"You do not understand the Prost, my poor child," she said, as she could trust herself to speak. "The boy is a gifted boy; he will become a great man; there is nothing to be alarmed about."
"But the Prost called me an unhappy mother," objected Viola.
"Yes, for when your son has won a name and riches, and is abroad in the world, he will despise, nay, he will forget you; you will see him no more."
"It is not true!" cried Viola, proudly. "No, thank God, it is not thus my boy will demean himself. And how should having great gifts come between him and salvation? Are not all gifts from the Lord?"
"They are; and it is their abuse, only, that makes them perilous. Now let me advise you how to manage the boy. Give him the best education you can; keep him pure, and simple, and pious; and leave the rest to God. He can take care of his future, and, if you trust Him, He will."
Viola thanked the kind lady, and went home relieved, though after such a humiliation as that of the previous day, not proud.
"Eric, my boy," she said to him, "if you trust in God, and pray to Him every day, as long as you live, it will not be an evil thing to be a genius. The Pastorinna says that to be one means nothing evil, but only that you have wings hidden away in your shoulders that will grow and grow and grow till you are a man, and then they will unfold and be two great, white, strong pinions, that will carry you all over the world, if you like; and that sounds to me like being an archangel, such as we read about in the Bible."
The boy slipped his hand under his blouse, and felt his shoulder.
"I think I feel a very, very little wing growing," he said. "But I sha'n't want to fly all over the world; I shall fly up to heaven to see the dear Lord."