"Well—he has none, but, wait—yes, Nobody, John Nobody is his name. He has no father," he added under his breath.
Margaret arose and went into the bedroom. After a while she came out with a harsh, gloomy expression on her countenance. "Well, Frederick," she said, "let the boy go, so that he may attend to his errand. Boy, why do you lie there in the ashes? Have you nothing to do at home?" With the air of one who is persecuted the boy roused himself so hastily that all his limbs got in his way, and the clog-violin almost fell into the fire.
"Wait, John," said Frederick proudly, "I'll give you half of my bread and butter; it's too much for me anyhow. Mother always gives me a whole slice."
"Never mind," said Margaret, "he is going home."
"Yes, but he won't get anything to eat now. Uncle Simon eats at seven o'clock."
Margaret turned to the boy. "Won't they save anything for you? Tell me!
Who takes care of you?"
"Nobody," stuttered the child.
"Nobody?" she repeated; "then take it, take it!" she added nervously; "your name is Nobody and nobody takes care of you. May God have pity on you! And now see that you get away! Frederick, do not go with him, do you hear? Do not go through the village together."
"Why, I only want to get wood out of the shed," answered Frederick. When both boys had gone Margaret sank down in a chair and clasped her hands with an expression of the deepest grief. Her face was as white as a sheet. "A false oath, a false oath!" she groaned. "Simon, Simon, how will you acquit yourself before God!"
Thus she sat for a while, motionless, with her lips shut tight, as if completely unconscious. Frederick stood before her and had already spoken to her twice.