PART III

I

The new school was located in another part of the South End, separated

only by the churchyard from the old church of St. Mary Magdalene. It was

a state institution demanding an entrance fee, which, although quite

reasonable, yet sufficed to keep out the children of mere wage earners.

It was a school for the offspring of the "better classes" and good

enough for all but the most select who must needs turn to certain

private institutions of still greater exclusiveness for instruction.

Its official title was St. Mary's Elementary School and it had only five

grades or classes, as they were called, being supplemented by a

"gymnasium," from which the pupils passed on to the university. No boy

was admitted under nine, but there seemed to be no limit at the other

end, for at the time of Keith's entrance the upper grades still held a

few youngsters with well developed moustaches who, from the viewpoint of

Keith's own peach-skinned diminutiveness, looked like veritable

patriarchs. Stories were afloat about their actually being addressed as

"mister" by the teachers.

Admission was conditioned by examinations held in the school itself, and

thither Keith was escorted by his mother one late August day. All

novelties stimulated him, and to his inexperience the rather dingy old

school seemed enormously impressive. The mere fact that it occupied a

whole building all by itself was enough. In addition, however, it had

an assembly hall large enough to hold several hundred boys, and there

were numerous rooms capable of holding thirty or forty boys. Every pupil

had a seat and a small desk of his own. Seeing these desks, with

inkstands sunk into their tops, and special grooves for the penholders,

and lids that could be raised, Keith knew that he must pass the

examinations or die from a broken heart.

The officiating teachers were stern but not unkind. Keith was nervous

from eagerness, but neither frightened nor embarrassed. The questions

asked were ridiculously easy, he thought. When his turn came, he

answered triumphantly, as if he had been playing a game in which he was

quite skilled. Finding him willing and well prepared, the examiners felt

themselves challenged and pressed him more and more. Still he held his

own. It ended with a sense of triumph on his part, but nothing was said

about his having passed.

The wait that followed until all the boys had been questioned was the

only difficult part of the ordeal. Waiting patiently was not a strong

point with Keith. Finally his mother appeared to take him home, and the

moment he looked at her he knew. She was in such high spirits that she

had to try a joke.

"Too bad you couldn't pass," she said in a voice she vainly tried to

make sad.

He knew it was a joke, and yet his heart leaped into his throat and his

eyes filled with tears. Then she had to console him, and to do so, she

let out the whole story. The teachers had told her that he knew enough

to go right into the third grade, but on account of his age they had

advised her not to let him start above the second grade. It was a whole

year saved, but that was not what she was thinking of. Her son had

distinguished himself by giving proof of a brightness that had aroused

unusual attention among the teachers. Her pride in this fact was such

that Keith really began to think that a new life was about to begin

for him.

And that night, when his father came home, the whole story had to be

told over again with new details, and Keith had the pleasure of seeing

an expression of undisguised satisfaction on his father's face. It did

not last very long, but it was sweet to watch while it lasted. Then the

father resumed his usual manner of stern indifference as he turned

to the boy:

"That's all very well, Keith, but it means also that they will expect

more of you than of the other boys, and so you have to study harder than

ever in order to make good with them."

Keith didn't care. It had been a wonderful day, he felt. He had had his

first taste of public approval, and he had noticed the effect of it on

his father and mother. As for the need of studying--that was easy. And

he didn't have to begin his studies at once anyhow.

II

After the opening of the term, it took Keith only a day or two to

realize that, literally, he had entered a new world, quite different, in

spirit as well as in appearance, from anything previously experienced.

The first shock came as soon as he had taken his place in the class and

the first lesson had begun. He was no longer Keith. Christian names were

not at all in use. Everybody was addressed by his family name both by

the teachers and by his fellow pupils. Keith had become Wellander, and

the first time he heard himself called by that name he blushed as deeply

as if his most intimate privacy had suddenly been violated. In a few

hours, however, the unfamiliarity of the name as a standing appellation

had worn off, and then the pride of the thing sent a pleasant glow

through his whole body, making him for a brief, dizzy moment glimpse the

glory of manhood.

His next discovery went far deeper. He had attended school four years in

succession, but only as you drop into a strange room on a visit. He had

never belonged in or to the school, and the school had neither limited

nor extended his individuality. Now he found himself completely taken

possession of and made a part of something larger than himself, a

carefully correlated and guarded system of ranks and rules and

traditions. In retrospect the former school seemed as accidental and

fleeting as a street crowd, while the new one was an institution with a

jealously preserved and deeply revered history to which each new pupil

was expected to add more lustre. But most remarkable of all seemed the

fact that this collective body added something to the stature of every

boy that became a part of it.

Membership was as onerous as it was honourable, not only within the

school precints but anywhere. To belong to "Old Mary" was to carry a

sacred duty along wherever one went. She was like an ambitious parent,

never jealous of the reputation of her children. Mostly it was a

question of refraining from this or that thing which less conspicuously

placed boys might venture at will, but at times it might imply the

performance of fierce deeds of bravery in the face of overwhelming odds.

There was the rival school of St. Catherine and several "popular"

schools that had no social standing whatsoever, but contained pupils

with harder fists and less generous ideas of fighting than any boy

within Old Mary. When certain words of derision were flung upon the air

by members of those inferior institutions, there was nothing left for a

pupil of St. Mary's but to fight.

Little by little these strange facts penetrated Keith's subconsciousness

and set up a never ending conflict between pride and precaution, between

his wish to rise to a new ideal and his instinctive tendency to obey his

mother's almost hysterical injunctions against fighting of any kind.

Fortunately his road to and from school permitted him to follow the

principal streets where the traffic was sufficient to act as a check on

combative youngsters, and an additional protection was derived from his

small size which caused the hostile elements to overlook his existence

unless he appeared in the company of more developed schoolmates. And as

he mostly walked alone, his comings and goings were uneventful as a

rule. But that did not prevent him from imagining dangers and to suffer

from them almost as much as if they had been real. There were times when

he could not help thinking of himself as a coward.

Such estimates of himself were not wholly checked by an incident that

occurred within the school precincts early in the first term. There was

another boy in the same class named Bauer, who seemed the living

counterpart of Keith--just as undersized and lonely and nervous. From

the first there was a hostile tension between those two, and soon it

came to open war. It broke out in a pause between two lessons when

practically all the boys were gathered in the schoolyard. Before Keith

quite knew what had happened, he found himself fighting Bauer. First

they used their fists and then they wrestled. The rest of the boys

formed a ring about them and egged them on.

They were well matched in their common weaknesses and both developed a

certain courage during the stress of conflict. The difference between

them was that Bauer apparently wanted to lick Keith, while the latter

thought of nothing but to defend himself. The idea of inflicting pain on

another human being was so foreign to Keith that it never took tangible

form in his mind. The result was that Bauer's greater aggressiveness

carried the day, and soon Keith found himself prone on his back with a

triumphant Bauer straddling his chest.

At that moment both boys became guilty of serious breaches against

time-honoured school etiquette. Bauer struck the defenceless Keith

square in the face with his clenched fist, and Keith burst into tears.

Quick as a flash one of the older boys grabbed Bauer by the scruff of

his neck and hurled him halfway across the yard, while another one

plucked Keith from the ground and shoved him toward the stairway with a

contemptuous:

"The classroom for cry-babies."

The humiliation felt by Keith was so intense that he wondered whether he

could stay in the school. Nothing but the thought of his father kept

him from returning home. But the cloud had a silver lining. Though no

one else knew, he knew that he had started crying from rage, and not

from fear. And this fact in connection with his realization of not

having had any thought of running away during the fight made him

hesitate in his final judgment upon himself. But he felt quite sure that

fighting was not his chosen field. The effect on his nerves was

too damaging.

III.

In the lower three grades, a single teacher with the title of Class

Principal had complete charge of the morals, manners and instruction of

the children in his grade. Keith had the luck of falling into the hands

of one of the kindest and shrewdest men in the school--a man who seemed

to understand that his mission was to guide rather than to drive, and

who, in addition to his broad, human sympathy, possessed a genuine sense

of humour.

His name was Lector Dahlström, but everybody spoke of him as Dally, and

little did he care. He was large of body and large of mind, with a most

impressive girth and a voice that commanded attention without grating on

supersensitive nerves. He had very rarely to assert his authority, but

if ever the need arose, no one remained long in doubt as to who was the

master, and a recurrence of the offense was unheard of. Even on such

occasions he never used corporal punishment, although at that time the

right of such administration still remained with him. He simply appealed

to the self-respect and the sense of fairness in his pupils, asking no

one to render what lay beyond his capacity. The main secret of his hold

on the boys, however, lay in his ability to keep them interested, and to

do so he frequently broke away from the text books and time-worn

pedagogical methods. If there was anything he deposed, it was learning

things by rote.

The boys sat in rows of four and were placed with regard to scholarship

and behaviour, so that the best pupils were farthest away from the

teacher and the least reliable ones right in front of him. Keith found

himself number two in the class, and that position at first tickled his

pride considerably. Later, as the term went by, and boys now and then

were shifted up or down, he began to wonder why he always remained

number two. It was reassuring in a way, as showing that he held his own,

but he failed to see why another boy should always remain _primus_,

although his performances during lessons did not surpass those of Keith.

Once he dared even give utterance to some such speculation in his

father's hearing, but was promptly put down with a stern:

"If the teacher puts another boy above you, he has probably some very

good reason for doing so, and you had better feel thankful for being

where you are in the class."

"Humph," said his mother. "You forget, Carl, that the father of that boy

is one of the richest bankers in the city."

This was a way of looking at it which had never occurred to Keith. He

was pretty contented, on the whole, and like all the rest, he placed the

most implicit trust in the teacher's justice. From the very start, he

had a feeling that Dally kept a special eye on him, and yet he was

rarely spoken to except when questions were passed around. Even then the

teacher was rather apt to leave Keith alone to such an extent that the

boy now and then began to think himself disliked. Always, however, when

he got to this point, some little incident would occur that restored his

faith both in himself and in the teacher.

There could be no doubt that he knew his lessons as well as any one in

the class, if not better, and he shone still more when Dally appealed to

the natural intelligence of the boys by straying far away from the

beaten and dusty path of the text books. Whenever he had stirred them by

some excursion of this kind and began to ask questions in order to find

out how far they had followed him, Keith's right hand was sure to shoot

excitedly upwards in order to get him the coveted chance of answering.

And it seemed as if he could answer almost every question asked except a

few that went so far beyond the bounds laid down for the class that the

teacher deemed it fair to warn them that inability to answer would be no

shame. That was the kind of questions Dally generally reserved for

Keith, and when Keith couldn't answer, it didn't console him very much

that no one else could. Once, when his hand went up as usual and, to his

astonishment, he obtained the permission to answer, Keith, to his still

greater astonishment, suddenly discovered that he had no answer to give.

"I thought so," said Dally with a broad grin on his good-humoured face.

"Do you know what a fuzzy-wuzz is, Wellander?"

Keith shook his head, his face crimson with chagrin and humiliation as

the whole class burst into anticipatory laughter.

"That's a chap who wants to do all of it all the time," explained Dally.

Keith did not quite see the point, but he kept his right arm a little

more in check for a while after that, until one day the lesson was

forgotten and history repeated itself.

"Now Keith is fuzzy-wuzzying again," said Dally, and Keith thought he

would sink through the floor. His mind was quite made up never to ask

permission to answer another question again, but that same afternoon,

during the lesson in Swedish history, Dally dropped all questioning and

asked Keith to explain to the class the main factors leading up to the

Wars of Reformation--which Keith spent twenty minutes in doing while all

the rest of the class had to sit still listening to him.

IV

Keith could not remain isolated to the same extent as in the earlier

schools. Inevitable community sprang from similarity of sex and age

alone. In the same direction worked the system of teaching which called

for the united attention of the entire class during every moment of the

lesson. It was impossible to form a part of the class without being in

contact with all its other members. The boy who read aloud or answered a

question became subjected to the criticism or admiration of all the

rest. Rivalry in any field of study was just as likely to arise between

two boys at different ends of the room as between those sitting side by

side. The spirit of Dally tended to assist this fusion of personalities

in every way, and the boy who kept apart was sure sooner or later to run

foul of his good-humoured but well-aimed sallies. His attitude implied

no tyranny, and he strove for no deadening conformity. On the contrary,

he always spoke of a strongly marked individuality as the object of all

education, but he tried to develop it by fearless contact with others

rather than by jealous withdrawal.

Keith for the first time found himself part of a society, and he liked

it because the teacher's insistence on scholarly achievement as the only

standard of comparison gave him a chance to hold his own among a group

of boys, most of whom counted themselves his superiors in every other

respect. He was small and poor, of humble origin, without influential

connections, without worldly advantages of any kind, but when mind was

pitched against mind, he felt second to none--except in mathematics,

where he could compete neither with Davidson, the Jewish banker's son

who was _primus_, or with that gawky, cumbersome Anderson whose dullness

in every other respect always kept him near the bottom of the class. For

this reason Keith differed from most of the others by liking school

better during the lessons than at any other time.

There were games in the schoolyard during the pauses, and some of these

were played in large groups or by teams. This occurred particularly when

echoes from some war abroad caused the whole school to divide into rival

armies for the staging of regular battles, as during his second year,

when all had to be Turks or Russians. But Keith didn't like battles

except in books, and mostly the pauses broke up the class communities

into small coteries or pairs. And the moment this happened, Keith found

himself outside. He belonged to no special group. His appearance in the

yard raised no delighted hails. He had no chum of his very own with whom

to exchange secrets or lay plans for common adventures. And but for

Dally, he would probably have spent most of his free time in the

classroom.

It was worse when the big pause came at eleven and every one went home

for lunch, or when three o'clock brought school to a close for the day.

Going to school alone was an experience shared by all, but on leaving

it, the hurrying horde of youngsters, exuberant with freedom as so many

colts, broke into little groups of two or three that had homes in the

same neighbourhood. Now and then Keith would join a couple of other boys

headed for the old City like himself, and they would not refuse his

company, but there always was something between him and them that

precluded real fellowship, and so he trudged his way homeward, alone

most of the time. Then he was also sure of reaching home in the shortest

possible time, so that his mother had no chance to become worried

over him.

It happen now and then that a larger group was formed for some unusual

exploit and that Keith became part of it by chance rather than choice.

Once he accompanied such a group to that part of the harbour where

tall-masted fullriggers with foreign flags lay nose by stern in unbroken

line along the quay. Strange odours, fragrant or repulsive, filled the

air. Jolly, loud-voiced men toiled mightily or lounged like monarchs

among piles of casks and bags and boxes. For once Keith lost his usual

timidity under such circumstances and threw himself whole-heartedly into

anything the gang suggested. He even ventured to climb the mast of a

ship as far as the foretop. When at last reluctantly he turned homeward,

he felt like a hero, but when he caught sight of the tear-stained,

fretted face of his mother, he knew at once that even such exaltation

was not worth the price to be paid for it.

Unfortunately he had made himself popular that afternoon, and the next

time a gang formed for a similar purpose, he was asked to join. But he

shook his head, and being foolishly truthful by nature, he blurted out

an embarrassed:

"My mother won't let me."

The answer was passed along. It was repeated in school the next day.

Keith heard echoes of it for weeks. And it added a good deal to the

invisible wall that seemed to rise about him wherever he went.

Yet he was not unhappy. There was in his nature a wonderful resiliency

that never let his spirits drop beyond a certain point, and that always

brought them back to highwater mark at the slightest encouragement.

V

He had discovered the school library. It was to him a marvellous

treasure trove. Any book could be taken home, one at a time, after being

registered with the teacher acting as librarian for the day. Nor were

the books handed out to you arbitrarily. You browsed all by yourself,

and picked and picked, and calculated, and went back on your choice a

dozen times, until at last you struck a book so fascinating in its

promises that all hesitation disappeared.

The father started to object, but was silenced by the explanation that

the school authorities wanted the boys to borrow books from the library.

That settled it, for discipline came first and even pleasure must be

allowed if required by discipline. Had Keith been less honest or more

imaginative in what may be called practical matters, his father's regard

for authority might have offered more than one chance at liberties now

denied, but this possibility never occurred to him, and so the library

remained his one avenue of escape.

The books he chose puzzled and almost shocked the rotatory guardians of

his sanctum. Once he picked an enormous volume on Greek mythology, full

of pictures and translated passages from Homer and the dramatists.

"You don't want that, Wellander," the teacher said, eying him

curiously, when Keith presented the book for registration.

"Yes, I do," replied Keith stoutly, but his heart began to quake at the

thought that the cherished volume was going to be denied him.

"Do you mean to say that you intend to read it through?" the teacher

persisted.

"Yes, I will," said Keith.

There was a long pause during which the teacher seemed to weigh the book

in his hand as if wondering whether its very weight would be too much

for the undersized little chap in front of him.

"All right," he said at last, "but I suppose that means you will have

reading for the rest of this season."

Keith looked at the book more hopefully, and with hope came courage.

"I'll read it in three weeks," he said.

So he did, too, and when he turned in the book, the same teacher

happened to be on duty, recognized him, and began to ask questions. When

Keith had proved that the whole Olympian hierarchy was duly installed in

his acquisitive brain, the teacher said with an amused but

friendly smile:

"I think we shall let you have anything you want hereafter. What is it

to be this time--philosophy?"

"No, I want another book of exploration," answered Keith, thawing under

the smile. "And I want a real good one."

That was his favourite subject, and the book he chose was Speke's

"Discovery of the Source of the Nile." Once launched on that memorable

journey, he had no thought left for any explorations of his own.

VI

During the fall and spring terms of that first year Keith had no sense

of time. Days and weeks and months rolled by so smoothly that their

passing was unnoticed. It is a question whether at any other period of

his life--with one possible exception--he was more completely interested

and, for that reason, satisfied.

One day he observed casually that the old trees in the churchyard

sported tiny green leaves under a deliciously blue but still rather cold

sky. A few days more, and he heard that commencement was at hand.

It was a time of great excitement in school. Who would pass and who

would not? Falling through might mean another year in the same class,

but beyond all doubt it meant a summer spent at work instead of playing.

It was worse than a disgrace. It was a menace to liberty at the time of

the year when liberty meant most.

Being second in the class, it never occurred to Keith that he might fail

of promotion to a higher grade, but at that end there were possible

prizes to consider. The class was full of gossip and speculation. Boys

who had hardly spoken to each other before broke into heated discussions

or formed belated friendships. In one way and another the fever infected

Keith and spread from him to his parents, though his father as usual

feigned complete indifference. From his mother he learned long before

the startling fact was meant to reach his ears, that his father had

actually asked a day off at the bank in order to attend the exercises.

This news increased Keith's fear by several degrees. He had no idea what

might happen, and it would be unthinkably dreadful to have the father

present if anything went wrong. But on the other hand, if ... well, what

was there to happen anyhow?

On the morning of the great day, a host of parents and relatives and

other interested spectators crowded into the big assembly hall where

places were reserved for them in the rear and along the walls. In the

meantime the pupils gathered in their respective class-rooms, and from

there they marched by twos to the hall, the lowest grade leading. Every

boy was in his best clothes, and every one showed his nervousness in his

own peculiar way. Keith laughed hysterically a few times before they

started, and then he turned into an automaton that breathed and moved

and heard and saw only as part of a gigantic machine. His own

individuality seemed to melt and become a mere drop in the all-exclusive

individuality of the school.

This mood lasted through the early part of the exercises, the prayer

read by the _primus_ of the senior class, the hymn singing, the Rector's

speech, and so on. Everything came to him as out of a mist, and he was

not even sufficiently conscious of himself to look around for a glimpse

of his parents. When the distribution of exercises began, the whole

atmosphere changed. Until then it had been collective and impersonal.

Now it became intensely personal. Every one wanted to hear. Necks were

craned, whispered questions asked. It was as if a sudden breeze had

stirred waters which until then had been still as the mirroring surface

of a forest pool. Keith's mood changed with the rest, and he grew

painfully conscious of himself and his surroundings.

Starting with the lowest grade, the Rector read out the names of the

prize winners, the character of the prizes, and sometimes the reasons

why they were bestowed. At the mention of each name, a boy rose from his

seat, squirmed past his closely packed comrades, marched up the centre

aisle to the platform, bowed awkwardly to the Rector, grabbed the prize,

bowed still more awkwardly if possible, and marched back to his seat

with a face that burned or blanched, grinned or glowed, according to

temperament.

The second grade was soon reached. Most of the prizes consisted of

books. Davidson, _primus_, got two gilt-edged volumes of poetry. Keith

caught a glimpse of them and experienced a twinge of envy. His heart was

beating so that he thought he could hear it. His eyes clung to the

Rector's mouth, and when the next name was read, he half rose. Then he

sank back, and around him an ominous stillness seemed to reign.

The name was that of Runge, _tertius_, who got some historical work.

Then _quartus_, Blomberg, who was a passionate botanist, received a

valuable text book on his favourite subject. Still the rector went on,

and Keith felt sure that his name had been passed over by some mistake,

and that now it would come.

"A German lexicon for special attention to the student of that

language," the Rector droned on.

Again Keith started to rise from his seat, but even as he did so, it

flashed through his mind that he was given no more attention to German

than to other studies.

"... to Otto Krass of the Second Grade," the Rector completed his

sentence, holding out a book.

As Keith sank back on the bench, Krass, _quintus_, rose with an

expression on his face as if he had become personally involved in a

particularly incredible miracle.

A whisper ran through the rest of the class. Glances were cast at Keith,

who felt them like so many lashes on bare skin although in every other

respect he had once more become utterly unconscious of what happened

about him.

By slow degrees he recovered so far that he could try to think, but the

process was unendurable. There could be no accident. It was a deliberate

slight aimed at him for some specific reason. He tried to think of the

past year and its happenings in and out of school, but this effort

produced no solution to the riddle.

Suddenly he bethought himself of his speculations concerning his place

in the class. It seemed that he had been deeply envious of Davidson all

that year. With a quick turn of the head he surveyed for a moment the

haughty expression and narrowly drawn postures of the boy beside him.

There was a trace of a sneer on that face, and again Keith's heart was

flooded with resentment. But this mood changed abruptly into

contriteness. Perhaps he was being punished by some one, by God--he

hesitated at that thought--for grudging his schoolmate the place and the

honours that he probably had deserved. Keith was the meanest of

the mean....

Krass was back in his seat showing his book. He showed it to Keith also,

but with a palpable embarrassment that touched the latter as an

additional blow. Keith tried to say that it was nice, but his lips were

too dry and stiff to produce a sound.

The Rector was still reading off names. To save himself from his own

thoughts, Keith tried to listen. Soon he noticed that, without fail, the

prizes went in unbroken sequence to the first four or five pupils in

every grade. And suddenly he wondered whether his father and mother had

noticed. What would they say? What could _he_ say?

Then he remembered his mother's remark on hearing about his place in the

class, and he wondered if it could be possible.... But the parents of

Krass had neither wealth nor position. That much he knew.

The Rector's voice and manner became more and more impressive, and the

prizes more and more valuable, as he passed higher and higher, until at

last the senior class was reached--the boys who were now graduating into

the _gymnasium_. They were his own pupils, and for each of the prize

winners from the two branches of that class he had a word of special

praise and good-will.

A restless stirring passed through the assembly as the boy expected to

be the last recipient of special honours made his way to the platform

and everybody prepared to rise for the singing of a closing hymn.

Still the old Rector, with his smooth-shaven and deeply furrowed Roman

face, remained standing, and once more an expectant hush fell upon

pupils and spectators. Apparently he intended, contrary to custom, to

follow up the main ceremony of the day with some important announcement.

"One more prize remains to be distributed," he resumed with more than

usual deliberation. "We do not have the pleasure of bestowing it

regularly, because its conditions are unusual. It was the will of the

donor that it should be given to that pupil who, regardless of grade and

age, during the previous year had shown the relatively greatest

aptitude, industry, and actual advance in knowledge. This year the

prize, which consists of one hundred crowns in gold and is the largest

at the disposal of our school, is to be distributed, and the pupil found

worthy of this exceptional honour is...."

Every eye was on the Rector as he paused dramatically. Every one in the

hall listened breathlessly to catch the favoured name. Keith listened

like the rest, a little enviously perhaps, but without serious

attention, for it had just occurred to him for the tenth time that the

situation would have been so much less unbearable if only his father had

stayed away.

"... this pupil is Keith Wellander of the Second Grade," the Rector

concluded.

A murmur swept the hall, and Keith felt himself the centre of many eyes.

The murmur grew as the winner failed to appear, but Keith could not move

a limb. Dumbly and unbelievingly he stared at the Rector and the group

of teachers seated around him on the platform.

"Come forward, Wellander," the Rector said in a friendly voice as if he

could well understand the overwhelming effect of such distinction. At

the same time Keith noticed Lector Dahlström rising partly from his seat

on the platform as if to see whether anything might be the matter.

Had the ceiling opened and an angel appeared in a fiery chariot to call

him heavenward, the boy could not have been more startled. It was as if

a terrific blow had paralyzed all his senses. His classmates had to push

him forward. He never knew how he reached the platform, where the Rector

was waiting for him with a small package ready for delivery. Keith felt

the weight of that package in his own hand and the gentle touch of the

Rector's hand on his head. Words were uttered that he did not catch, and

the room became filled with the noise of boisterous applause.

He bowed mechanically and turned to walk back to his seat, and as he did

so, he noticed a white handkerchief waving at him from the rear of the

hall. Behind the handkerchief he caught a glimpse of his mother's face,

and a thought shot through his head:

"Papa is here and has heard all this!"

Then he relapsed into a state of utter oblivion of the surrounding

world. The thing was too tremendous to be felt even. Automatically he

moved out of the hall and back to the classroom with the rest. Dally was

saying things to him, but he could not grasp a word. Now and then he

became vaguely conscious of awed glances cast at him by the other boys.

Some of them spoke to him, and in some strange way he managed to realize

that Davidson was not among these.

At last he woke into full consciousness on the street, where he found

himself walking homeward by his father's hand. The pressure of that hand

seemed unusually soft and pleasant. The mother was talking eagerly and

wiping her eyes between little happy bursts of laughter. The father

listened for a long while in silence.

"Yes," he said at last, "it is not a bad beginning--if he can keep it

up."

Keith felt for a moment as if he were walking on air, and he knew that

he would keep it up--that after such a day nothing could prevent him

from keeping it up. Then a bewildering thought appeared out of nowhere

and began to buzz in his tired and over-excited brain.

"If I have done all that the Rector said," this thought demanded of him,

"why in the world has Dally kept me sitting below Davidson who got

nothing but books?"

VII

Keith next day was permitted to have a good look at the five

twenty-crown pieces found in the package handed to him by the Rector.

Their weight and brightness made them delightful to handle, but they

were not "toys for children" his father remarked, and with that remark

they passed out of sight for ever. Once or twice he put timid questions

to his mother, who never answered directly, but reminded him of all the

money his father had spent and was spending on him for food and clothes

and schooling and all sorts of things. Keith almost wished that he had

received some nice books instead, or anything that could make him feel

that he really had got a big glorious reward for something he really had

done. Now the achievement seemed as illusive as the reward.

He tried to reason the case out with himself, and the conclusion at

which he arrived was that his father probably was entitled and

certainly welcome to the money, but that as he, Keith, had earned it and

owned it, something should be said to him about the use of it. And as so

often was the case, it became a question of abstract justice. The value

and possibilities of the money lay beyond his grasp, but the ethics of

its disposal, from his simple childish point of view, seemed too clear

for serious discussion. Once or twice he stole a look at his savings

bank book, which his mother kept among her own papers, but no new entry

appeared on its meagre credit side. By and by he almost lost sight of

the whole incident, engrossed as he was with the experiences of the

current hour, but the memory of it recurred fitfully, and in moments of

dissatisfaction it tended to assume the shape of a grievance, if not a

charge, against the father. From this tendency he fled instinctively to

an idea of money as not worth bothering about. And that idea also helped

when the atmosphere of worry about money matters surrounding his mother

became too intense and depressive.

There was comparatively little of it that summer. His mother was in

better health and spirits than he had seen her for a long time, and she

was as happy as Keith when the father announced that they would have a

summer place of their own on one of the islands in Lake Maelaren,

somewhat farther out than the one where Uncle Laube lived. It was too

far away to have become absorbed by the rapidly growing city, and yet

too close at hand to be quite desirable as a summer location for the

more prosperous. The island was of sufficient size to hold a couple of

real farms in the centre, while the shore line was occupied by

occasional villas. Halfway between these two mutually foreign regions,

on a sharp slope that still remained largely uncleared, stood a little

red house with just two rooms in it. One of these was occupied by the

old couple that owned the house. The other one had been rented to the

Wellanders for the summer, and in that one room the mother, the

grandmother and Keith established themselves, with the father appearing

as a regular week-end guest.

Taking it all in all, it was the freest, and in many ways the happiest

summer of Keith's childhood. He was permitted to roam around pretty much

as he pleased, and there were several other small boys to play with,

none of them enterprising enough to arouse the distrust of Keith's

mother. They were all city boys however, as foreign to nature as Keith,

and there was no older person on hand to give their excursions and games

a constructive twist without turning them into lessons. There was plenty

of wild life about, and it helped in many ways to give them a better

time, but that was as near as they got to it. Exactly the same thing

happened during subsequent summers, and so the boy always looked upon

flowers and trees and birds and insects as delightful but puzzling

representatives of a world of which he did not know the language.

It was good fun, however, and temporarily it took Keith farther away

from himself and from his cherished books than he had been since his

first discovery of the latter. The boys proved decent, wholesome

company, more bent on discharging their surplus energy than on doing

mischief. Much of their time was spent in or near the water, so that

Keith developed into a pretty good swimmer for his age, though always of

the cautious type. And between games they would discuss the world from

a boy's point of view. There was particularly one boy of the same age as

Keith with whom he had talks of a kind quite new to him. Oscar's parents

were still very young, and he spoke of them more as chums than as

masters. And he spoke of them with a sort of restrained enthusiasm that

set Keith thinking very hard. He loved his parents, especially his

mother, and admired them, especially his father at certain times, but he

was not conscious of any feeling about them corresponding to the one

displayed by Oscar, whose father, after all, was nothing but a captain

on one of the small steam sloops running between the city and some of

the surrounding islands.

Oscar was especially eloquent when he spoke of the love his parents had

for each other. He gave examples that seemed exaggerated to Keith, but

nevertheless impressed him. In return Keith boasted similarly of his own

parents, and he meant every word he said, but always what he had to tell

fell short of the pictures drawn by Oscar.

"You don't understand," cried Oscar one day when again they were

debating this fascinating topic all by themselves. "It's all right for

your mother to kiss your father when he leaves and when he returns, and

to be looking for him all the time. But that's not enough. That's not

the way my parents love each other. And I don't think your father cares

so very much for your mother. But my father is so much in love with my

mother that he would like to eat what she has chewed!"

"No--o!" protested Keith, rather appalled by the illustration used, and

yet feeling as if he had beheld some undiscovered country. There was a

pause during which he stared incredulously at Oscar.

"I mean just what I said," insisted Oscar a little more quietly after a

while. "Anything that has to do with my mother is sweet to my father, I

tell you. And that is love. If you don't know it, you don't know what

love is either."

"But why," demanded Keith, his mind still so full of the disturbing

image called forth by Oscar that his jaws moved uneasily as if he had

taken into his mouth something unpalatable.

"Because," Oscar hesitated ... "because it is that way."

Keith left shortly afterwards to think it over in solitude. It was

probably the first time the word love had been presented to him as

anything but a commonplace term for laudable but commonplace feelings.

He puzzled over it, but to little purpose, and for some reason he

thought it useless or unwise to ask his mother for information.

VIII

The third grade proved merely a continuation of the second. Little had

changed over summer. A few boys had been dropped behind and a few others

overtaken. That affected the bottom of the class, but not the top. Dally

remained their principal, and when he welcomed them back at the opening

of the fall term, Keith waited excitedly for the distribution of

places. Few changes were made however. Davidson remained _primus_ as

before, with Keith next. Then came Runge and Blomberg as before. For a

day or two Keith swung violently between fits of rebellion and deep

depression. It seemed almost incredible that he could have received the

highest prize bestowed on any pupil in the school.

Then the routine of instruction and study seized him. New text-books

were acquired, not without some grumbling on his father's part. New

interests were stirring and, as usual, cleverly nursed by Dally. Above

all, the magnetic power of the teacher asserted itself once more, until

Keith felt that the only thing really worth while in life was to

please him.

Algebra was one of the new subjects, and the use of letters instead of

figures amused Keith for a while. But it took no serious hold on his

mind. The whole field of mathematics left him strangely uninterested

although he was good at arithmetic. He thought the problems of Euclid

stupid. Once he had learned how to prove a theorem, it seemed so

ridiculously self-evident that he wondered why anybody should bother his

brain about it. There were other boys who could figure out the

demonstrations in advance without looking at the book. Keith tried it

once or twice, but failed miserably and gave it up as a worthless and

thankless job. Apparently his brain did not work in that way. It had to

touch real life to be at its best. History and geography were his

favourite subjects, and in those he led the class. This was openly

admitted by Dally himself.

Literature was another new subject. They read and analysed and

criticized classical Swedish poetry--Tegnér and Runeberg and Geijer.

Most of the poems chosen for the purpose were historical and took their

themes from the old viking days or from the glorious centuries of

Gustavus Adolphus and Charles XII, when Sweden so nearly rose to be a

great power. Keith liked to take certain sonorous passages into his

mouth. There was a satisfying fullness and richness about them that

seemed somehow to enhance his own feeling of self-importance. Their

rhythm also pleased him and became a sort of substitute for the singing

of which he was incapable. Chiefly, however, it was the stories told by

the poems that interested him, and on the whole he did not think much of

poetry. But this opinion he never dared to put into words. To do so in

the face of Dally's clearly manifested reverence would have been like

openly confessing a particularly degrading form of inferiority.

Nor did it seem to matter so very much what he studied. The main thing

always remained what Dally said and did in his efforts to bring out

something within the self of each boy for which only he seemed to have

an eye. Keith at times felt as if he would give anything to know what

Dally expected of him in particular. He felt sure that it must be

something wonderful, and he had odd moments of almost being on the verge

of grasping it, but in the end it always eluded him, and no sooner was

he out of Dally's presence than the whole thing seemed very unreal

and foolish.

IX

Young Davidson had a bent toward sarcasm that sometimes lured him out of

his usual cold aloofness. In one of these rare communicative moments he

said of little Loth that he crossed the equator at least once a week and

didn't mind. He referred to the fact that Loth was more frequently moved

than any other pupil but always managed to retain a place near the

centre. And no matter what fate might bring him of ups or downs, Loth

always retained a perfect composure. Yet he was small and nervous and

highstrung like Keith and Bauer. One day Keith asked him how he could

stand being shoved about like that.

"Because my father says I am going into business anyhow," answered Loth,

"and I don't know whether I hate business or books most."

"What would you like to do," asked Keith looking puzzled.

"Draw," said Loth vaguely, "and play the piano, and go to the theatre,

and--yes, and read poetry books that don't teach you anything."

This view of life was so new to Keith that he really tried to become

acquainted with Loth in order to learn more about it. His own

indifference to anything but books promised small success, but in the

end a tie was found in their common love of tin soldiers. So he was

admitted to Loth's particular circle and was even invited to Loth's

home for a birthday party--the first and last of its kind that he

attended during his five years at Old Mary. Before permitted to go, he

was warned that the servant girl would come for him at nine. No amount

of pleading helped to ameliorate that condition.

Loth's father was a prosperous storekeeper on West Long Street and lived

in a spacious and richly furnished apartment above the store. It was a

home like that revealed to Keith through his shortlived friendship with

Harald. The impression on Keith, however, was quite different because of

his own growth since that first year at school. And the actions of the

eight or ten boys who were the other guests impressed him still more.

They wore gloves when they arrived. They showed neither forwardness nor

timidity, but greeted each other and their host with grown-up dignity

and formality. They seemed to know what to do at every moment, and how

to do it. Keith was accustomed to decent manners. Social intercourse in

the parental circle was not without grace, but this was something

different. At the time he was utterly incapable of telling where the

difference lay, and years afterward he realized what subtle shadings it

depended on. The main thing at the time was that something in himself

responded instinctively to the higher degree of polish and

self-assurance which he now for the first time was able to observe at

close quarters.

The principal entertainment of the evening was a monster battle with tin

soldiers on the cleared floor of the huge dining-room. The battle was at

its height and supper was not yet in sight, when Keith learned that the

girl was waiting for him. There was nothing to do but to obey, but the

hostess could not think of letting him go without having eaten. A

special service was prepared for him in the kindest way possible, and

Keith enjoyed very much the many dainties offered him. Nevertheless he

felt the situation as humiliating and was actually glad when he got away

at last. But the gladness was only a surface gloss on a burning core of

regrets and dissatisfaction.

In a way that evening, which was never repeated, proved a new starting

point in his life. He had had his first close contact with life on a

higher social level, and he could not forget it. New standards had been

furnished him, and unconsciously he was applying them all the time to

all sorts of things--his parents included. Until then he had blindly

accepted them and their ways and their environment as representing the

best this world had to offer. Now the basis had been laid for doubts

that gradually developed into positive criticism.

The immediate result seemed quite irrelevant. He developed a sudden

objection to running errands for his mother, and especially to doing

anything that involved the carrying of bags or bottles or baskets

through the streets. Packages looking as if they might contain books

remained unobjectional. There was a time when being sent to the grocery

store was a privilege and a distinction. Later it became an opportunity

for clandestine meetings with Johan. Even during his first year at Old

Mary he continued to perform such tasks without any thought of what

others might think of them. He must have heard things, however, and

inner resistances must have developed, which were now brought into

sudden appearance by the inner echoes of Loth's birthday party.

He did not dare to breathe a word about his new state of mind in his

father's presence. And it was long before he gathered courage to voice

it openly before his mother. But he used all the arguments and evasions

and tricks he could muster to escape what had become a dreaded ordeal.

It developed into a test of will and strength between Keith and his

mother--the first of its kind, and the forerunner of numerous others

still more deep-reaching. After a while the father discovered or learned

what was going on, but, contrary to custom, that was not enough to

settle the matter. In this case, neither argument nor threats had any

effect on Keith. He avoided open conflict with his father for good and

sufficient reason, and he did what could not be escaped, but he did it

in a spirit of passionate rebellion that introduced a new element of

division and strife the home. Both parents seemed instinctively to

interpret the boy's changed attitude as a reflection on themselves, and

they resented it keenly, but to no avail. While pretending to insist on

full obedience as before, they gave way in reality by making the servant

girl do the errands in place of Keith.

"One of these days I suppose we shall not be good enough for you any

longer," said his mother bitterly one day while the contest was

still on.

"Why, mamma," cried Keith, disturbed by the emotional appeal back of her

words, "what has that to do with my not wanting to be laughed at by

other boys?"

"I almost wish I hadn't persuaded your father to send you to the public

school," the mother rejoined.

X

The school year was drawing to its close again Dally's tone grew less

bantering. On several occasions he delivered little impromptu sermons on

the seriousness of life and the difficulties of living. One afternoon

about two weeks before commencement he told them to close their books.

"I want each one of you to tell me what you expect to become in life, or

what kind of a career your parents have chosen for you."

A stir of excitement swept over the class.

Then Dally went on to explain why he wished to know. The first three

grades were divided into A and B classes, but that had nothing to do

with the teaching, which was the same in both classes. The fourth and

fifth grades, on the other hand, were divided into a "Latin" and an

"English" branch, with quite different curricula. Boys headed for the

various professions ought to choose the former branch, while the second

one led to more practical pursuits.

"You are going to be an officer, I understand." Dally said, turning to

_primus_.

"Yes, sir," the young Jew answered with a self-importance that even

Keith could not miss. "My father wants me to try for the General Staff,

and so I have to specialize on mathematics."

"Humph," was Dally's only audible comment as he made a note, but he

looked as if he had tasted something unpleasant.

"And you, Wellander," asked the teacher.

"I am going to be an explorer," replied Keith without moment's

hesitation, and the whole class broke into a roar of laughter with Dally

joining them.

Keith, as usual, blushed a deep crimson, but did not move.

"That's neither a trade nor a profession," said Dally after a while,

still smiling. "I fear you are fuzzy-wuzzying again, Wellander. What do

you mean by an explorer?"

"One who explores rivers and deserts and unknown countries and such

things," said Keith brazenly.

"And you really mean that you are going in for that sort of thing?"

"I do," Keith insisted, while the whole class watched him in a hush that

might easily turn either into derision or into approval.

"There isn't much exploring left to be done," Dally mused, looking

intently at the small boy at the other end of the room. "Most of the

globe is mapped already."

"There is a lot left in Africa," Keith retorted eagerly.

"And what does your father say about it," was Dally's next question.

There was a long pause broken only by some gigglings by the

irrepressibles down at the bottom of the class.

"I have not asked him," Keith admitted at last. "But I am going to be an

explorer just the same."

"In these days that means you have to become a scientist," Dally

remarked in a changed tone. "It is your only chance, and so I advise

you to choose Latin. It is what I think a boy with your head should

take anyhow."

"All right, Sir," assented Keith, flattered by the last part of Dally's

remark and utterly ignorant of what his choice implied.

That evening he told his father that he had been asked whether he wanted

to enter the Latin or the English branch of the fourth grade, and that

he had chosen the former.

"Why," asked his father.

"Because Dally says I ought to," replied Keith.

"Well, he ought to know," said the father.

But when Keith appeared in the schoolyard during one of the pauses next

day, he was met from every side by the cry:

"There's the explorer! There's the explorer!"

The younger boys jeered openly at him. The older ones pretended to ask

him serious questions about his plans. For days he was the laughing

stock of the whole school, and even on his way to and from school he was

pursued by jibes and taunts. Through it all Keith stuck quietly to his

guns, without a sign of retraction or evasion. And in the end his

seriousness conquered. But from that day he was known to the entire

school as "the explorer," and he heard that term more often than his

own name.

XI

It was the afternoon of the last day before commencement. The atmosphere

in the class was solemn and more than a little wistful.

"It is our last hour together," said Dally when all were back in their

seats after the pause. "History is on the schedule, but--schedules are

not made for moments like these. Let us just have a friendly talk."

He did practically all the talking, and he talked to them more as an

older boy, a chum with somewhat wider experience, than as a teacher and

class principal. It made them feel their own importance rather heavily,

but still more it made them conscious of an irreparable loss. They knew

that school would not be the same in the fall, when Dally no longer was

with them. In accordance with established custom, he would go back to

the first grade and start piloting a new generation up to the point

where they had just arrived.

The class would break up, too. Some would have to stay behind. One or

two had gone as far as they could and would make a premature transfer

from school to life. Others were bound for other schools or other

cities. The rest would split in two and join with the corresponding

parts of the parallel section to form two entirely new classes. It gave

them a foretaste of what it would mean to graduate into the _gymnasium_,

and from there into the university. And it filled their hearts with

wistful pride.

The last hour was drawing to a close and everybody was talking at once,

when Dally unexpectedly asked them to give him their full attention once

more for few minutes.

"An act of justice remains to be performed," he said. "There is a boy

among you who has not received all that he had justly deserved. It was

withheld from him by me for his own welfare. The time has now come when

he and you should know all about it."

As he paused for a moment, the boys looked around at each other with

something like consternation. Their curiosity was intense. He spoke with

a tensity of feeling they had hardly ever noticed in him before, and not

one of them had an inkling of what he was driving at.

"It means that some of you have received more than they deserved," he

resumed. "That also should be known--for the good of all. It is a

reflection on no one but myself, however, and I think you know me well

enough by this time to be sure that I have been moved by no other

consideration than the future good of the one most nearly concerned."

Again he stopped, the class waiting breathlessly for him to go on. At

that moment Keith became aware that the teacher's gaze rested firmly on

him with an expression that sent the blood in a hot stream to his face.

"Wellander," Dally began again, and in spite of the beating of his own

heart, Keith noticed that the teacher's voice trembled a little as he

spoke. "Will you do me the favour of rising a moment? You are the boy I

have in mind."

Keith rose like an automaton. His eyes clung to the lips of the

teacher, and he seemed to expect from those lips some utterance that

must make his whole future life different. As often happened in moments

of intensified emotion, he became strangely oblivious of all the little

eddies and cross-currents of thoughts and feelings that made up his

ordinary, every-day consciousness of himself.

"For two years I have kept you number two in the class," Dally said,

speaking in an easier tone as if to lighten the strain on everybody.

"You should have been number one. Davidson, whom I placed above you has

at no time been your superior in anything but self-control. But it was

just your--what I have sometimes called your fuzzy-wuzziness, that made

me afraid of placing you where you rightly belonged, at the head of the

class. It is my belief that you have in you greater gifts than any other

boy in this class, but I am not yet sure of what you will do with them.

It was my eagerness to see you make full use of them that made me poke

fun at you and keep you out of the place that rightfully was yours.

Perhaps I did wrong, but my meaning was right. I shall always watch you

closely, and I hope you will try your best not to disappoint me. Will

you promise that?"

"I will," gasped Keith.

The clock had already struck three. The moment Dally stopped, the class

broke up, but only to gather about Keith--every one of them except

Davidson, who slipped out of the room with a face white as chalk. Keith

caught a glimpse of that face, and a sense of reckless elation shot

through him.

He sped as never before on his way home. It was still impossible for

him to think the matter through. First he must tell his parents and hear

what they had to say about it.

On hearing what had happened, his mother hugged and kissed him, her face

all smiles while big tears dripped down her cheeks. Then the father came

home and was told everything. His mother looked serious by that time,

and Keith noticed a wavering expression in her voice.

"Your teacher evidently knows you," was the father's first remark to

Keith, but by his tone the boy knew that he was pleased. Then he

hesitated, and after a while he said as if speaking to himself: "But if

Keith really had earned the first place...."

"That's what I have been thinking," the mother broke in with blazing

eyes. "Do you remember what I said about that boy Davidson? He was the

richest boy in the class, and Lector Dahlström simply did not dare to

put Keith above him. Now he is trying to make up for it when it's

too late."

"Perhaps," said the father thoughtfully. "The sum of it is what I have

always said: the coin that was made for a farthing will never be

a dollar."

"But Keith was not made for a farthing," the mother retorted sharply and

indignantly. "That is the main point of what his teacher confessed in

school this very day."

"Well, if not," said the father wearily, "it is up to him to prove it."

And Keith, too, all of a sudden felt very, very tired.

XII

Keith was one of the first to enter the class room on the morning of

Commencement Day. He was still standing near the door when Davidson

appeared and evidently meant to walk past him without a greeting.

"Say, Davidson," Keith cried impulsively, holding out his hand, "I don't

mind!"

"Well, what do you think I care," the other boy asked icily as he turned

on his heel and walked out of the room again without taking the

proffered hand.

It was the first time that Keith felt the sting of real hatred. He could

never have acted like that--not even toward one who had wronged him

seriously. What galled him most was that he had been made to look as if

he were apologizing. Then a sense of triumph returned little by little,

but it was not very vivid, and what he missed utterly was the fact that

no other situation could have been quite so hard on Davidson's pride as

the one in which Dally had placed him. A realization of that fact came

only years afterwards.

Then Dally himself arrived, and soon the commencement exercises were in

full progress, Keith feeling quite superior to any curiosity or

excitement. Again he received a prize, and again it was in the form of

money, but a smaller sum not accompanied by any special encomiums. He

walked home very quietly with his parents, and they had not much to

say either.

Had Keith known what an anti-climax was, he would undoubtedly have used

that word to describe the experiences of his second Commencement Day

at Old Mary.

XIII

The summer was spent quietly on the same island where he had been so

happy a year before. Oscar was not there. Other boys took his place, but

no real intimacy sprang up between them and Keith. They certainly did

not talk of love, and what they knew of sex took Keith back to the days

spent around the big rock. He had a good time on the whole, but more and

more a sense of missing something fretted him, and he could not tell

what it was. For emotional outlet he was wholly dependent on his mother,

and though he seemed as devoted to her as ever, he had queer spells of

wishing to get away from her. The father was more in the background than

ever during the summer. Once in a while he would show up on a weekday

evening very tired, and leave again with the first morning boat. During

the week-end he wanted above all to rest, and Keith was partly happy and

partly unhappy at being left alone.

Once only during that summer did his father appear under circumstances

that impressed themselves on the boy's memory. It was the day of the

annual regatta of the Yacht Club. When the races were over, the yachts

were towed back to the city by a large steamer, escorted by a whole

flotilla of every kind of craft loaded with sightseers. It was the gala

evening of the season. As the tender twilight of the August night

descended on the smooth waters of the Lake Maelaren, every villa along

the shores became brightly illuminated, while the progress of the fleet

was marked by incessant bursts of fireworks.

The Wellanders had a splendid view from the little platform on which

their cottage stood. Some friends had been invited for the day, and the

father had brought with him from the city a package of fireworks. But

instead of wasting money on sky-rockets or other expensive pieces, he

had concentrated almost wholly on blue and red lights, which he placed

among the trees and over the plateau and set off in batches, first one

colour and then the other. Because the place was so high up, apart from

the rest, and so heavily wooded, the effect was probably very pretty

from the water. Anyhow a burst of applause was heard from the

passing flotilla.

"That's for us," said Keith's father, "and not for those rich people

down by the shore."

As usual when very much pleased, he laughed while speaking so that it

was hard to hear what he said. But Keith heard, and a glow of pride

swelled his chest. It was the crowning climax of a scene that touched

the boy with a sense of joy bordering on pain. "Beautiful" was a word

used repeatedly by the grown-up people about him. He knew now that

beauty was something that turned ordinary life into a pleasure more

keen than could be had out of eating, or playing, or reading, or

getting presents at Christmas even. To this wonderful thing his father

had added a personal triumph in which the whole family participated. It

silenced incipient criticism for a long time.

Nevertheless there was another side to that self-satisfied remark of his

father, and it also stuck in his memory. Back of the proud words lay

envy and deference, and a suggestion of hopeless separation. In Keith's

mind it became tied up with his memories from Loth's party, and all of

it formed a complex of thought from which he tried his best to get

away--and most of the time successfully.

XIV

For lack of sufficient accommodations in the over-crowded old building,

one class had to use the assembly hall. To make the many disadvantages

more palatable, this location was presented as an honour reserved for

the class shepherded by the old Rector himself. Of this "honour" Keith

became a participant when the fall term opened.

There were no desks--only benches without backs. The rest of the school

left with a sense of relief after using them only during the fifteen

minutes of morning prayer. To sit on them hours at a stretch turned the

day into torture before it was half done. The only way of resting was to

bend far forward with humped back, and no sooner did the Rector

discover a boy in that position than he descended on the sinner:

"Straight in the back, boy! What do you think you are--an old hag

sorting rags?"

No attempt was made to arrange the boys according to merit. On the first

day every one chose a seat to suit himself, and so Keith found himself

number five without knowing how it had happened. Number four was a boy

of his own size and age named George Murray, who seemed to be as

friendless as was Keith.

Instead of one teacher, they had a dozen at least, few of whom gave

instruction in more than a single subject. It smacked of university and

made the boys feel much advanced. The curriculum showed an imposing

array of new subjects--Latin, French, universal history, physics,

chemistry, and so on. Their novelty caught and carried Keith for a

good while.

Latin was still the most important study of all. It was taught by the

Rector himself, who worshipped everything classic with a religious

devotion and who maintained in so many words that a man's culture was

measured by his mastery of the Roman tongue. In the lower grades it had

been spoken of with bated breath. Keith had looked forward to the first

lesson with trembling impatience. He plunged into the declination of

_mensa_ with the fervour of a convert. He translated the text-book's

_colomba est timida_ with a sense of performing a sacred rite. Days went

by before he dared to admit to himself that his interest was waning,

Even then he went on studying without a thought of rebellion. The habit

of application had become deeply rooted. The pride born out of his first

easy successes still had urged him to master any subject offered. But

there was a change in his manner of studying as well as in his general

attitude toward the school. Until then he had been an acolyte in sacred

precincts. Now he turned gradually into a time-server doing his duty out

of vanity and a desire to remain a public school pupil. Until then he

had never felt that he had to study. Now fear of the old Rector and of

his father entered more and more as conscious motives.

He missed the kind guidance of Dally. The Rector never became the soul

and guardian of the class in the manner of Dally. The other teachers

came and went without other interest than to insure a decent showing in

their respective subjects. All had favourites chosen from those pupils

who showed most aptitude for mathematics, natural history or whatever it

happened to be. No one was interested in the class as a whole, and no

one cared for its individual members as human beings in the make. Within

a short time Keith was simply drifting, although neither he nor those

appointed to guide him were aware of it at the time.

XV

Keith took a liking to George Murray from the start. During the first

couple of days he looked at him frequently as if to invite acquaintance,

but the other boy always appeared deeply attentive to the subject of the

hour. During the pauses he withdrew into a corner as if to forestall

possible advances. At the end of the second day Keith and Murray

reached the stairway simultaneously and started for the street side by

side. Murray's pale, aristocratic and very narrow face with unduly

prominent teeth still bore a look of indifference, but his attitude had

lost a little of its previous stiffness.

"Where do you live," Keith ventured with for him rare forwardness.

"On the Quay," replied Murray in a voice that neither encouraged nor

discouraged.

"Where," asked Keith eagerly.

"Corner of St. John's Lane."

"That's my corner," cried Keith. "I live in the lane, and we have the

same way home."

"All right," was Murray's only answer, which Keith accepted in the

affirmative.

Little more was said until they reached the top of the hill above Carl

Johan Square, when Keith explained that he always kept to the left along

the shore of Lake Maelaren.

"I always take the other way," rejoined Murray, suiting his actions to

his words.

"All right," said Keith in his turn, going along toward the saltwater

side of the harbour as if it had been the route of his own choice. They

stopped for a moment to watch the sloops in the fish market loaded

almost to the point of foundering with live fish. Further out a number

of large sailing vessels rode at anchor. Still further away, where the

southern shore drew close to the point of the island with the turreted

red fort, a big black steamer was seen slowly creeping toward its

landing place at the Quay. For a moment Murray studied it intently,

shading his eyes in sailor fashion to see better.

"That's one of our steamers," he said at last.

"Do you mean you own it," gasped Keith incredulously.

"The company does," explained Murray.

"Which company?"

"The one of which my father is managing director."

"Are there many of them," Keith asked to be polite. It sounded too much

like a fairy tale.

"Seven," replied Murray casually. "They are all painted black and sail

on foreign ports."

"Did you ever travel on one," inquired Keith with something like awe in

his voice.

"Yes," said the slim youngster by his side as if it had been the most

natural thing in the world. "Many times, as far as the pilot station,

with papa. And last summer he took me along on a real journey to

England. That's where our family comes from, and we were gone three

whole weeks."

"Were you scared," Keith asked almost in a whisper.

"No." Murray shook his head with quick assurance. "That is, not much. We

had a storm in the North Sea coming back, but papa said it was nothing

to be afraid of, and for a while I was too sick to care."

"Sick!" Keith echoed. "And were you not awfully scared?"

"No," Murray insisted, looking rather pleased. "Not much."

Keith was too overwhelmed to ask more questions just then. The rest of

the way home was traversed in silence. At the corner of the lane they

parted with a mutual nod. Then Keith bolted up the lane and up the three

nights of stairs. Entering the kitchen breathlessly, he yelled out with

his cap still on his head: "I walked home with Murray who lives at the

corner and whose papa owns seven ships and who sits next to me in

the class."

"Little boys should be civil," suggested Granny with a glance at the

cap. "And they should also remember that equals make the best playmates,

and that all is not gold that glistens."

"Oh, he's my equal," Keith declared triumphantly.

"With plenty to spare," retorted Granny. "But are you his?"

It made Keith walk home alone the next day, and as he shuffled along

listlessly, the almost obliterated memory of Harald came back to him.

XVI

The attraction had been established, however--on one side at least--and

it would not let itself be smothered. Nor did Keith make any strong

effort in that direction. It was not his way. He found it as hard to

abstain from what gave him pleasure for the moment as to bear whatever

seemed unpleasant or painful.

Murray made no approaches of any kind, but he did not resist. His

acceptance of Keith's friendship was purely passive, and there was

always a limit to it. At first they simply walked home together from

school. Of course, they sat side by side during the lessons, but Murray

gave his whole attention to the teacher or to his book. If Keith tried

to whisper to him, Murray merely frowned at him. During the pauses they

were often together, chatting or playing, but it could also happen that

Murray chose to mix with some group of fellow pupils in such a manner

that Keith could not get near to him. Sometimes Keith would then also

join them. More often he would hover on the outskirts in a state of

utter misery.

Even when the school closed for the day, it depended entirely on Keith

if they were to have company home. Murray never waited. If Keith was not

in sight when he reached the street, he went right on. Several times

Keith had to run several blocks to overtake his friend.

"Why couldn't you wait a minute for me," he asked when he had recovered

his breath after one of those pursuits.

"Oh, that's so silly," was Murray's only reply, and a repetition of the

question on two or three subsequent occasions brought no more

satisfactory response. Keith did not press the matter beyond that point

and uttered no protest at Murray's real or assumed indifference.

Until then Keith had always taken East Long Street on his way to school

in the morning. Now he turned invariably down the lane to the Quay. On

reaching the corner, he took a long look at the corner house where

Murray lived. Two mornings he saw no one and walked on. The third

morning Murray happened to appear just as Keith reached the corner.

After that Keith waited for his friend, and they walked together to as

well as from school. Having waited very long one morning and fearing

that his friend had passed already, Keith ventured into the house, when

he caught sight of Murray coming out of a door reached by a little spur

of the main stairway.

"Is that where you live," asked Keith.

"That's the kitchen door," said Murray. "Our main entrance is in front

on the landing above. It's quicker for me to get out this way in the

morning, and I don't have to disturb anybody."

A few mornings later, Murray was late again, and Keith after long

hesitation walked up to the kitchen door and knocked. A pleasant-faced

serving girl opened.

"Oh, you are the little fellow who waits for George every morning," she

said with a smile. "Come in and wait here. He'll be ready in a moment."

After that Keith went straight up to the kitchen every morning. It was a

room as large as a hall, shiningly clean, and well furnished as a dining

and living-room for the three women serving there. Keith became quite

familiar with it, but he always remained by the door, and he always felt

that he ought not to be there. Yet he could no more resist going there

than he could stop breathing, it seemed.

That kitchen was the only part of Murray's home he ever saw. He never

caught a glimpse even of his friend's mother, who evidently was a very

exclusive lady. Two or three times he saw Murray on the street after

school hours in company with a tall, portly and handsome gentleman, whom

he took to be the father. Later his guess was confirmed, but Murray

never showed any inclination to let his parents become aware of Keith's

existence.

For a long while this did not matter to Keith. In fact, he was not

aware of anything but his own devotion. Murray's willingness to accept

it only when nothing else was in sight did not bother him. He had found

some one to worship at last, and he gave himself to that feeling with an

abandon that knew of no reserves and that asked no questions. He looked

up to the other boy as, in ages long gone by, a faithful vassal used to

look up to his liege lord. And it seemed only meet that such a superior

being as Murray should bestow or withhold his favour in accordance with

his own sweet pleasure.

XVII

Keith had just parted from his chum at the corner of the lane one

afternoon, when he caught sight of Johan near the big back door of the

house opposite the one where Murray lived.

"What are you doing," he said without much enthusiasm.

Johan beckoned mysteriously and would not say a word until he had got

Keith into the shadow of the huge gateway leading to the paved yard in

the rear of the house.

"Can't you come on," he cried impatiently at last "I don't want mumsey

to see me."

When both were hidden from the kitchen window through which Fru

Gustafsson used to keep a religiously preoccupied eye on the doings of

her son, Johan pulled a cigarette from within his coat sleeve and a

match from his pocket. Then he scratched the match on the seat of his

pants and lit the cigarette with the air of a man who knows what is

bliss. Keith watched him with feelings too confused for expression.

"What would your mamma say if she saw you," he asked at last,

instinctively dropping his voice to a whisper.

"She'd tell popsey," Johan rejoined promptly, "and I'd get another

licking. But it's worth it."

There was a long pause during which Keith watched his old playmate's

unmistakable enjoyment with a mixture of consternation and admiration,

of envy and resentment.

"I have got another," said Johan after a while. "Try it."

Keith shook his head. He was on the verge of saying that "mamma won't

let me," but checked himself in time as he recalled the results of an

earlier use of that too truthful explanation.

"Murray wouldn't smoke," he ventured after another pause.

"Him up there, you mean," inquired Johan with a gesture of his thumb

toward the house across the lane, Of course, he wouldn't. He's a miss."

"He is not," Keith cried passionately.

"And he's a stiff, too," Johan went on without any particular display of

feeling. "And you're a fool, that's all."

There was a coolness between them.

"I think mamma is waiting for me," remarked Keith as he started to walk

off.

"Of course she is waiting for her baby," Johan retorted with a leer.

Keith stopped and thought. Murray would fight for a thing like that, he

said to himself. Or would he? Without having reached a decision Keith

made for his own house, trying to look as if Johan didn't exist.

"He has no real use for you, and you'll find it out," was Johan's

parting shot.

Keith was suddenly struck with the coarseness of Johan's manners and

speech. He was making comparisons in his mind, and as a result the image

of Murray seemed more resplendent than ever.

XVIII

"Did you ever try to smoke," he asked Murray next morning.

"No," was the disdainful reply. "I know papa wouldn't like it, and it's

nasty anyhow."

"How do you know," wondered Keith.

"Because I know," rejoined Murray. It was a way he had, and it always

settled the matter. A cold, tired look would appear on his face if Keith

tried to press a subject after such an answer, and before that look

Keith quailed.

His state was hopeless. He accepted as law whatever his friend said or

did. And although their friendship, such as it was, lasted only two

years, Keith did not take up smoking until he was in camp as a

conscript at the age of twenty.

In school it was the same. And the fact that Murray attended to his

studies with scrupulous exactness was probably one of the factors that

helped Keith through the grade without any loss of standing as

a scholar.

Like Loth, Murray had mildly artistic leanings, and because he liked to

draw and to sing, Keith, too, had to join in those studies, although

both were elective, and although the singing classes twice a week

consumed one of the two precious lunch hours that otherwise could be

used so profitably for play or study. Keith had neither aptitude nor

interest for draftsmanship, being curiously set toward the written word.

He would have liked to sing well, as he had noticed that boys having a

good voice were always popular and received a lot of flattering

attention. But his ear was so poor that for a while it looked as if he

would not even be admitted to the singing practices. His persistence

prevailed in the end, and when he and Murray stood side by side, using

the same song-book while practicing some brave old student song, he felt

as much happiness as ever fell to his share in those days.

They had common hours in gymnastics, too, but they were compulsory three

times a week, and Murray took them as a duty rather than a pleasure.

Keith them on the whole, and unlike most of the other boys, he preferred

the slow routine of the setting-up exercises to the more athletic

features. While he never consciously realized the cause of that

preference at the time, it would not have been difficult for a fairly

intelligent observer to discover it.

Keith was still one of the smallest boys in the school utterly lacking

any physical superiority, although he was in excellent health and never

had experienced a single one of the ailments that commonly dodge the

steps of childhood. He could not shine in jumping or leaping or

climbing, but in the drill his painstaking attention placed him on a par

with everybody else. It was his one chance of feeling himself the

physical equal of his schoolmates, and it was the only field of common

endeavour outside the lessons where he was not made to feel his own

inferiority.

XIX

The insufficiency of one room as a living place for three persons had

long been evident. Keith was in his twelfth year, and he still slept on

the chaiselongue opposite his father's and mother's bed. He had ceased

to pretend that the corner between the window and his mother's bureau

could possibly be considered a satisfactory "play-room." Then a tenant

who had lived with them quite a while left, and the parlour became

unexpectedly vacant. Keith revelled in the free use of it, and his

mother talked seriously of not renting it again, but the father insisted

that they could not afford to keep it for themselves.

Then Keith's mother had a bright idea. She inserted an advertisement

offering a home and "as good as parental care" to a boy from the

country for the school season. An answer was received, negotiations

progressed favourably, and soon Albert Mendelius, the son of a minister,

was installed in the parlour with understanding that his use of it was

exclusive only at night. In the daytime it was common ground for both

boys, and Keith did his studying in there, but he continued to sleep on

the chaiselongue.

The boys got on very well together, and yet no real friendship sprang up

between them. Albert, who attended a different school, had his own

associates, and Keith could not take much of his mind off Murray. It

made a great improvement in Keith's living conditions, however, and he

hoped it would last.

When Albert went home to celebrate Christmas, Keith was asked to pay him

a visit after the holidays. This invitation became still more attractive

when Keith received a fine pair of skates for a Christmas present. He

had never seen the country in winter, and the impression it made on him

was a little startling. The sight of the dark pines against the white

carpet of the snow filled him with a mystic longing so strong that it

almost frightened him. When he and Albert put on their skates and

stretched out at full speed across the lake that spread its floor of

dark glass within a stone's throw of the vicarage, he had a sense of

never having lived before. The spaciousness of the house and the

pleasant evenings spent cracking nuts and eating apples in front of the

blazing fire-place were also revelations that filled his mind with many

new thoughts. Why was his own home not like this?

The boys went back to Stockholm together, but before they started, Keith

learned that Albert was going elsewhere to live. An aunt of his had

offered to take him in for the rest of the season.

"And, of course," said Albert's mother apologetically, "when you can be

with your own kin, it is better you know."

Keith wondered a little. On his return home, his mother said indignantly

that she supposed their humble home had not been found good enough. A

few weeks later the parlour was rented in the old way to a

gentle-looking young man with very pink cheeks who coughed a good deal.

And Keith once more found himself restricted to the living-room for all

the time spent at home.

XX

Keith had been home for lunch and was on the way back to the school. He

was alone. Murray was in bed with some slight ailment.

It was in January, a cold but brilliant day. The streets were covered

with deep snow. Everything that usually moved on wheels was now on

runners. As runners make no noise and the sound of the hoofs was

deadened by the snow, every horse carried a bell, and some of them had a

whole little chime. The bright sunlight on the white snow and the

tinkling of all those bells made a stimulating combination, and people

hurried along with smiling faces, although they had to rub their noses

and cheeks frequently to keep them from freezing.

Keith was never sensitive about his face, but his hands were buried

deeply in his coat pockets. His schoolbooks were tied up in a leather

thong and slung over his shoulder like a knapsack.

At the Sluice he stopped and looked long at the people skating merrily

on the rinks down on the ice of the lake between the Corn Harbour and

the railway bridge. A number of boys near his own age were among the

rest having a good time. Many of the boys brought their skates to school

and never went home for lunch, but just ate a couple of sandwiches in

order to spend as much as possible of the noonday pause on the ice.

Keith had asked permission to do the same, but the refusal had been

peremptory. The fact was that he was granted little or no chance to use

his new skates. Once in a while he got leave, after begging long and

hard, to run over to the rinks at the New Bridge Harbour, in the North

End, for a brief while in the late afternoon. Most of the time even that

scant leave was denied him. To his mother's general disinclination to

let him out of sight was added her dread that he might fall into the

water and get drowned. He promised by everything sacred that he would

not leave the rink, which she ought to know was perfectly safe, but her

morbid fears would not listen to reason. More and more he was beginning

to give up asking even. The disappointment of a refusal was too bitter

to be borne often.

As he stood leaning against the bridge railings, his eyes strayed

farther and farther along the surface of the lake, which lay frozen as

far out as he could see. There were rinks on the other side of the

railway bridge, too, and here and there he noticed isolated black

figures gliding along the unswept spaces outside the rinks. Suddenly he

caught sight of a large gathering of people very far out. They were

moving slowly toward the shore, and evidently they were held together by

some common purpose. He wondered what they could be doing out there, far

beyond the last rink, but the distance was too great to give him any

basis for speculation.

After a while he had to leave in order not to be late. He had almost

reached the school when he was overtaken by a boy from the English

section of his own grade, about whom he knew nothing but that his name

was Bergman.

"Have you heard," cried Bergman when he was still several steps behind,

although he and Keith had never exchanged a word before. Keith turned

in surprise.

"Three boys were drowned skating during the lunch hours," continued

Bergman breathlessly. "Two were in my class--Hill and Samson, you know.

The third, Dahlin, was in your own class."

"Is Dahlin dead?" asked Keith blankly. The thing seemed impossible to

him. He had been talking to Dahlin that very morning--a tall boy, slow,

self-possessed, older than most of the other pupils, and advanced for

his age in everything but studies.

"He is," said Bergman with emphasis. "And so are the other two. They are

dragging for the bodies now."

So that was what I saw those people doing out there, Keith thought.

"Little Moses was with them," Bergman ran on. "The Jew, you know. We've

always thought him a coward. And he nearly went down, too, trying to

save them."

By that time they were separating at the door to Bergman's classroom. On

entering his own class, Keith found it in a state of unexampled though

subdued excitement. The boys were gathered in groups which constantly

shifted membership. Every one spoke in a whisper. Reports and rumours of

the most fantastic kind passed from group to group, giving rise to

fierce discussions. Six boys had been drowned instead of three, some one

asserted. In another minute they heard that no one had been lost. Most

credence was given to a circumstantial report of the miraculous recovery

of Dahlin after he had been fully fifteen minutes under water. His big

sealskin cap, they said, had become stuck over his face as he went

under, so that the water could not choke him.

Keith was among the most excited for a while, running eagerly from group

to group and telling what he had heard from Bergman, who evidently had

the very latest news. Soon, however, his mood changed, and he retired

quickly to his own seat. There he sat by himself, his elbows on his

knees and his face resting in his hands. A stupor had descended on his

mind. The whole thing seemed so incredible. He could not grasp it. Those

boys, who had been right among them only a few hours ago, would never

appear again. There would be a funeral, and then they would never be

heard of again. Tears broke into his eyes. He choked with a vague sense

of pity. Samson, he knew, was the only son of a poor widow. Hill's

mother was very sick, some one had said. And Dahlin....

Keith instinctively raised his head to look at the place which Dahlin

had occupied that very morning. What did it mean ...?

At that moment the Rector entered, long overdue to give them an hour in

Latin--an hour of which a goodly part already was gone. The boys dropped

into their seats. A murmur of expectation passed through the class.

Every eye was on the Rector's face which seemed to twitch in a

peculiar fashion.

"The school has suffered a terrible loss," he said at last, his voice

sounding very hoarse. "There is only one thing we can do--work! Will

_primus_ please begin translating from the top of the twenty-second

page, where we left off yesterday."

The boys stared at him, but no one dared to speak. They knew there was

no escape, and they tried to fix their attention on the books. Keith saw

before him a blurred page full of dancing letters. _Primus_ stumbled and

blundered. He was followed by _secundus_ and _tertius_. Keith had

recovered a little by that time, and he knew they were making mistakes

that ordinarily would have called forth a storm of reproof from the

Rector. Now he paid no attention, but merely repeated:

"Go on--go on!"

At last the lesson came to an end, and then they were dismissed for the

day.

On his way home Keith's thoughts ran in a futile circle around the day's

event. If they had never left the rink ... if they had been saved ... if

the story about Dahlin could have been true....

Always his thoughts returned to the same point: the strangeness of the

fact that those boys would never appear again. At no moment, however,

did it occur to him that the same thing might have happened to

himself--or might happen some time in the future. He was Keith

Wellander, to whom such things never happened.

He was nearly home when he suddenly stopped in the middle of East Long

Street and said to himself:

"Now I suppose I'll _never_ get leave to go skating again."

XXI

Among other new duties that accompanied Keith's entrance into the fourth

grade was church-going. Until then he had known little about public

worship beyond what he observed during two or three attendances of Yule

Matins, that was almost like going to a party. The rule of the school

was that all pupils in the higher grades who not going to church with

their parents elsewhere must attend services with their respective

classes every other Sunday at the Church of St. Mary Magdalene.

Judging by the number of boys who turned up, the percentage of

church-goers among the parents must have been very small. Keith's father

went to communion once a year. That was all. The mother went a little

oftener, but as a rule something else turned up about the time she ought

to start, and so she stayed home and read a chapter in some Lutheran

postil instead. Keith thought little of that kind of books. He had tried

them and found them dull beyond endurance.

"Do you really like reading that stuff," he said to his mother one

Sunday.

"Keith!" she protested sternly. Then she continued more mildly: "It is

not a question of like or dislike, my boy, but of saving your soul by

humbling it before the Lord."

"Can you do that by reading," asked Keith innocently.

"N-no ... not exactly," his mother hesitated. But you can.... Oh, I know

I ought to be in church instead of sitting here, but I am such a weak

vessel, and I am sure that the Lord will understand and forgive me."

"Well, then you don't need to worry, mamma," said Keith consolingly,

stirred as always by the appearance of an emotional note in her voice.

"We should always worry," she rejoined very gently, "because we are all

sinners and we have a chance only by His mercy. But I don't believe in a

hell, whatever they say, and I don't want you, Keith, to pay any

attention to anything of that kind they may teach you."

"But why do they teach it then," asked Keith, his logic alert.

"Because ... it's a long story, and you will understand it some day. Now

I want to finish my chapter, or I won't be able to do so before dinner

is ready."

Keith would have liked to ask more, but what concerned him was the

apparent contradiction in his mother's words rather than the subject of

religion itself. His main impression of religion so far was that it was

something very tedious to which grown-up people submitted for some

mysterious reason never really revealed to children. And this impression

was abundantly confirmed by his subsequent experiences in the prudishly

ugly precincts of St. Mary Magdalene.

Seats were reserved in one of the side galleries for the pupils from Old

Mary. Two teachers sat in one of the front pews, so that they could look

down into the church. Aspiring youngsters who wanted to make sure of

good marks were apt to look upon the same pews with special favour. The

rest of the boys wanted to sit as far back as possible, where they could

whisper, and show each other pictures, and eat candy without too much

danger of being discovered. These pursuits brought no relief to Keith,

partly because he possessed neither pictures nor candy, being always

very shy of pocket money, and partly because either fear or some sort of

pride made him draw back from engaging in any sort of mischief behind

the teacher's back.

The hymn singing was not without a certain enjoyment. The slowness of

the tempo made it possible for Keith to keep in tune by leaning very

close to the boy sitting next to him. Even the reading of the gospels

and other recurring features of the service could be borne. But when the

sermon began, Keith fell into sheer agony. The other boys seemed capable

of letting the words of the preacher drop off them as water drops off

the oily feathers of a water-fowl. But one of Keith's characteristics

was that he had to listen to anything said loudly enough in his

presence. For him there was no escape. Through an endless hour, that

sometimes would verge on the five quarters, he had to sit there and take

in every word of a long-winded, moralistic discourse dealing in

forbidding terms with things that left his brain as untouched as if they

had been uttered in a strange tongue. He had a sense of warnings and

threats that seemed to connect with what his mother had asked him not to

heed. He was told to believe, but he could not make out what it was he

should believe--unless it was the Small Catechism, and that had always

left his mind a perfect blank although he knew it by heart from the

first page to the last.

When at last the ordeal was over, he rushed away with a sense of relief

that was marred by the thought of the same thing happening two weeks

later. It was the only feature of his schooling that left behind an

actual sense of grievance which the passing years could not mollify.

XXII

A little before commencement the whole school was stirred by important

news. A reorganization of the entire school system was in progress, and

one result of it was the merger of the old _gymnasium_ or high school on

Knight's Island with Old Mary and the expansion of the latter to nine

grades under the new name of St. Mary's Higher Latin School. A building

across the street had already been acquired for the four new grades, and

a new rector of higher rank was to take charge in the fall.

"It means that we'll stay right here until we go to the university," one

of Keith's classmates explained in a tone implying that it must make

quite a difference to their lives. Then he asked suddenly: "You'll go on

to the university, Wellander, won't you--you with your brilliant mind?"

Keith looked at him in dumb astonishment. In spite of his two prizes, it

was so strange to be called brilliant. And then the question of going to

the university had been raised. Until then he had really never given a

thought to it. And the question of cost leaped into his mind. He was

beginning to learn at last that money was needed for a number of things

you liked to do. Would it cost much, and could his father afford to pay

that much, and, most important of all, would his father consent to pay

it? Those were novel questions--and as he did so often when faced by

something unpleasant or disturbing, so, now again, he pushed them aside,

fled from them, refused to have anything to do with them. There were

still five grades between him and that threateningly attractive

possibility, the student's white cap.

"I don't know," he said at last, being a truthful fool in most matters,

"I have not asked papa yet."

And there was a smile on the other boy's face which Keith disliked

without guessing the significance of it.

Commencement brought him a prize again--a German dictionary just like

the one Krass got when Keith carried off the highest prize in school

after thinking himself ignominiously passed by. Of course, a prize was a

prize, but--and he thought his father looked rather disappointed when he

heard of it.

However, George Murray also received a book, and It was no better than

Keith's, although Murray professed to see a great difference between a

German Dictionary and a Latin Classic.

XXIII

Murray was going off with his family to their private summer residence

in the archipelago outside of Stockholm and Keith gathered that it must

be a very magnificent place. The Wellanders didn't go to the country at

all. Keith's mother had a very bad period again, full of worry and

depression. The summer dragged along joylessly, and Keith had to fall

back on Johan's company in so far as he could obtain it. But Johan was

getting very independent. He had plenty of other acquaintances, and what

Keith saw of them made him deem it wiser not to mention them at all to

his mother. He was gradually learning discretion of a kind.

He read a good deal, and he was beginning to make unauthorized visits to

his father's bookcase in the parlour. There he had discovered certain

volumes by one Jules Verne, and if he could only have plunged freely

into these, the summer might have proved quite bearable. One day when he

could not get at the books, and his mood was more than usually fretful,

and his mother seemed at her lowest, she suddenly turned on him and said

in a strangely bitter tone:

"All I have to go through now is your fault, Keith."

"Why," he asked dumbly, staring at her.

"Because when you came into the world you hurt me so much that I have

never been well since."

"How," he demanded, and as he spoke an idea flashed through his mind

that his mother might not be knowing what she said. Just how such a

thing could happen was still a mystery to him, but what she said sounded

so absurdly impossible.

At that moment her mood suddenly changed.

"There is one thing I have never told you. But for my being made so sick

when you were born, you would have had a little brother, and you would

not have been so lonesome, and perhaps everything would have been

better. But he was born dead. And now I have no one but you, and I shall

have no one else, and you are everything to me, and you must love me

very much and never leave me."

Her arms were about him, and she was crying. And soon both felt better.

But Keith had heard things he could not forget. And there was food in

them for a summer's thought.