There was a pile of things in the lower part of the cupboard, so that Nikolai could understand that they must have been very, very good, and that his mother, too—­and at this he felt a bitter disappointment—­must, in return, be very, very fond of them.  They must be very different children to what he was, if they never deserved a whipping, but always playthings.  He became quite tired and downcast, as he stood there.  If he ever met Ludvig anywhere, he would pay him out about the horse.

At last the hour of departure arrived, when he was to go with the pony-carriage that fetched the Consul from town at three o’clock.  The two children both clung to his mother’s skirt when she followed him out.

“Good-bye, Nikolai!” and she patted him in such a way on the cheek and head that he looked at her half doubtingly, “and give my respects to Holman and Mrs. Holman.  Do you hear?  Whatever you do, don’t forget Mrs. Holman.  And—­I declare you’re kicking the varnish now!  You must sit quite still, Nikolai, the whole way.  Don’t you know that you mustn’t come near those fine carriage-cushions with your boots?  You should just see how nicely Ludvig and Lizzie sit, when they go for a drive—­don’t you, dears?”

And off he set.

It had indeed been a gala day, and he had been given a large, sugared twist to take with him, and it tasted delicious; but somehow or other he began to cry all at once on the way home.

The next day he had full confirmation of how delightful it had been.

While he was going up and down the pavement in his daily occupation of taking care of Silla, he caught fragments of Mrs. Holman’s remarks to the housekeeper up stairs, as they stood under the archway; he never for a moment lost sight of her tall figure.

“You may well say so, Miss Damm.  Take him into the room with their own children; there aren’t many grand folks that would have done such an honour to one like him.” ...  “We must do so many things in this world, Miss Damm—­we must scour the boards over the gutter, so to speak, and put up with them—­and I don’t mind saying that he showed that he was well cared-for from top to toe.” ...  “Such an honour!  It might have been some respectable child they had asked there.  He ought to remember it the whole of his life!” ...  “So grand as she is now, she doesn’t much care about coming out here and acknowledging the boy.  It’s nothing for those that can pay to get rid of their shame!”

Nikolai crushed with all his might an old decapitated cock’s head, which lay in the gutter, with the heel of his boot, until it was as flat as a penny.

When the terror of bogies and the devil in the coal-cellar had lost its power, one of Mrs. Holman’s most powerful means of keeping Nikolai in order was a threat of sending him to the parish school—­an institution which stood before her imagination as a publicly authorised house of correction for youth, and a daily training-ground in the fulfilment of one’s duty.