that he was crazy. You weren't
supposed to say more unless you were a stump speaker,--if you
tried to say more, it was because you liked to hear yourself
talk. Since you never said anything, you didn't form the habit of
thinking. If you got too much bored, you went to town and bought
something new.

But all the people he met at the Erlichs' talked. If they asked
him about a play or a book and he said it was "no good," they at
once demanded why. The Erlichs thought him a clam, but Claude
sometimes thought himself amazing. Could it really be he, who was
airing his opinions in this indelicate manner? He caught himself
using words that had never crossed his lips before, that in his
mind were associated only with the printed page. When he suddenly
realized that he was using a word for the first time, and
probably mispronouncing it, he would become as much confused as
if he were trying to pass a lead dollar, would blush and stammer
and let some one finish his sentence for him.

Claude couldn't resist occasionally dropping in at the Erlichs'
in the afternoon; then the boys were away, and he could have Mrs.
Erlich to himself for half-an-hour. When she talked to him she
taught him so much about life. He loved to hear her sing
sentimental German songs as she worked; "Spinn, spinn, du Tochter
mein." He didn't know why, but he simply adored it! Every time he
went away from her he felt happy and full of kindness, and
thought about beech woods and walled towns, or about Carl Schurz
and the Romantic revolution.

He had been to see Mrs. Erlich just before starting home for the
holidays, and found her making German Christmas cakes. She took
him into the kitchen and explained the almost holy traditions
that governed this complicated cookery. Her excitement and
seriousness as she beat and stirred were very pretty, Claude
thought. She told off on her fingers the many ingredients, but he
believed there were things she did not name: the fragrance of old
friendships, the glow of early memories, belief in wonder-working
rhymes and songs. Surely these were fine things to put into
little cakes! After Claude left her, he did something a Wheeler
didn't do; he went down to O street and sent her a box of the
reddest roses he could find. In his pocket was the little note
she had written to thank him.

VII

It was beginning to grow dark when Claude reached the farm. While
Ralph stopped to put away the car, he walked on alone to the
hous