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there was no need to tell lies if he didn't want to,
though he sometimes did it without giving it a
second thought. He couldn't help it. And punish-
ment was bound to follow on it, and he had rather
have that than that it shouldn't be discovered.
Although he sometimes succeeded in telling lies so
that even Uncle Gerbrand couldn't find it out, still
he knew he had done it, and then he had to keep
thinking about it in the evening before he went to
bed. That made him frightened, and when he was
in bed he could see Uncle Gerbrand's eyes looking at
him.
Once he was wakened by this thought about lying
and other wrong-doing that had been concealed,
and again he saw those eyes that looked straight at
him, clear as blue glass, but they were not angry.
It was as though they said : Don't do it any more,
I'll help you. He thought to himself he must make
a clean breast of everything he had done and ask
Uncle Gerbrand to punish him and help him not to
do it again. Then he fell peacefully asleep again.
When he got up in the morning he had forgotten
about it. But it returned with even more force* It
was a May evening and not yet nine o'clock, the
parlour was dark, but in the yard there was still
twilight. The tray of money was on the table, and
beside it a pile of guilders ; Werendonk had been
engaged in counting it and had left the room for a
moment. He took a guilder; the pile toppled