"And the bark-bread is so nauseous to you." "It is delicious." "And you have no grapes, no peaches, no melons." "Grapes, and peaches, and melons! Ugh! Disgusting things!" Olaf listened, bewildered, but convinced. "I thought," he faltered, "that you had often said you used to revel in luxuries; but it seems I was mistaken." "Indeed you were, you bad child. Talk not to me of Counts and villas. Did I not enter Paradise when I left them?" "Then the picture does not please you? My mind misgave me when I bought it. But the maiden who selected it was like you, Carissima, and had me round her finger." "The picture is bewitched; it has driven the boy mad. Eric, come to me!" The boy woke from his dream of ecstacy and bounded towards her. "See what the father has brought thee! Put in the thumb--so; no, no, the left thumb; hold the brush thus; ah, I have seen men paint in my country. Bring me a cup of water, and a bit of paper; there, my little man, now thou art an Italian, not a Swedish boy, and shalt paint Carina." The boy looked at her, and then at the colors, delighted, confused, trembling, as she made some inartistic dabs upon the paper; then suddenly seized the materials and began to work himself, making a rude imitation of the picture that had so entranced him. Amid their homely, hard-working life, his parents ceased to heed him. He was out of mischief, and they had much to think of and much to do. Days, weeks passed, and Eric painted on; always at the one subject, never weary, never impatient, but discarding one copy, only to begin on another. At last the Prost drove up in great state, and was in the midst of a solemn harangue, when his eye suddenly fell upon a row of pictures pinned to the wall. "What is all this?" he cried, imperiously. "The boy only does it in his play-hours," said Viola, apologetically. "The boy!" repeated the Prost. "Unhappy mother!" Viola trembled, and caught at the nearest chair. "What is the matter?" she gasped. "_The boy is a genius!_" he hissed in her ear. "Is it my fault?" she asked, piteously. "Did I create him? And what _is_ a genius? Is it anything to come between him and salvation?" "Yes, woman, it is. Take these colors away from the child; give him no more play-hours, and set him at honest work. What has the son of a peasant to do with genius, I should like to know?" "We will do all we can to cure him of it," said Olaf, in deep humility. The Prost departed, leaving the frightened household fluttering behind him, like poultry besieged by a fox. When Eric came home from school the terrific announcement was made to him that his beloved colors were his no longer; that the mother had thrown them into the fire, and the grandmother raked hot coals over them. The boy uttered not a word, and did not shed a tear. He was like one stunned. But there was something awful in his childish silence.