of pretty things for you."

Then he grew animated. "Have you also brought something for Cilia?
She could find use for a workbasket with all kinds of things in it very
well: she has only an old one she used at school, you know. Oh, she can
tell such splendid stories--ugh, that make you shiver. And how she can
sing. Let her sing this one for you:

"A smart pretty maiden, quite a young sprig,
A farmer did choose for his bride;
Her favours, however, to a soldier man jig,
And sly to her old man she cried--

"It's perfectly ripping, I can tell you."

And he began to hum the continuation with a laugh:

"He had much better toss the hay, hooray,
The hay, hooray----"

"Hush!" She put her hand to his mouth. "That's not at all a nice
song--it's a horrid one. You mustn't sing that any more."

"But why not?" He gazed at her with eyes round with amazement.

"Because I don't wish it," she said curtly. She was indignant: she
would give the girl a bit of her mind to-morrow, yes, to-morrow.

Her cheeks were no longer hot. A cold wind blew through the veranda,
which pierced her to the very heart. When her husband called out: "Why,
Kate, what have you been doing with yourself? Do take off your things
first," she quickly answered his call.

The boy remained alone behind, and looked out into the mild night
that was now quite dark, with blinking, dreamy eyes. Oh, how
beautifully Cilia had sung. She would have to sing and tell him stories
to-morrow as well. But if she were to come there again! Never mind,
they would be sure to be able to find a place where they would be
undisturbed.

Kate did not sleep at all that first night, although she was
dead-tired. Perhaps too tired. She had had a long talk about it with
Paul after they were in bed. He had said she was right, that neither
the one nor the other song was very suitable, but: "Good gracious, what
a lot of things one hears as a child that never leave any trace
whatever," he had said.

"Not on _him_." And then she had said plaintively: "I've so
often tried to read something really beautiful to him, the best our
poets have written but he takes no interest in it, he has no
understanding for it as yet. And for such--such"--she sought for an
expression and did not find it--"for such things he goes into raptures.
But I won't allow it, I won't stand it. Such things may not come near
him."

"Then let her go," he