, I will be."

"Couldst thou give up something very dear for his sake?"

"What a queer question!" said Sigmund. "I want nothing when I am with
him."

"_Ei! mein kind!_ Thou dost not know what I mean. What is the greatest
joy of thy life? To be near thy father and see him, hear his voice, and
touch him, and feel him near thee; _nicht?_"

"Yes," said he, in a scarcely audible whisper.

There was a pause, during which I was racking my brains to think of some
way of introducing the rest without shocking him too much, when suddenly
he said, in a clear, low voice:

"That is it. He would never let me leave him, and he would never leave
me."

Silence again for a few moments, which seemed to deepen some sneaking
shadow in the boy's mind, for he repeated through clinched teeth, and in
a voice which fought hard against conviction, "Never, never, never!"

"Sigmund--never of his own will. But remember what I said, that he is
sad, and there is something in his life which makes him not only unable
to do what he likes, but obliged to do exactly what he does not
like--what he most hates and fears--to--to part from thee."

"_Nein, nein, nein!_" said he. "Who can make him do anything he does not
wish? Who can take me away from him?"

"I do not