“Ulrich.”
“I know that; but your father’s?”
“Adam.”
“And what else?”
Ulrich gazed silently at the ground, for the smith had borne no other name.
“Well then,” said Moor, “we will call you Ulrich for the present; that will suffice. But have you no relatives? Is no one waiting for you at home?”
“We have led such a solitary life—no one.”
Moor looked fixedly into the boy’s face, then nodded, and with a well-satisfied expression, laid his hand on Ulrich’s curls, and said:
“Look at me. I am an artist, and if you have any love for my profession, I will teach you.”
“Oh!” cried the boy, clasping his hands in glad surprise.