“She was a cook in the house of the man whose office Gustafsson works in,” the grandmother went on.  “He used to do odd jobs for the family, cutting wood and such things, and in that way he met her in the kitchen, and one fine day they decided to get married.  She is older than him, and I guess it was her last chance.  But the family was crazy about her, and when they heard of it, they gave him the place of attendant in the office downstairs and the two rooms back of the office to live in.  He was just a peasant boy, and she reads the Bible all day and goes to prayer-meeting at night.”

“How do you know all that,” wondered Keith’s mother, having learned by this time that the old woman’s gossip was generally well founded on truth.

“Oh,” the grandmother said with a queer smile particular to such occasions, “a little bird sang it to me.”

“I think they must be rather low people,” Keith’s mother concluded.

“Perhaps,” the grandmother said, “but they have plenty of religion at least, and I don’t think the boy can do much harm to Keith.”

Keith ran up to the grandmother and kissed her impulsively.

That night there was a great family council.  Keith’s father was told about Johan and the Gustafssons.

“I think they are about as good as ourselves,” was his verdict, given in a tone suggesting contempt for his own position rather than respect for that of Johan’s father.  “But Keith has his toys, and that ought to be enough for him.”

“It is rather lonely for him,” the mother rejoined, “and he should get out a little, I suppose, but I hate to have him playing about the streets, and I fear Johan’s manners are not very good.”

“The best thing is to send him to school,” said the father.

“What are you talking of, Carl,” the mother cried.  “The idea—­when he is barely five!”

“He knows more about the letters than I did when I began school at seven,” the father came back unperturbed.

“I don’t think it would be very bad for him to play a little with Johan now and then,” said the mother evasively, bending down to kiss Keith, who had snuggled up to her during the preceding talk.  Then she put her hand through his waves of almost flaxen hair, bent his head slightly backward, looked straight into his eyes, and asked: 

“You don’t want to leave me, do you?”

“No,” said Keith, hugging her passionately, “but I think I should like to go to school.”

The idea carried no distinct image to his mind, and he felt a little timid toward all those unknown possibilities implied by the word school, but this slight feeling of hesitation was swamped by a longing so restless and so irresistible that it sent tears to his eyes, although he could not tell himself what it was he longed for.

XXIV

It was true that Keith knew a good deal for his age.  In fact, he had mastered the whole alphabet and was making good progress in spelling under his mother’s guidance.  He was eager and quick to learn.  Generally his interest was rather fitful, but along this one line it showed no wavering.  It was as if the boy had known that the art of reading would offer him an escape of some sort.