stripes and black patches, and she thought them ugly.
"Turn over, turn over, turn over," she kept repeating, excitedly yearning for them to become yellow, blue and red.
The old woman, with her puckered smile, patiently turned over the pictures. For her too they held no story, because they were black and sombre; and she was already seeing colours for herself, the dead-white and deep-blue, the bright, lacquered green of houses, sky and trees in Java. Here, under the sombre oppression of the skies, here, in the sombre pictures, the old woman and the child found nothing to charm them.
Then Klaasje became very angry and dragged the heavy book from Granny's lap and beat it, heedless of the pain, and scolded:
"Ugly books . . . ugly, black books!"
"Ssh! . . . Ssh!" said the old woman soothingly, laying her veined hand on the girl's fair head.
"Build a tower!" said Klaasje, with a gurgle of laughter suddenly beholding a beautiful vision.
She sprang up quickly. On a table in a corner of the room she found a box of dominoes. She brought the box, beaming with delight, but the smooth lid slid out of the box and the dominoes rattled on the floor. Klaasje stamped her foot, but the beautiful vision still shone before her and hurriedly and passionately she scrabbled them into her little pinafore. Then she brought them to Granny, like a harvest, like so much booty, and rattled them down at her feet. With a great effort she again pushed one of the heavy books on to Granny's lap; and the old woman helped her, pulling while Klaasje pushed.
"Build tower!" cried the child.
Granny held the book, held it straight, while
