He looks at me in despair, holds me tight, says a thousand things without speaking a word.
"If only we had a cent," I say. "Then you could rush over the way and fetch the biscuits."
"Father. . . ." His eyes open very wide and he speaks so softly that I can hardly hear him. "There is a cent on mother's writing-table."
"Is there?" I cry with delight. But, at the same moment, I shake my head and my face is overcast again. "That is no use to us, my little boy. That cent belongs to mother. The other was Petrine's. People are so terribly fond of their money and get so angry when you take it from them. I can understand that, for you can buy such an awful lot of things with money. You can get biscuits and lollipops and clothes and toys and half the things in the world. And it is not so easy either to make money. Most people have to drudge all day long to earn as much as they want. So it is no wonder that they get angry when you take it. Especially when it is only for lollipops. Now Petrine . . . she has to spend the whole day cleaning rooms and cooking dinner and washing up before she gets her wages. And out of that she has to buy clothes and shoes . . . and you know that she has a little girl whom she has to pay for at Madam Olsen's. She must certainly have saved very cleverly before she managed to buy you that ball."
We walk up and down the room, hand in hand. He keeps on falling over his legs, for he can't take his eyes from my face.
"Father . . . haven't you got a cent?"
I shake my head and give him my purse:
"Look for yourself," I say. "There's not a cent in it. I spent the last this morning."
We walk up and down. We sit down and get up and walk about again. We are very gloomy. We are bowed down with sorrow and look at each other in great perplexity.
"There might be one hidden away in a drawer somewhere," I say.