“Look here, young man, they say it's time you went to school, and I don't think they're far wrong. There are things wiser heads than yours can understand, and you'd better take their word for it. In the future, if you want to go running off somewhere, you'd better content yourself with my studio and make a mess there.” “Oh, may I?” cried Jeremy delighted. That studio had been always a forbidden place to them, and had, therefore, its air of enchanting mystery. “Won't you really mind my coming?” he asked. “I shall probably hate it,” answered his uncle; “but there's nothing I wouldn't do for the family.” The boy walked to his father's study and knocked on the door. He did have then, at the sound of that knock, a moment of panic. The house was so silent, and he knew so well what would follow the opening of the door. And the worst of it was that he was not sorry in the least. He seemed to be indifferent and superior, as though no punishment could touch him. “Come in!” said his father. He pushed open the door and entered. The scene that followed was grave and sad, and yet, in the end, strangely unimpressive. His father talked too much. As he talked Jeremy's thoughts would fly back to the coal-black horse and to that moment when he had seemed to fly into the very heart of the stars. “Ah, Jeremy, how could you?” said his father. “Is obedience nothing to you? Do you know how God punishes disobedience? Think what a terrible thing is a disobedient man!” Then on a lower scale: “I really don't know what to do with you. You knew that you were not to go near that wicked place.” “You never said--” interrupted Jeremy. “Nonsense! You knew well enough. You will break your mother's heart.” “I'll tell her I'm sorry,” he interrupted quickly. “If you are really sorry--” said his father. “I'm not sorry I went,” said Jeremy, “but I'm sorry I hurt Mother.” The end of it was that Jeremy received six strokes on the hand with a ruler. Mr. Cole was not good at this kind of thing, and twice he missed Jeremy's hand altogether, and looked very foolish. It was not an edifying scene. Jeremy left the room, his head high, his spirit obstinate; and his father remained, puzzled, distressed, at a loss, anxious to do what was right, but unable to touch his son at all. Jeremy went up to his room. He opened his window and looked out. He could smell the burnt leaves of the bonfire. There was no flame now, but he fancied that he could see a white shadow where it had been. Then, on the wind, came the music of the Fair. “Tum--te--Tum... Tum--te--Tum... Whirr--Whirr--Whirr--Bang--Bang.” Somewhere an owl cried, and then another owl answered. He rubbed his sore hand against his trousers; then, thinking of his black horse, he smiled. He was a free man. In a week he would go to school; then he would go to College; then he would be a horsetrainer. He was in bed; faintly into the dark room, stole the scent of the bonfire and the noise of the Fair.