im
up to her--"here, beg her pardon. Kiss your good mother's hand. And
promise not to be so wild again, not to behave like a street-boy. Be
quick--well, are you soon going to do it?"

The veins on the man's forehead began to swell with anger. What a
stubborn fellow he was. There he stood, his blouse torn open at front
so that you could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest that was wet
with perspiration--he was not breathing quietly even now, he
was still panting from the rough game--and looking so wild, so
turbulent, not at all like the child of nice parents. This could not go
on any longer.

"You must not tear about like that any more, do you hear?" said his
father severely. "I forbid it. Play other games. You have your garden,
your gymnastic appliances and a hundred things others would envy you.
And now come here, beg your mother's pardon."

The boy went to his mother. She met him half way, she held out her
hand to him already. He kissed it, he mumbled also, "I won't do it
again," but the man did not hear any repentance in his voice. There was
something in the sullen way he said it that irritated him. And he lost
control of himself a little.

"That wasn't an apology. Ask your mother's pardon again--and
distinctly."

The boy repeated it.

"And now promise that you will not rush about like that again. 'Dear
mother, I promise'--well?"

Not a word, no promise.

"What's the meaning of this?" The man shook the boy, beside himself
with anger. But the boy pressed his lips together. He gave his father
an upward look out of his dark eyes.

The woman caught the look--oh, God, that was the look!--that
look--the woman's look!

She put both her arms round the boy protectingly: "Don't, don't
irritate him." She drew him nearer to her and covered his eyes with her
hands, so that he had to close them, and then she cast an imploring
glance at her husband: "Go, do go."

Paul Schlieben went, but he shook his head angrily.

"You'll see what your training will make of the boy." He raised his
hand menacingly once more: "Boy, I tell you, you'll have to obey." And
then he closed the door behind him--he could not even have his
midday rest undisturbed now.

He heard his wife's voice in the next room. It sounded so gentle and
trembled as though with a secret dread. "Woelfchen, Woelfchen, aren't you
my good boy?"

No answer. Good heavens, had the unfeeling scamp no answer to give
to that question uttered in that tone?

T