d mother at Troen,
or of the church at home, where the vaulted roof had soared so high over
the swelling organ-notes, and all the faces had looked so beautiful. But
the evening prayer was no longer what it had been for him. There was no
grey-haired bishop any more sitting at the top of the ladder he was to
climb. The Chief Engineer that was there now had nothing to do with Our
Lord, or with life in the world to come. He would never come so far now
that he could go down into the place of torment where his mother lay,
and bring her up with him, up to salvation. And whatever power and
might he gained, he could never stand in autumn evenings and lift up his
finger and make all the stars break into song.

Something was past and gone for Peer. It was as if he were rowing away
from a coast where red clouds hung in the sky and dream-visions filled
the air--rowing farther and farther away, towards something quite new. A
power stronger than himself had willed it so.

One Sunday, as he sat reading, the door opened, and Klaus Brock entered
whistling, with his cap on the back of his head.

"Hullo, old boy! So this is where you live?"

"Yes, it is--and that's a chair over there."

But Klaus remained standing, with his hands in his pockets and his cap
on, staring about the room. "Well, I'm blest!" he said at last. "If he
hasn't stuck up a photograph of himself on his table!"

"Well, did you never see one before? Don't you know everybody has them?"

"Not their own photos, you ass! If anybody sees that, you'll never hear
the last of it."

Peer took up the photograph and flung it under the bed. "Well, it was a
rubbishy thing," he muttered. Evidently he had made a mistake. "But what
about this?"--pointing to a coloured picture he had nailed up on the
wall.

Klaus put on his most manly air and bit off a piece of tobacco plug.
"Ah! that!" he said, trying not to laugh too soon.

"Yes; it's a fine painting, isn't it? I got it for fourpence."

"Painting! Ha-ha! that's good! Why, you silly cow, can't you see it's
only an oleograph?"

"Oh, of course you know all about it. You always do."

"I'll take you along one day to the Art Gallery," said Klaus. "Then
you can see what a real painting looks like. What's that you've got
there--English reader?"

"Yes," put in Peer eagerly; "hear me say a poem." And before Klaus could
protest, he had begun to recite.

When he had finished, Klaus sat for a while in silence, chewing his
quid. "H