mething--but--I--"

Suddenly he was quite overcome. He threw himself down with his head and
shoulders on the table and wept. He looked up once. "Why must I have
that name, Father? Can't I have a name like other people's?"

Stephen had laid down his spoon. He made a grimace, as if he did not
know what to say. Then he swore, and then he growled: "They had better
leave you alone, the vermin."

Cain regained his self-control now. He dried his eyes. Then he stood up
once more by the table, slender and pale. "Whether they are talking
impudence to me or not," said he in a low tone, "it always seems to me
as if they are pointing their fingers at me. It is like that wherever I
go."

As he spoke, he looked about him, as if he saw scornful glances aimed
at him.

"You mustn't trouble yourself about the others," said Stephen.

The boy could not at first think of any answer. As he stood there
seeming so lost and confused, he had a look of helplessness that would
have touched one's heart. Suddenly he begged, in a trembling voice:
"Couldn't you give me another name?"

Fausch's brow still kept its obstinate look. But he said in an
unaccustomed, almost friendly tone: "Sit down now and eat something.
One can, very likely, shut the mouths of the boys in the village."

Cain started to turn away. Then he changed his mind. Some idea seemed
to calm him. He put his clothes in order and sat down at his own place.
His big strong father meant to take his part! In spite of himself, this
thought did him good. He began to eat.

Up to this time Katharine had stood at the door. She now left the room.

Fausch finished his supper, got up and sat down by the window, where it
was dark. He lit his pipe again, and secretly observed the boy, who was
sitting at the table. Meanwhile they went on talking, in brief,
fragmentary sentences: How the fight among the school boys had gone?
Which boys had taunted him? Had such things often happened before?

Cain only looked up from his plate when he was obliged to answer, the
rest of the time he ate slowly and thoughtfully. Once he wiped a tear
from his eyes. Stephen Fausch puffed at his pipe, from which but little
smoke rose, as if it were drawing poorly. He had very keen sight, in
spite of having but one eye. Thus no feature of the boy's face escaped
him: the delicate straight lines of the profile, the brow, the nose,
the chin. Most of all he noticed the whiteness of the forehead. As he
gazed, he spoke le