"Well, that's an extraordinary name! But, if you have given her your word, you must keep it till you die. Else you'll never, never be happy."
My little boy understands not a word and answers not a word. Erna begins to cry at the prospect that this good match may not come off. But I bend down over the baluster and raise my hat:
"I beg your pardon, Fröken. Was it not you who jilted Hr. Petersen? . . ."
"Good heavens! . . ."
She packs up her chlorosis and disappears with Erna, mumbling something about like father, like son, and goodness knows what.
Presently, my little boy comes up to me and stands and hangs about.
"Where has Erna gone to?" I ask my little boy.
"She mustn't go out," he says, dejectedly.
He puts his hands in his pockets and looks straight before him.
"Father," he says, "can't you have two sweethearts?"