omething which can at no time be
neglected or forgotten."

"I am rejoiced," Eric replied, "that you here remind me of the most
vital points. First of all, the rich man, and the son of a rich man,
like the prince and the son of a prince, have only subservient friends.
Against my will I have become Roland's play-fellow, and so the
subsequent serious work will be interfered with."

"Is it impossible then, to combine work and play?"

"I hope to do so. But the necessity of work must be recognized." Eric
continued silent, and Sonnenkamp asked,--

"You have still another point?"

"Most certainly, and it is this. As I have already suggested, Roland
must acquire a steadfast relation to external things, an intimate bond
of union with them, as then only will he be at home in the world. He
who has no recollections of childhood, no deep attachment to that which
has transpired around him, is cut off from the very fountain-head of
genial and hearty affection. Question yourself, and you will find--your
return to Germany fully proves it--that the heartfelt, endearing
recollections of childhood were the very sustenance, what one may
perhaps call the spiritual mother's milk, of your deepest soul."

Sonnenkamp winced at these words, and Eric added,--

"Homelessness is hurting the soul of your son."

"Homelessness?" Sonnenkamp exclaimed in astonishment.

His face quivered for an instant, and his athletic strength seemed
eager to make some outward demonstration, but he restrained it within
the bounds of forced composure, asking,--

"Do I rightly apprehend you? Homelessness?"

"That is what I think. The inner life of the child needs training, that
it may cling to something; a journey is, perhaps, not harmful to the
soul of a child; at the best, it has little effect upon him. A child in
travelling has no distinct impression from all the changes of the
landscape; he takes delight in the locomotive at the station, and in
the wind-mill on the hill. One fixed point in the soul anchors it
firmly. I said that the human being ought to have an object to strive
for, but permit me to add to that, that he must also have a fixed point
of departure, and that is the home. You said, and I see it myself, that
Roland takes no real delight in anything; and is not that owing to the
fact that the boy is homeless, a child of hotels, with no tap-root in
any place, and still more, no deep-seated impressions, no pictures in
his memory which have become a