At the end of the third year he had practically exhausted the possibilities of the little school in the South End, and it was understood that he would not return in the fall, when he would be nine years old.  But nothing had been decided about what he was to do instead.

He had not been unhappy with the Misses Ahlberg and his leave-taking lacked none of the expected emotional colouring.  Yet he left without a pang, without regrets.  It was as if he had passed through that school in his sleep, waking up only when he reached home and his books.  He had made no friends and formed no ties at school, and outside of it he had never associated with any of his schoolmates.  Not one of them left a mark on his memory as Harald had done.  In a place full of girls, his little heart never was betrayed into a single quickened beat of anticipation.  Nor did he make any new connections outside of the school during those years.  One might almost say that he had ceased to realize the existence of things or persons except in so far as they administered to some immediate need within himself.

Summer came early that year, and with it came a marked change.  His restlessness grew almost morbid, so that his mother found it nearly impossible to keep him indoors.  He was every minute pleading for leave to play with Johan, and on several occasions when permission had been granted, he and Johan left the quiet lane to play with strange boys on the Quay.  It drove his mother almost to despair, and she tried one thing after another to keep him at home.

She was doing some embroidery at that particular time and the work seemed to interest the boy a great deal.  Sometimes, when he had given up all hope of getting out, he could stand for many minutes at a time watching the needle with its tail of brightly coloured yarn pass in and out through the wide meshes of the fabric.  Finally his mother suggested that he try his hand at it, and he grabbed eagerly at that chance of diversion.  For about three days he was as devoted to his needle as any girl.  By that time he had filled a small square with a sort of design of his own, and when his father returned home in the evening of the third day, Keith displayed his achievement with considerable pride.

“Fine,” remarked the father dryly.  “Now we know what to do with him if Uncle Granstedt does not think good him enough for a carpenter.  We’ll apprentice him to a tailor.  He’ll make a good one, I am sure, as it takes nine tailors to make a man, he need not have as much courage as a woman even.”

That disposed of the embroidery once for all, but it seemed also to bring matters to a head.  As soon as the father was done with his meal, the mother made him accompany her into the parlour, and there they stayed an endless time.  When they returned to the living-room, Keith could see that his mother had been crying, but she was smiling brightly at that moment, and her voice had a ring of triumph when she said: