be able to live in Amsterdam again. * But we are
clay/ he said, * and God is the potter.9—c Yes,
Uncle,' was the answer, but in such a strange tone
that Frans frowned.
It was not until April that he brought his books
and his clothes home to the new room ; even then
he still stayed away for several days. At last he
arrived on the last train to sleep at home again.
He did this every day. In the morning he wasn't
seen at all until just before dinner ; he hurried out
of the shop with his books under his arm. Once,
when he got home after midnight, Werendonk asked
why he didn't come home sooner and do his work in
his own room as he was supposed to do. In reply
he made some excuse in an indifferent tone, as much
as to say that was nobody's business. One Sun-
day his uncle had a talk with him, in a friendly
way without reprimanding him, saying that, if his
uncles did their duty by him, it was to be expected
of him that he, too, should do his. He listened,
his eyes fixed on the floor, and answered : * Yes.'
But on the following days again he did not come
in until after twelve. And when next Werendonk
spoke to him, he noticed that Floris had been
drinking.
Werendonk sat up late, pacing restlessly up and
down in the parlour, wondering what he could do
to keep the boy on the right path. He didn't trust
him and he feared that he was up to no good ; he