In it was a flute, made of black ebony, with sparkling silver keys.
Paul blushed with shame and joy; but his joy soon vanished, and after he had looked at the instrument for a while he said, softly, “What must I do with it now?”
“You must learn to play it,” answered his mother, with a touch of pride.
“It is too late,” he replied, shaking his head sadly; “there are other things for me to do.” He felt as if he had been made to drag something dead out of its grave.
“Well, it seems that you cut a nice figure yesterday,” said his father, when they met at the breakfast-table.
He quietly smiled to himself, and his father muttered something about lack of feeling of honor.
The twins had big dreamy eyes, and when they looked at each other a blissful smile crossed their faces. They, at least, were happy.
Weeks passed. The harvest was got in unharmed, thanks to Paul’s untiring care. It was a better year than it had been for a long time. But his father was already calculating how he could use the profits for his peat speculation.
He bragged on in his usual manner, and the less Mr. Douglas seemed to pay attention to the proceedings, the more he boasted at the inns about the advantage of his partnership.
Having once consented to swindle, he had to outvie every lie by a new and bigger one. Mr. Douglas might be as patient as he liked; the abuse which was made of his name at last became too much for him.