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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
86
On
one
side
sat
those
from
ten
to
fourteen,
with
not
a
hopeful
face
among
them,
and
on
the
other
those
from
six
to
ten,
with
one
single
little
boy
who
looked
as
though
he
could
have
no
business
among
the
rest,
so
bright
was
he,
so
attentive,
so
curiously
dignified.
Poor
children--what
could
the
parson
hope
to
make
of
beings
whose
expressions
told
so
plainly
of
the
sort
of
nature
within?
Those
that
did
not
look
dull
looked
cunning,
and
all
the
girls
on
the
older
side
had
the
faces
of
women.
I
began
to
feel
dreadfully
depressed.
"See
what
you
have
done,"
I
whispered
angrily
to
my
conscience--"made
me
wretched
without
doing
anybody
else
any
good."
"The
old
woman
with
the
headache
is
happy
in
the
hopes
of
grapes,"
it
replied,
seeking
to
justify
itself,
"and
Lotte
is
to
have
some
jelly."
"Grapes!
Jelly!
Futility
unutterable.
I
can't
bear
this,
and
am
going
home."
The
teacher
inquired
whether
the
children
should
sing
something
to
my
graciousness;
perhaps
he
was
ashamed
of
their
reading,
and
indeed
I
never
heard
anything
like
it.
"Oh
yes,"
I
said,
resigned,
but
outwardly
smiling
kindly
with
the
self-control
natural
to
woman.
They
sang,
or
rather
screamed,
a
hymn,
and
so
frightfully
loud
and
piercingly
that
the
very
windows
shook.
"My
dear,"
explained
the
Man
of
Wrath,
when
I
complained
one
Sunday
on
our
way
home
from
church
of
the
terrible
quality
and
volume
of
the
music,
"it
frightens
Satan
away."
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