"I am poor, and must work to earn my bread," replied Johannes.
"Oh, but Mama will give you money—will you not, Mama? And you can always eat and live here. Then you will not need to work," said Olga.
"You can have half of my share of oatmeal every time," said Frieda; "I get more than I want, though."
"No, children," said the mother, "it is not nice nor well to live upon what one gets from another, without working one's self. That is parasitism, and sinful before God. Johannes knows this, and being poor he is good to wish to work."
"Well, then, dear Johnny," said Olga, "I shall pray that God will make you rich quickly—as rich as we are; and then you will not need to work, and will come back again."
"I don't think it nice of God to make Johnny poor and us rich," said Frieda, pouting.
"Fie, Frieda, you must not say that," said Mevrouw. And then Johannes went away swiftly and bravely before the tears came.
Later, he heard that Van Lieverlee, whom he had not bidden good-by, had told everybody that Johannes had left in a pet to live with some proletarians because of his having been repeatedly rebuked by himself on account of his excessive vanity.
In the little public room of the total-abstainers' coffee-house, "The Future," a large circle of congenial spirits sat waiting. Jan van Tijn was there, his wife, an infant, and the oldest girl. Marjon was there also, a neighbor having volunteered to care for the other Van Tijn children. Besides those named, there were about twenty other men and women in the little hall with its dirty, dingy hangings. On small tables in front of the visitors were cups of tea and chocolate. Many mothers had brought their infants. There was a dearth of talking and a deal of smoking; for it would have been too much, at the outset, to put a ban upon both alcohol and tobacco.