u. But I would
rather he did not go."

"Just this once," persisted Mrs. Teidelmann. "It is holiday time."

A ray of sunlight fell into the room, lighting upon her coaxing face,
making where my mother stood seem shadow.

"I would rather he did not go," repeated my mother, and her voice
sounded harsh and grating. "When he is older others must judge for him,
but for the present he must be guided by me--alone."

"I really don't think there could be any harm, Maggie," urged my father.
"Things have changed since we were young."

"That may be," answered my mother, still in the same harsh voice; "it is
long ago since then."

"I didn't intend it that way," said my father with a short laugh.

"I merely meant that I may be wrong," answered my mother. "I seem so old
among you all--so out of place. I have tried to change, but I cannot."

"We will say no more about it," said Mrs. Teidelmann, sweetly. "I merely
thought it would give him pleasure; and he has worked so hard this last
term, his father tells me."

She laid her hand caressingly on my shoulder, drawing me a little closer
to her; and it remained there.

"It was very kind of you," said my mother, "I would do anything to give
him pleasure, anything-I could. He knows that. He understands."

My mother's hand, I knew, was seeking mine, but I was angry and would
not see; and without another word she left the room.

My mother did not allude again to the subject; but the very next
afternoon she took me herself to a hall in the neighbourhood, where we
saw a magic-lantern, followed by a conjurer. She had dressed herself in
a prettier frock than she had worn for many a long day, and was brighter
and gayer in herself than had lately been her wont, laughing and talking
merrily. But I, nursing my wrongs, remained moody and sulky. At any
other time such rare amusement would have overjoyed me; but the wonders
of the great theatre that from other boys I had heard so much of, that
from gaudy-coloured posters I had built up for myself, were floating
vague and undefined before me in the air; and neither the open-mouthed
sleeper, swallowing his endless chain of rats; nor even the live rabbit
found in the stout old gentleman's hat--the last sort of person in whose
hat one would have expected to find such a thing--could draw away my
mind from the joy I had caught a glimpse of only to lose.

So we walked home through the muddy, darkening streets, speaking but
little; and that night,