“Ja wohl!” said Sigmund, but something else seemed to weigh upon his small mind. He eyed his father with a reflective look, then looked down at his own small hands and slender limbs (his legs were cased in the new stockings).
“How?” inquired his father.
“I should like to be a musician,” said Sigmund, who had a fine confidence in his sire, and confided his every thought to him.
“I don’t know how to say it,” he went on, resting his elbows upon Eugen’s knee, and propping his chin upon his two small fists, he looked up into his father’s face.
“Friedhelm is a musician, but he is not like thee,” he pursued. Eugen reddened; I laughed.
“True as can be, Sigmund,” I said.
“‘I would I were as honest a man,’” said Eugen, slightly altering “Hamlet;” but as he spoke English I contented myself with shaking my head at him.
“I like Friedel,” went on Sigmund. “I love him; he is good. But thou, mein Vater—”
“Well?” asked Eugen again.
“I will be like thee,” said the boy, vehemently, his eyes filling with tears. “I will. Thou saidst that men who try can do all they will—and I will, I will.”