ved so
richly. For his mother had given him to understand repeatedly that
the little "straightening out" of the evening before was merely for
practice, and that the reward of his sin would be delayed till she
could speak with the preacher about it.

In the meanwhile Walter didn't know what to do. He couldn't return
to school: Pennewip had closed for him that fountain of knowledge.

Nor was he allowed to go out for a walk. "Who knows what he will do
if I let him out of my sight?" said his mother, who was presumably
afraid that he might make a fresh attack on the cloisters. As a matter
of fact, she denied him this privilege merely because Walter asked it.

She expressed the opinion that it was best not to let bad children
have their own way.

If Walter had been right wise, he would have pretended to be thoroughly
in love with that dark back room; then, for his moral improvement,
he would have been chased down the steps, and away to his sawmills.

But Walter was not smart.

He was forbidden to go into the front room because the young ladies
did not care to see him.

That back room was more than dark: It was narrow, and dirty,
and reeked with all the fumes of "III, 7, c." But Walter was used
to all this and much more. He had always been a martyr--bandages,
poultices, bandy legs, biblical history, rickets, poems on goodness,
evening prayers, the judgment day, hobgoblins for wicked children,
closed eyes before and after the slice of bread, sleeping with crooked
knees, committing sins, fear for the torn breeches, "divine service"
with and without sensible accompaniment!

That droll robber song, whose origin we know so well, shows how easily
his childish soul was moved by whatever seemed great to him. He was a
pure child, and he was a good boy. He wouldn't have hurt a fly. The
criminal character of his song was due to his desire to grasp what
is greater than everything else and to be the leader in that world
created by his childish fancy.

Robber--good! But a first-class robber, a robber of robbers, a robber
without mercy--for pleasure!

As to the gross mistreatment of women mentioned in his song, he had
no idea what it meant. He used the word for the sake of rhyme, and
because from certain sentences in his book he had got the impression
that it must afford great pleasure.

If, perchance, for those fourteen stivers Grandisson--weary
remembrance--had fallen into his hands, his Wednesday's poem would have
been quit