While the subject was under discussion, the Prost came driving over from the village, to make known that he had secured a teacher for the neighborhood, who would collect the children together for instruction, as ought to have been the case long before. The family rejoicings were great; but the question now arose, how was the boy to get to the school? A Dalecarnian mother would easily have led him thither, with her baby strapped upon her back; but Viola was not strong enough for such an undertaking. But as the grandfather's rheumatism had only disabled his hands, he volunteered as escort, and as the old man and the child went to and fro together, many were the godly instructions that fell into the receptive, youthful soul. Not to be entirely outdone by her husband, the grandmother every morning plucked a clover-leaf for the boy, to insure good luck. She was yet in the prime of life; tall and strong and ruddy; she could work on their bit of land like a ploughman, and understood all the Olaf, meanwhile, had, during the winter evenings, manufactured a sufficient quantity of articles to justify another pedestrian trip to Italy, but when he spoke of it, Viola clung to him, with tears, entreating him not to go. But he yearned for change; the novelty of domestic life was over; the spirit that had brought Viola's master and his friends to the North, urged him to the South. "Don't cry, little one," he said, "I sha'n't be gone long, and shall bring back what will make us comfortable for a long time. Pray for me, night and morning; take the communion faithfully; watch over the boy's soul in my place, and see that his grandmother reads the Bible to him every day." Eric watched the parting between them with his usual keen observation. Why did the mother cry, and the father smile, he wondered; and why should his soul be watched over more than Carina's? And where was his soul, after all? "Carina mia," he said solemnly, as he started for school next morning, "you should put your arms around my neck and weep when we part, like the "Was there ever such a boy?" cried Viola. Eric gave her one of his guileless smiles, and said: "No, never," exactly as if he were talking of some third party; and then, with the usual good-bye kiss, proceeded on his way. Everybody they met on the way to and from school was hard at work, save very aged men and women, who, however, were not idle, but might often be seen seated amid groups of fishermen, or peasants at work in the fields, reading the Bible aloud. Eric marked, and inwardly digested, this, and though he had not yet learned to read well, could pretend to do so to perfection. In his father's absence his grandparents read a chapter to him every day; he would then take the book and, by a wonderful act of memory, with his eyes fixed upon the page, repeat word for word to the bewildered Carina. As Olaf pursued his solitary way, his thoughts dwelt fondly on his little home, and proudly on his boy. But when he reflected that his education would, at best, be limited, and that he would grow up to a heritage of economy and care, he sighed, and wondered why nature made such mistakes—lavishing gifts upon the poor, to whom they were of no use, and often withholding them from the rich, to whom they would have been so welcome. He made his way once more into Italy, and disposed of his wares quite readily—more so than ever before, because he now spoke Italian readily. His weary shoulders were gladly relieved of the heavy pack they had borne, and he now bethought himself that he might indulge Viola with some memento of her native land. But what should it be? It was an event in his life to make a present, and he felt almost ashamed of himself for being so sentimental. While he stood stupidly scratching his head, a merry, musical voice fell on his ear, that was so like Viola's that he started and turned, almost expecting to see her before him. It was a young girl, daughter of the man to whom he had sold his wares, and she was asking if he did not mean to carry home some gift to his wife, unconsciously hoping that he hadn't one. Olaf felt that he could confide in one of Viola's country-women, and in a few words told her the dilemma he was in. A quick flash of intelligence lighted the girl's face, and she began searching among the heterogeneous articles scattered about, and finally held up, in triumph, a small picture, in which Italy's beautiful blue was the color that chiefly caught the eye. Olaf knew little about art, but had some general idea that even this small study was beyond his means. But the musical tongue ran merrily on; "Yours," she said, "is bleak and cold. I would not live there; it would kill my heart!" At the same time she would have tried the experiment under the guidance of such a genial-looking man as Olaf, provided he had no wife. "And now," she said, "something for the boy, with his blue eyes and rosy cheeks." "Black eyes and olive cheeks, like thine!" cried Olaf. The girl blushed and smiled. "Would this please him, think you?" she asked, producing a miniature palette, on which were fastened cakes, in water colors—a cheap affair, such as, however, has gladdened many a child's heart. "And, stay, here are brushes, likewise—a gift to the Swedish boy with my eyes and hair." Olaf received the little gracefully-offered gift, and took leave, the young girl following his sturdy figure with her eyes as long as it was in sight. "The saints grant that the father does not miss the picture, and beat me for as good as giving it away," she cried; "and if he does, Antonio shall paint him another. Ah, Antonio, if your eyes were but blue, and your cheeks ruddy! If you were tall, and straight, and strong, and not as black as a Olaf proceeded rapidly home, and greeted his wife in a way that procured for Carina, on the part of Eric, embraces, kisses, and asseverations not a few. But when the picture was produced, and Viola saw this bit of her native land, a strange complication of emotions she could not understand made her burst into tears. A sense of the beautiful had long lain dormant in her soul amid the stern scenes about her. Now came reminiscences of sunshine, birds and flowers, and delicious fruit; of works of art seen in the house of her master at Rome, and dimly appreciated. "Thou wicked picture, to make the dear mother cry!" said Eric, rushing at it with a stick of wood. "I'll kill thee!" But as his eye fell upon it, his hand dropped at his side, and a new soul illumined his face. They laughed at him, they shook him, they tried in every way to divert his rapt attention, but all in vain; he stood like a devotee before a shrine, and lost to all beside. "Let him alone," said Olaf, at last. "He has gone clean daft over a picture no bigger than my hand!" Indeed, he and Viola had enough to talk about, for they had had no correspondence during their absence, as Viola could not write. "I have had a strange proposition made to me," said Olaf. "Before selling my wares, who should I stumble upon but your Signor and Signora. The Signor recognized me at once, and made friendly inquiries about you. The Signora was, at first, very haughty and distant; but after a while became more gracious, and spoke of you in a way that made me proud of you. She says she is out of health, and sad, and lonely; and that if we would all come to their villa, near Rome—you to be to her what you once were, and I his valet—they would make it a great object to us." "And I suppose our children count for nothing," said Viola, indignantly. "Yes; they seemed to think the children could stay with their grandparents. But isn't it a pity now that we could not go just for a time, and earn money to educate the boy?" "Olaf, I am ashamed of you," said Viola. "Leave our children, and go and live in that idolatrous land!" "But you hate so to spin." "I adore spinning." "And the bark-bread is so nauseous to you." "It is delicious." "And you have no grapes, no peaches, no melons." "Grapes, and peaches, and melons! Ugh! Disgusting things!" Olaf listened, bewildered, but convinced. "I thought," he faltered, "that you had often said you used to revel in luxuries; but it seems I was mistaken." "Indeed you were, you bad child. Talk not to me of Counts and villas. Did I not enter Paradise when I left them?" "Then the picture does not please you? My mind misgave me when I bought it. But the maiden who selected it was like you, Carissima, and had me round her finger." "The picture is bewitched; it has driven the boy mad. Eric, come to me!" The boy woke from his dream of ecstacy and bounded towards her. "See what the father has brought thee! Put in the thumb—so; no, no, the left thumb; hold the brush thus; ah, I have seen men paint in my country. Bring me a cup of water, and a bit of paper; there, my little man, now thou art an Italian, not a Swedish boy, and shalt paint Carina." The boy looked at her, and then at the colors, delighted, confused, trembling, as she made some inartistic dabs upon the paper; then suddenly seized the materials and began to work himself, making a rude imitation of the picture that had so entranced him. Amid their homely, hard-working life, his parents ceased to heed him. He was out of mischief, and they had much to think of and much to do. Days, At last the Prost drove up in great state, and was in the midst of a solemn harangue, when his eye suddenly fell upon a row of pictures pinned to the wall. "What is all this?" he cried, imperiously. "The boy only does it in his play-hours," said Viola, apologetically. "The boy!" repeated the Prost. "Unhappy mother!" Viola trembled, and caught at the nearest chair. "What is the matter?" she gasped. "The boy is a genius!" he hissed in her ear. "Is it my fault?" she asked, piteously. "Did I create him? And what is a genius? Is it anything to come between him and salvation?" "Yes, woman, it is. Take these colors away from the child; give him no more play-hours, and set him at honest work. What has the son of a peasant to do with genius, I should like to know?" "We will do all we can to cure him of it," said Olaf, in deep humility. The Prost departed, leaving the frightened household fluttering behind him, like poultry besieged by a fox. When Eric came home from school the terrific an "Eric," said his mother, "we have not done this in anger. But the Prost willed it, and who dares resist the Prost?" "Mother, what have I done to anger the Prost?" "He says you are a genius." "Is that something very bad?" "Oh, yes! Very, very bad!" "But you said the dear Lord would not let me be bad, if I prayed to Him. And I have prayed six times, and four times." "Well, you must pray fifty times." "Yes, I will." He went and knelt down, and folded his hands, looking upward and said: "Thou, dear Lord, I did not be a genius on purpose. It came its own self. Help me not to be one any more." But his pale, sorrowful little face smote his mother to the heart. Her spirit rose in rebellion against the Prost. Why should he come with this terrible and mysterious accusation against her godly boy? She lay awake long that night, thinking what was to be "If you will take care of the little ones for me, while I go to the village, I will spin for you as long as you require." "And what errand have you at the village, child?" "The Prostinna is always kind; she will make me understand what is evil in the boy; as for me, I see no evil in him, and my heart is breaking." "Yes, go, thou good child. And the dear Lord go with thee!" The Prostinna received Viola with great sympathy, when she learned that she had come in sorrow; but when she heard her artless tale, could with difficulty repress peals of laughter. "You do not understand the Prost, my poor child," she said, as she could trust herself to speak. "The boy is a gifted boy; he will become a great man; there is nothing to be alarmed about." "But the Prost called me an unhappy mother," objected Viola. "Yes, for when your son has won a name and riches, and is abroad in the world, he will despise, nay, he will forget you; you will see him no more." "It is not true!" cried Viola, proudly. "No, thank God, it is not thus my boy will demean himself. And how should having great gifts come between him and salvation? Are not all gifts from the Lord?" "They are; and it is their abuse, only, that makes them perilous. Now let me advise you how to manage the boy. Give him the best education you can; keep him pure, and simple, and pious; and leave the rest to God. He can take care of his future, and, if you trust Him, He will." Viola thanked the kind lady, and went home relieved, though after such a humiliation as that of the previous day, not proud. "Eric, my boy," she said to him, "if you trust in God, and pray to Him every day, as long as you live, it will not be an evil thing to be a genius. The Pastorinna says that to be one means nothing evil, but only that you have wings hidden away in your shoulders that will grow and grow and grow till you are a man, and then they will unfold and be two great, white, strong pinions, that will carry you all over the world, if you like; and that sounds to me like being an archangel, such as we read about in the Bible." The boy slipped his hand under his blouse, and felt his shoulder. "I think I feel a very, very little wing growing," he said. "But I sha'n't want to fly all over the world; I shall fly up to heaven to see the dear Lord." Viola's heart gave a great bound of pain. "You would fly away from us who love you so?" she cried. "Only to see the dear Lord," said Eric, solemnly. Then an inward voice spake to Viola, and said: "Better that than off into the wide, wicked world; better that than name and fame and riches, and a despised, forgotten mother! Even so, Father, if so it seem good in Thy sight." Laura stopped reading, folded her manuscript, and looked shyly about her. "Oh, Laura! you don't mean that you killed that beautiful boy?" cried Belle. "How could I help it?" asked Laura, the tears running down her cheeks. "He would die! I tried all I could to have him live, and so did his father and mother, and all of them. But the wings grew and grew, and he mounted upward, and passed through the golden gate; but he left it ajar for Viola." "Mamma, you'll have to look out," said Frank. "Laura is catching up with you rather too fast." "I like to keep step with those I walk with," she replied, with a smile. "She may catch up, and welcome." "I never did you any kind of justice, Laura," said Belle. "That was not your fault. How can one do justice to a butterfly, as long as it's an ugly chrysalis?" "But, Laura, how could you have the heart to take both Eric and Viola away from Olaf?" asked Margaret. "Poor Olaf, indeed?" cried Laura, "just as if men never survived the loss of their wives. I have no doubt that by the time the first year was out he trotted down into Italy and married that pretty little Italian girl who reminded him so of Viola, and who took such a fancy to him." "But she was a Romanist," objected Belle. "So was Viola; yet he converted her. On the whole, I think I sacrificed her in a proselyting spirit." "Well, what put Eric into your head?" asked Cyril Heath. "What puts anything into anybody's head?" she responded, saucily. "And when I had got him on my hands, I didn't know what to do with him, and his death was a mercy." "I am going to have this story published," said Harry. "I'm right proud of my wife." "Suppose I put it into my book," said Mrs. Grey. "Would you, mamma?" cried Laura, eagerly. "That would be splendid. How can you bring it in?" "Very easily. It is not so far off my track that it will at all interfere with it." "Well, Miss Oney," said Belle, "so you're an authoress at last. But I don't envy you. I would "So would I," cried Margaret. "So would I, you dear old geese!" said Laura, laughing. "But I have to put up with what comes to me." |