8i
didn't want to. His heart thumped. He might
just as well take it, no one would notice, but he
didn't want to. Then he heard someone coming ;
he walked quickly round the room and stood at the
other side of the table. Werendonk came in, lighted
the lamp and sat down.
* My boy,' he said, looking up suddenly, * what
were you doing with the money just now ? *
He turned red and stuttered. Werendonk waited
without looking at him. All at once Floris put his
hands before his face, sobbing and crying. When he
was calmer, Werendonk said : c If you've anything
on your mind, you'd better tell me ; concealed
burdens only grow heavier, and you can depend on
my treating you justly.'
And Floris began his confession, at first in a timid,
miserable voice, by degrees more frankly, as he had
imagined himself doing it, and finally, as though the
words came of themselves, he was telling of things
that he had almost forgotten, so long was it since he
had done them. It was a story of truth concealed,
of prevarication and of lies, then of stealing, out of
the till, too, that he had done years ago. At first
he hadn't felt sorry about it, but now he realised that
it was fraud, a serious sin, he couldn't help thinking
about it all the time. He stopped again, and in the
midst of his sobbing he said he didn't want to be like
his father.
Werendonk jumped up, he laid his hand on his