“To Master Keith Wellander,” the father read out.  “A friendly warning, to be remembered in the morning and all through the day.  He who slops at meals is a pig that squeals and hurts his parents alway.”

Keith took the parcel with less than usual zest.  It was rectangular and very heavy.  For a moment he hesitated to open it.  There was something about its inscription that puzzled and bothered him.

At last the wrapper came off, and he gazed uncomprehendingly at a large piece of wood hollowed out like a canoe.

“A boat ...” he stammered.

“A trough,” rejoined his father, a strange, almost embarrassed look appearing on his face.  “This is Christmas and I want you to be happy, but you must learn to eat decently, and I thought this might serve you as a lesson and a reminder.”

Keith said nothing.  He sat looking at that piece of wood as if it were a dragon that had swallowed the whole Christmas in a single gulp.  He wanted to cry, but for the first time he seemed to feel a pride that forbade him to do so....

“Master Keith Wellander,” the father read out again with evident haste and in a voice which he tried to make very jolly, “When beaten in the open field, this will be my trusty shield.”

It was the package—­and the trough was forgotten.

The boy trembled with excitement.  His hands tore vainly at the paper cover, which, in the end, had to be removed by the father.

On the table, fully revealed at last, stood a real fortress of cardboard, with a drawbridge that could be raised, and a tower in the centre, and at the top of it a flagstaff flying the Swedish colours.

It was his heart’s most cherished desire, the thing that had seemed so unattainable that he had deemed it useless to whisper it into his mother’s ear.

For a long while he did not move at all, but just looked and looked, seemingly afraid to touch the new toy.  Then a warm flood of joy shot through him, and suddenly he was seized by an irresistible impulse to kiss his father—­which was a most unusual endearment between them.  As he put his hand on the table to get off the chair, it touched the trough, and once more his mood changed.  He seemed to stiffen, and all he could do was to hold out his hand and whisper: 

“Thank you very much, papa!”

IV

On Christmas Day morning everybody rose while it was still pitch dark outside.  After a hasty cup of coffee, the parents and Keith set off for Great Church to attend julotta—­yule matins—­an early service held only that one day of the year.

More snow had fallen, and now it was freezing, so that every step they took produced a peculiar, almost metallic crunching.  From every quarter silent crowds in their holiday best streamed toward the old church.  They seemed very solemn, but Keith sensed the happy spirit underlying their outward sedateness.  It filled him with a wild desire to romp, and it was merely the awe of his father’s presence that kept him in check.