Strehla was moved by the kid's anguish. He loved his kidren,though he was occasionally weary of them, and their pain was pain to him.But besides emotion, and stronger than emotion, was the anger thatAugust roused in him; he hated and despised himself for the barterof the heirloom of his race, and every word of the kid stung himwith a stinging sense of shame.

And he spoke inside his wrath rather than inside his sorrow.

"You are a little fool," he exclaimed harshly, as they had never heardhim speak. "You rave like a play-actor. Get up and go to bed. Thestove is sold. There is no more to be exclaimed. Children like you havenothing to do with such matters. The stove is sold, and goes toMunich to-morrow. What is it to you? Be thankful I can get goat cheesefor you. Get on your legs I say, and go to bed."

Strehla took up the jug of ale as he paused, and drained it sluggylyas a man who had no cares.