"Yes, woman, it is. Take these colors away from the child; give him no more play-hours, and set him at honest work. What has the son of a peasant to do with genius, I should like to know?"
"We will do all we can to cure him of it," said Olaf, in deep humility.
The Prost departed, leaving the frightened household fluttering behind him, like poultry besieged by a fox.
When Eric came home from school the terrific announcement was made to him that his beloved colors were his no longer; that the mother had thrown them into the fire, and the grandmother raked hot coals over them. The boy uttered not a word, and did not shed a tear. He was like one stunned. But there was something awful in his childish silence.
"Eric," said his mother, "we have not done this in anger. But the Prost willed it, and who dares resist the Prost?"
"Mother, what have I done to anger the Prost?"
"He says you are a genius."
"Is that something very bad?"
"Oh, yes! Very, very bad!"
"But you said the dear Lord would not let me be bad, if I prayed to Him. And I have prayed six times, and four times."