terrible harm done after all, as long as you don't absolutely break your
neck. And gradually Peer began to realise that he was still alive, after
all. It is a bad business when the world goes against you, even though
you may have some one to turn to for advice and sympathy. But when all
the people round you are utter strangers, there is nothing to be done
but sit down and twirl a straw, and think things out a bit for yourself.
Peer's thoughts were of a thing in a long dressing-gown that had taken
his bank book and locked it up and rattled the keys at him and said
"Yah!" and deposed him from his bishopric and tried to sneeze and
squeeze him into a trade, where he'd have to carry a pressing-iron all
his life and be Peer Troen, Tailor. But he wouldn't have that. He sat
there bracing himself up, and trying to gather together from somewhere
a thing he had never had much need of before--to wit, a will of his own,
something to set up against the whole wide world. What was he to do now?
He felt he would like to go back to Troen first of all, and talk things
over with the old father and mother; they would be sorry for him there,
and say "Poor boy," and pray for him--but after a day or two, he knew,
they would begin to glance at him at meals, and remember that there was
no one to pay for him now, and that times were hard. No, that was no
refuge for him now. But what could he do, then? Clearly it was not such
a simple matter to be all alone in the world.

A little later he found himself on a hillside by the Cathedral
churchyard, sitting under the yellowing trees, and wondering dreamily
where his father was to be buried. What a difference between him and
that schoolmaster man! No preaching with him; no whining about what his
boy might call himself or might not. Why must he go and die?

It was strange to think of that fine strong man, who had brushed his
hair and beard so carefully with his silver-backed brush--to think that