Ovind struggled some time to get a word out; at last he asked in slow broken sentences,--"Is it--because I--am a peasant lad--that I am Number 9 or 10?"
"Surely it must be so," said the schoolmaster.
"Then it is no use for me to work," said he hopelessly, and all his grand dreams vanished. Suddenly he lifted his head, raised his right hand, struck it on the table with all his might, cast himself down on his face, and burst into a violent fit of tears.
The schoolmaster left him to lay there and cry it out; he waited long, till at last his grief became more childlike. Then he rose took Ovind's head in both his hands, lifted it up, and looked into the tearful face.
"Do you think God has been with you?" said he, as he looked kindly at him.
Ovind sobbed still, but not so violently, the tears ran more quietly, but he dare not look at him who spoke, nor reply.
"This, Ovind, has been a deserved reward; you have not read from love to religion, nor your parents, but you have read from vanity."
There was silence in the room between each time of the schoolmaster's speaking, and Ovind felt his glance to be resting upon him, and grew softened and humbled under it.
"With such angry feelings in your heart, you could not have stood forth to have made a compact with your God, could you Ovind?"
"No," he stammered, as well as he could.