No sooner had he thought this out to the end than the shrill, mocking
voice he had heard once before that evening repeated it, word for word.
He listened, and at once understood that it was nothing--only the wind
roaring in the chimney. But the queer thing about it was, when the wind
repeated his thoughts, they seemed so strangely stupid and hard and
false!
The children meanwhile had stretched themselves, side by side, on the
floor. They were not quiet, but lay there muttering.
"Do be still, won't you?" he growled, for he was in such an irritable
mood that he could have beaten them.
But the mumbling continued, and again he called for silence.
"When mother went away," piped a clear little voice, "she made me
promise that every night I would say my evening prayer. I must do this,
and Britta Maja too. As soon as we have said 'God who cares for little
children--' we'll be quiet."
The master sat quite still while the little ones said their prayers,
then he rose and began pacing back and forth, back and forth, wringing
his hands all the while, as though he had met with some great sorrow.
"The horse driven out and wrecked, these two children turned into road
beggars--both father's doings! Perhaps father did not do right after
all?" he thought.
He sat down again and buried his head in his hands.
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