“You up already?” he asked, wonderingly.
“I have not been able to sleep,” she said, in her low voice, which always sounded as if she were asking pardon for what she said.
“Why not?” he asked.
She did not answer, but stroked his hair and smiled at him sadly. Then he knew that the twins had been telling tales, and that it was grief for him which did not let her rest.
“It was not so bad, mother,” he said, consolingly; “they made fun of me a little, nothing more.”
“Elsbeth, too?” she asked, with big, anxious eyes.
“No, not she,” he replied, “but—” he was silent and turned to the wall.
“But what?” asked his mother.
“I don’t know,” he answered, “but there is a ‘but’ in it—”
“You wrong her, perhaps,” said his mother, “and look, she sent you this by the girls.” She drew from her pocket a long object which was carefully wrapped in tissue-paper.