a little too far to let her skate. Don't you agree with
me?"

He looked at his wife, who was rattling the cups loudly, quite
contrary to her custom. She said nothing, she only gave a silent nod,
but her face had quite changed and grown cold.

The boy could not understand it. Why should Cilia not skate? Did not
his mother like her? Funny. It was always like that, whenever there was
anything he liked very, very much, she did not like it.

He rested his head on both hands as he sat working at his desk: it
felt so heavy. His eyes burnt and watered when he fixed them on his
exercise-book--he must be tired, he supposed. His Latin would not be
good. In his mind's eye he already saw the master shrug his shoulders
and hurl his book on to the bench over so many heads: "Schlieben, ten
faults. Boy, ten faults! If you don't pull yourself together, you'll
not get your remove to Form IV. with the others at Easter."

Pooh, he did not mind much--no, really not at all. On the whole
nothing was of any importance to him whatever. All at once he felt so
dead-tired. Why did she begrudge Cilia everything? She told such
ripping stories. What was it she had told last night when his parents
were out and she had crept to his bedside? About--about--? He could not
collect his thoughts any more, everything was confused.

His head sank on his desk; he fell asleep, with his arms stretched
out over his books.

When he awoke an hour might have passed by, but he did not feel
rested all the same. He stared round the room and shivered. All his
limbs ached.

And they hurt him the whole night through, he could not sleep; his
feet were heavy as he dragged himself to the lake to skate next
afternoon.

He returned home from skating much earlier than usual. He did not
want to eat or drink anything, he constantly felt sick. "How green the
boy looks to-day," said his father. His mother brushed his hair away
from his forehead anxiously: "Is anything the matter with you,
Woelfchen?" He said no.

But when evening came round again and the wind whispered in the
pine-trees outside and a ghostly hand tapped at the window--ugh, a
small white hand as in Cilia's song--he lay in bed, shivered with cold
in spite of the soft warm blankets, and felt his throat ache and his
ears tingle and burn.

"He's ill," his mother said very anxiously next morning. "We'll get
the doctor to come at once."

"Oh, it can't be anything much," said the man reassuringly. "Leave
him