ome discipline that might prevent him from plunging straightway
into the unexplored country of make-believe.

On seeing the book, his mother hesitated for a moment, but soon she was
delighted with the results it produced. Keith had no thought of asking
leave to see Johan that day. He was lost to the world around him. Not a
sound was heard from him. There was no nervous running about in futile
search for "something to do." The home was as quiet as if he had been
away, and yet there he was, safely ensconced in his own corner, where
his mother could watch him all the time.

Everybody was happy until the father returned home and heard of what had
happened. Having looked the book over for a moment, while the boy
watched him with a shrinking heart, he said at last:

"You must return it tomorrow, and I don't want you to borrow any more
books. You may spoil it in some way, and then you will have to pay for
it, and where are you to get the money?"

Keith tried hard not to cry, but the blow was too overwhelming. He was
driven out of his new paradise after a tantalizing glimpse at it. And he
could not understand why. So his tears must needs flow freely and his
throat contracted convulsively with half-choked sobs, and the final
result of it was that he was ordered to bed at once. That ended his last
chance of abstracting a few more thrills from the borrowed treasure.

Of course, the book was returned the next day. Keith had not yet arrived
at the point where the evasion of a parental decree seemed conceivable.
And to the sorrow of missing the promised enjoyment was added the
humiliation of confessing what had happened at home. To lie about it was
another thing that never occurred to him, and to act without explanation
was quite foreign to his nature.

A few sad days followed. Then his life resumed its customary tone, and
it was as if the lank, but to him far from ludicrous, shape of Don
Quixote had never crossed his horizon. And soon after Christmas recurred
once more.

Among the many packages falling to his share, there were two of a shape
that suggested the possibility of more tin soldiers. But when he held
them in his hand, they failed to yield to pressure as would a cardboard
box. Curiosity turned into genuine suspense. And when at last two books
lay in front of him as his own, with the implied permission that he
could read them to his heart's content whenever he chose, a pang of
something like real love for his father s