Mrs. Freg laughed, and her laugh was not a nice mother-laugh at all, for she was not Eric’s mother, and had never pretended that she was.

“Why, little spitfire, it wouldn’t matter a bit except to make one less mouth to feed.  But you won’t be so silly as that.  You don’t want to starve.”

“All right,” said little Eric, snatching his cap from its peg.  “You said it wouldn’t matter to you.  You won’t see me again, any of you.  I hate you all, and everything in the world.  I hate you.  You’ve made me hate you hard!”

Then he suddenly ran out into the street.

In a minute he was in a flood of people, men, women and children moving towards the canning factory, a big brick building on the outskirts of the city.  Eric had worked in that factory from the day he was seven.  There is no need to tell you what he did there, for this is not the story of the canning factory Eric,—­the queer, hating Eric who had waked up that morning.

But how he did hate!  His eyes were full of hating tears, and they were running down his face, making horrid white streaks on his dirty cheeks.  He was hating so hard that he did not even care if people saw his tears.  He lifted his face straight up and dropped his arms straight down at his side and walked right along, no matter how fast the tears came.

Now he had often hated before, but never quite like this.  Before, it had been a frightened hate, a gnawing, hurting thing deep down in his heart.  But to-day it was a flaring hate, a burning thing right up in his head.  It was big, too, because it included everything that he knew, Mrs. Freg, her boys, the street, the people jostling him, and hottest and wildest of all the canning factory.  How terrible to go in there in the morning, when the sun was only just up, and not to come out again until it was quite down!  Eric knew little about play, but he did know that if he could only be let stay out in the sunshine he would find things to do there.  If they’d only let him try it once!

So he walked along in the direction the others were going, the hating tears in his eyes and on his face.  But no one laughed at him, and no one asked him what was the matter, even the other children.  For he was not crying in the usual way with little boys.  He was walking along with his head up.  So people did not bother him.

He had reached the outskirts of the town, and was almost in the shadow of the big, cruel factory, when the Magic began to work.  For there was magic in this day that had started so badly.  It was only waiting for Eric to see it before it would take hold of him and carry him away into happiness.  It had waited for him at the door of the dull, bare little house that had never been home to him, but his tears would not let him see it.  So it had followed along beside him all the way to the factory, waiting for him to feel, even if he could not see.  And he did feel,—­just in time to let the Magic work.