An awful silence followed this speech. The Juffrouw below had every reason to be satisfied.

"But, Master Pennewip——"

"I don't want any 'but', Juffrouw Pieterse. I ask you, whether you have had any complaints. I mean, of course, well grounded complaints about my instruction in reading, writing, arithmetic——"

"Well, no, Master Pennewip, I have no complaints; but——"

"So-oo? No complaints? Well, then I will explain to you—where is your son Walter?"

"Walter? Dear me! Hasn't he come home, Trudie? He went to take a walk with the Halleman boys. They are such respectable children, Master Pennewip, and they live——"

"So! With the Hallemans—who go to the French school! Aha, and that's it? So—from the Hallemans! And he learns such things from the Hallemans—the Hallemans III, 7, a2, perhaps 'a'—yes, who knows but that it might be II. It's no wonder—immorality, viciousness—at the French school! And now, Juffrouw Pieterse, I want to tell you that your son——"

"What did you say?"

Master Pennewip looked about him as if he were drinking in the breathless silence that had fallen over his hearers.

Juffrouw Laps hastened to repay with compound interest that triumphant look of the hostess, while that lady, thoroughly miserable, was making frequent use of the camphor bottle. She was not so much mortified that Juffrouw Laps should hear something else unfavorable about Walter, who had caused them so much trouble, as angry that she should be the witness of an accusation that would give her a new weapon in the zoological fray.

"Didn't I tell you so? Nothing good will ever come to this Walter. A boy that begins with the Bible will end with something else. Yes, Master Pennewip, I'm not surprised—I shouldn't be surprised at anything he did. I've seen it coming for a long time. But what shouldn't one expect from a family——"

As quick as a flash Juffrouw Pieterse saw here her opportunity to recover her lost advantage. Stoffel had said it was in the book; but a teacher must know whatever is in a book. Therefore——

"Master Pennewip," she cried, "Is it true that Juffrouw Laps is a sucking animal?"

I am convinced that Pennewip brought this question under a special category for "peculiar overflowings of the heart," seeing that it followed upon his unfinished accusation against Walter. He looked over his glasses and slowly described with his eye a circle, peopled with women holding their breath, heads and necks stretched out and mouths wide open. The attitude of Juffrouw Laps was threatening above everything else, and said quite distinctly: Answer or die! Am I a sucking animal?

"With whom have I the honor to speak?" he asked, probably not considering that this question made the matter still more mysterious, giving the impression that Laps's animal quality depended upon her name, age, place of residence, family relations, etc.

"I am Juffrouw Laps," she said, "and live down stairs in the front part of the house."

"Ah—so! Yes, indeed you belong to the class of sucking animals."

A ten-fold sigh was heaved; and Juffrouw Pieterse was again triumphant. In politics and the citizen populace complete equilibrium is impossible. The parties or powers are in continual motion, first one in the ascendency, then the other.

Juffrouw Laps, who had not been able to accomplish anything with pride, now attempted good humor.

"But Master Pennewip," she said sweetly, "how can you say such a thing? My father was in the grain business and——"

"Juffrouw Laps, answer me one question."

"Yes, Master Pennewip, but——"

"Answer me, Juffrouw Laps, where do you live?"

"Where I live? Why, in my room, down stairs—two windows—front entrance——"

"You miss the significance of my question entirely, Juffrouw Laps. The meaning would be similar if I were to ask you if you belonged to that class of organisms that live in oyster-shells."

"Yes, yes, Juffrouw Laps," cried the triumphant hostess, "that's the point—the main point!"

And Stoffel added that it was really and truly the main point.

Juffrouw Laps saw that she was hopelessly lost, for she had to admit to herself that she didn't usually reside in an oyster-shell. She looked at the teacher with astonishment; but he paid no attention at all to the effect of his questions. Assuming a sort of legal manner—which was closely imitated by his wig, he continued:

"Can you live in water? Have you gills?"

"In water? But—Master Pennewip——"

Wig to the left, which meant: No, but!

"Or half in water, half on land?"

"Master Pennewip, how should I——"

Wig to the right: No subterfuges.

"Answer me, Juffrouw Laps, have you cold blood? Do you bring living young into the world?"

"It is a sin, Master Pennewip!"

The wig now looked like a battering-ram, anticipating the nature of the next question.

"Can you lay eggs, Juffrouw Laps? I only ask you the question. Can you lay eggs? Eh?"

She said she couldn't.

"Then you are a sucking animal, Juffrouw Laps!"

The wig was in the middle again resting quietly. It had vanquished Juffrouw Laps.

I wonder what the reader's idea is of the effect produced on the company by this terrible sentence, against which there could be no appeal. There was something pitiless in Pennewip's manner, and in his contracted eyebrows there was no intimation of mercy.



CHAPTER X

The attentive reader who knows human nature will naturally wish to know why I closed the last chapter so tamely, and why that zoological problem which, only a short time before had caused such a violent explosion, was now allowed to rest in peace.

There are three reasons for this.

Firstly, the women had been so wrought up that they were now exhausted.

Secondly, Juffrouw Laps, the shrewd leader of the fight, looked over the battlefield and, without thinking of the famous battle between the Horatii and the Curiatii, saw with innate tactical talent the correctness of "divide and conquer." With the forces Stotter, Mabbel, Krummel and Zipperman against the house of Pieterse—that was all right. But now that the house was supported by Pennewip's powerful hand, it was prudent to withdraw from the battle. For who could guarantee her that she might depend upon her allies? What assurance had she that the midwife, or even Juffrouw Zipperman would not go over to the enemy?—if only out of deference to the versatile wig! No, no, no! She wouldn't risk her rhetorical artillery in such a doubtful engagement! She was content to say to herself, "I will get even with you later." Imagining her, with all her relations to society, multiplied by twenty or thirty millions, we would have read the next day in this or that official Laps organ something like this:

"Our relations with the Pietersian empire are most cordial. The recent friendly meeting between the two sovereigns was merely that they might have the mutual pleasure of seeing one another, and had no political significance whatever. It will be seen how unfounded were those rumors of 'strained relations,' which were said to have been brought about by a discussion of certain characteristics of our popular princess. The reader will recall that we never gave credence to those rumors, and reported them with great reserve."

Thirdly. The third and chief cause of the armistice was—curiosity. Under the present changed circumstances whoever betrayed any anger would have to leave; and whoever left would not find out why Master Pennewip had come, or what new crime Walter had committed. Again we see the truth of the proposition, that everything has its good side.

"But, Master Pennewip," asked Juffrouw Pieterse—she threw the subdued sucking animal a look that was like a triumphant telegram, and read: Where are you now?—"but Master Pennewip, what has Walter been doing now?"

"Yes, what has he been up to this time," added Juffrouw Laps, delighted that the conversation had taken this turn, and that she was now to hear about Walter's latest sin.

For the sinner is a thing in which pious persons find much edification. As we have already seen, Juffrouw Laps was fond of edification.

Pennewip was just on the point of beginning his indictment when the door-bell rang. It rang again: "It's for us"—and in a moment our truant walked into the room.

He was paler than usual, and with good reason; for strange things had happened to him since Fancy had lifted him up and borne him away.

"Juffrouw Pieterse," began Pennewip, "my school is famous, even as far away as Kattenburg. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, Master Pennewip."

"I repeat it: Famous! And, too, chiefly on account of the fine moral there—I mean, of course, in my school. Religion and morality occupy the first place in my school. I could show you verses on the Deity—but I pass over that. It is sufficient for you to know that my school is famous as far as—but what am I talking about—I've even had a boy from Wittenburg; and I was once consulted about the education of a boy whose father lived at Muiderberg."

"Oh, Master Pennewip!"

"Yes, Juffrouw, I still have the letter and could show it to you. The man was a gravedigger—the boy painted inappropriate figures on the coffins. And just for this reason I feel it my duty to tell you that I don't intend to see my school lose its good name through that good-for-nothing boy of yours there!"

Poor Walter had fallen from the clouds. That sounded quite different from a papal appointment—which he really no longer cared for, as he had just received another appointment that pleased him better.

His mother wanted to pass immediately to what she called her "divine worship" and give him a sound thrashing, in order to satisfy the teacher that religion and morality took the first place in her house, too.

But the teacher found it preferable to tell the party what the trouble was, and incidentally to strengthen the feeling of guilt in the patient.

"Your son belongs to the class of robbers, murderers, ravishers of women, incendiaries——"

That was all.

"Holy grace! Heavenly righteousness! Compassionate Christian souls! Ah, divine and human virtue, is it possible! What must we endure!"

I cannot always be exact; but, in general, such was the flood of exclamations that all but swept away that ten-year-old robber, murderer, ravisher of women and incendiary.

"I am going to read you something from his hand," said the teacher, "and then if anybody still doubts the boy's viciousness——"

All tacitly promised to have no doubts.

The work that the teacher read was indeed of such a nature as to leave small room for doubts; and I, who have chosen Walter for my hero, anticipate difficulty in convincing the reader that he was not so bad as he seemed—after his

"Robber Song."

"On the steed, Off I speed, With helmet on head And a sword in my hand and the enemy dead; Quick, away!"

"Christian souls," cried the whole party, "is he mad?"

"Rather late, Near the gate A push and a blow, Vanquished dragoon, Margrave laid low——"

"Heaven save us, what has he against the Margrave," wailed the mother.

"For the spoil!"

"Don't you see, it's for booty," said Juffrouw Laps. "I told you so: He began with the Bible, he'll end with——"

"And the prize— Pretty eyes——"

"Did you ever hear the like—he has scarcely shed his milk teeth!"

"And the prize— Pretty eyes— She was bought with steel——"

"With ste-e-l!"

"And the prize— Pretty eyes— She was bought with steel; I bore her away to the cave just to feel How it seemed."

"Heavenly grace, what is he going to do in the cave?"

"In my arm, Free from harm Lay the maid as we sped; Her cries, sweet complaints, and the tears——"

"Oh, blessed peace, and the poor thing crying!"

"Her cries, sweet complaints, and the tears she shed— O, delight!"

"And he calls that delight! I'm getting right cold."

"Then again, O'er the plain——"

"Holy Father, there he goes again!"

"Then again, O'er the plain. Right and left, nothing spurned, Here a villa destroyed or a cloister burned For fun."

"The Devil is in that boy. For fun!"

"Farther yet, I forget— But the deeds they were dire, And the road was marked with blood and fire And revenge!"

"Mercy on us! What had they done to him!"

"Revenge's sweet, And is meet For the King of the World——"

"Is he crazy? I'll make him a king!"

"Revenge's sweet And is meet For the King of the World, Who alone is supreme, with a banner unfurled Forever!"

"What sort of a thing is he talking about?"

"All! Hurrah! But, I say——"

Everybody shuddered.

"All! Hurrah! But, I say No pardon shall be lavished, The men shall be hanged and the women——"

"Trudie, Trudie, the camphor bottle! You see—I——"

"The men shall be hanged and the women ravished——"

"The camphor bottle! Trudie, Trudie!"

"For pleasure!"

"For pleasure," repeated the teacher in a grave-yard voice, "for pleasure!"

"He—does—it—for—pleasure!"

The company was stupefied. Even Stoffel's pipe had gone out.

But Walter's was not a nature to be easily disturbed. After his mother had beaten him till she came to her senses again, he went to bed in the little back room, far from dissatisfied with the day's work, and was soon dreaming of Fancy.



CHAPTER XI

On the next day things had largely resumed their wonted course. That someone may not charge me with carelessness, or indifference towards the persons with whom we spent a pleasant evening, I will remark in passing that Juffrouw Mabbel was again busy with her baking and "clairvoyange," and that Mrs. Stotter had resumed her activities with the stork. Those unfortunate creatures who were committed to her care she condemned to lie motionless for two or three months—perhaps to give the newly born an idea of their new career, and, at the same time, to punish them for the shameful uproar they had caused by their birth.

As for Master Pennewip, he was busy, as usual, educating future grandparents of the past. His wig had not yet recovered from the excitement of the night before and was longing for Sunday.

Klaasje van der Gracht had been awarded the prize with an impressive, "Keep on that way, my boy"; and he kept on. I still see poems in the papers whose clearness, conciseness and sublimity betray his master hand. I have heard that he died of smallpox—he had not been vaccinated; it will be remembered—but I consider it my duty to protect him from any such slander. A genius does not die; otherwise it wouldn't be worth while to be born a genius. Still, if Klaas had died like other people, his spirit would have lived in those coming after him. And that is a beautiful immortality.

The family de Wilde, too, has not died out, and will not die. I am certain of it.

Juffrouw Krummel asked her husband if she was really a "sucking animal." Being from the bourse, and having much worldly wisdom, he replied after reflection that of such things he didn't believe more than half he heard. "In this case the last half," he added—but softly.

Juffrouw Zipperman had caught a cold; but was still able to boast about her son-in-law. She was a "respectable woman." Only she couldn't endure for Juffrouw Laps to talk so much about "virtue," and the "respectability" of her father, who was "in the grain business." Old Man Laps, she said, was not in, but under the grain business. He had carried sacks of grain, but that was quite different from selling grain. For the man who sells is much bigger than the man who carries. Juffrouw, therefore, had been making misleading statements.

Trudie and her sisters had decked themselves out as well as possible and were sitting at the window. When young people passed by they looked as if they had never in their lives straightened out anybody.

The Juffrouw in the rear below told the grocer that she was going to move out; for it was just scandalous, simply scandalous the way the Pieterses carried on in their back room; that she couldn't leave anything uncovered.

Juffrouw Pieterse was busy with her household, and looked like a working woman. From time to time she had "divine service" with the children, who, if they could have had their choice, would have preferred to have been born among the Alfures, Dajaks, or some other benighted people whose religion is less strenuous.

I am glad to be able to say that Juffrouw Laps had passed a good night. I should like to tell more about her, but I don't care to exhaust myself.

Stoffel had returned to school, and was trying to inspire the boys with contempt for riches. He was using on them a poem that had probably been written in a garret by some poor devil or other whose wealth gave him little cause for complaint. The boys were inattentive, and seemed not to grasp the peculiar pleasure in having no money to buy marbles. Stoffel attributed their hard-heartedness to Walter's crazy ideas: They had heard of his attack on the Margrave and of that remarkable visit to the cave.

And Walter?

He still lived in expectation of the punishment he deserved so richly. For his mother had given him to understand repeatedly that the little "straightening out" of the evening before was merely for practice, and that the reward of his sin would be delayed till she could speak with the preacher about it.

In the meanwhile Walter didn't know what to do. He couldn't return to school: Pennewip had closed for him that fountain of knowledge.

Nor was he allowed to go out for a walk. "Who knows what he will do if I let him out of my sight?" said his mother, who was presumably afraid that he might make a fresh attack on the cloisters. As a matter of fact, she denied him this privilege merely because Walter asked it.

She expressed the opinion that it was best not to let bad children have their own way.

If Walter had been right wise, he would have pretended to be thoroughly in love with that dark back room; then, for his moral improvement, he would have been chased down the steps, and away to his sawmills.

But Walter was not smart.

He was forbidden to go into the front room because the young ladies did not care to see him.

That back room was more than dark: It was narrow, and dirty, and reeked with all the fumes of "III, 7, c." But Walter was used to all this and much more. He had always been a martyr—bandages, poultices, bandy legs, biblical history, rickets, poems on goodness, evening prayers, the judgment day, hobgoblins for wicked children, closed eyes before and after the slice of bread, sleeping with crooked knees, committing sins, fear for the torn breeches, "divine service" with and without sensible accompaniment!

That droll robber song, whose origin we know so well, shows how easily his childish soul was moved by whatever seemed great to him. He was a pure child, and he was a good boy. He wouldn't have hurt a fly. The criminal character of his song was due to his desire to grasp what is greater than everything else and to be the leader in that world created by his childish fancy.

Robber—good! But a first-class robber, a robber of robbers, a robber without mercy—for pleasure!

As to the gross mistreatment of women mentioned in his song, he had no idea what it meant. He used the word for the sake of rhyme, and because from certain sentences in his book he had got the impression that it must afford great pleasure.

If, perchance, for those fourteen stivers Grandisson—weary remembrance—had fallen into his hands, his Wednesday's poem would have been quite different. No doubt he would have sought a reconciliation with the butcher's Keesje, forgiving him completely all his liberties with "Holland nobility" and even presenting him a few slate pencils.

For that is the striking characteristic of spirits such as Walter's. Whatever they are, they are that with all their might, always going further in any direction than they would seem to be warranted in doing by the mere external circumstances.

From such characters we could hope much, if through some chance—i. e., a natural cause, which we call chance, because we do not understand it and are ashamed to admit our ignorance—if through some chance they were not born among people who do not understand them, and, therefore, mistreat them.

It is one of our peculiarities that we like to mistreat anyone whose soul is differently organized from ours. How does the watch move? asks the child, and cannot rest until he has torn apart the wheels he could not understand. There the watch lies in pieces, and the little miscreant excuses himself with the remark that he just wanted to see how it was made.



CHAPTER XII

Walter sat with his elbows on the table, his chin resting in his hands. He seemed to be deeply interested in Leentje's sewing, but we shall see in a moment that his thoughts were elsewhere, and, too, far away from III. 7, c.

They had forbidden her to speak to the shameless rascal, and only occasionally, when Juffrouw Pieterse left the room, did she have an opportunity to whisper to him a few words of comfort. To be sure, she noticed that Walter was not so sad as we should expect one to be who was caught in between the thrashing of yesterday and the priest of to-morrow. This gentleman was to come to-morrow to settle the matter.

"But, Walter, how could you speak of burning cloisters!"

"Ah, I meant—sh!"

"And the Count—what had he done?"

"It was a Margrave—sh!"

"What sort of a count is that? I'll bet he was one out of another house."

"Yes, it was Amalia's father—but that isn't it. I have something to tell you, Leentje—sh!"

"Amalia—who is Amalia?"

"That was my bride, but—Leentje, I wanted to tell you something—sh!"

"Your bride! Are you mad, Walter? Your bride?"

"Yes, she was; but now no more. I was going to help her—but a duck came—but that isn't it, Leentje. Now I see it all—sh. I swam by—sh!"

"Who, what? Swam by?"

"By Amalia. She sat on the rushes—now I understand it all—I am—sh!"

"I don't understand a word, Walter. But the women—why did you want to——"

Poor innocent Leentje.

"The women were in the book—but listen, I am—sh!"

"And the cloisters?"

"That has nothing to do with it—I know everything now. Listen Leentje, I am—sh!"

"For Heaven sake, Walter, what's the matter with you? You look as if you were mad."

Walter had a vision. He stretched himself up, cast a proud glance at the beams in the ceiling, placed his right hand over his heart, extended his left, as if he were draping a Spanish mantle about him—remember that he had never been in a theatre—and said:

"Leentje, I am a prince."

At that moment his mother came in, boxed his ears and sent him out of the room.



Walter's principality was in the moon—no, much farther away.

In the following the reader shall learn how he had attained to this new dignity.

Long before the beginning of this story—yes, a long time before this—there was a queen of spirits, just like in "Hans Heiling." Her name was A——o.

She did not live in a cave, but held her court far up in the clouds; and this was airier and more suitable for a queen.

She wore a necklace of stars, and a sun was set in her signet-ring.

Whenever she went forth, the clouds flew about like dust, and with a motion of her hand she drove away the firmaments.

Her children played with planets as with marbles, and she complained that it was so difficult for her to find them again when they had rolled away under the furniture.

The little son of the queen, Prince Upsilon, was peevish over this and was continually calling for more playthings.

The queen then gave him a sack of siriuses; but in a short time these, too, were all lost. It was Upsilon's own fault: He ought to have paid more attention to his playthings.

They tried to satisfy him as best they could, but no matter what they gave him, he always wanted something else, something larger. This was a defect in the character of the little prince.

The mother, who, as queen of the spirits, was a very intelligent woman, thought it would be a good idea for the little prince to accustom himself to privations.

She issued an order, therefore, that for a certain time Upsilon was to have no playthings.

The order was carried out. Everything was taken away from him, even the comet that he and his little sister Omicron happened to be playing with.

Prince Upsilon was somewhat stubborn. He so far forgot himself one day as to speak disrespectfully to his mother.

Even Princess Omicron was contaminated by his example—nothing is worse than a bad example—and violently threw her pallet against the universe. That was not becoming in a girl.

Now, in the kingdom of spirits, there was a law to the effect, that anyone showing disrespect toward the queen, or throwing anything against the universe, should be deprived of all titles and dignities for a certain length of time.

Prince Upsilon became a grain of sand.

After he had behaved himself well in this capacity for a few centuries he received the news that he had been promoted to be a moss plant.

Then one morning he woke up and found himself a coral zoophyte.

That occurred about the time that man began to cook his food.

He was industrious, building up islands and continents on the earth. In recognition of his zeal he was turned into a crab.

In this capacity, too, there could be no complaint against him, and he was soon transferred to the class of sea-serpents.

He played some innocent pranks on sailors, but he never harmed anyone. Soon he received four feet and the rank of a mastodon, with the privilege of roaming over the land.

With the self-control of a philosopher he entered upon his new life, busying himself with geological investigations.

A few centuries later—remember that in the kingdom of spirits all time taken together is only as a short quarter of an hour—or to speak more correctly, that all time is nothing. For time was made merely for man, for his amusement, and given to him just as we give picture books to children. For spirits, present, past and future are all the same. They comprehend yesterday, to-day and to-morrow at a glance, just as one reads a word without spelling it out. What was and is going to be, is.

The Egyptians and Phoenicians knew that very well, but Christians have forgotten it.

Fancy knew that Walter could not read, so she related Upsilon's story to him, just as I am doing for the reader.

Some centuries later he had become an elephant; then a moment later, i. e., about ten years before the opening of my story—I mean years as we mortals reckon them—he was elevated to the class of man.

I don't know what sins he may have committed as an elephant.

Anyway, Fancy had said, that in order to return to his station as a spirit-prince in a short time and escape any further degradation it was necessary for him to be diligent and well behaved in his present state, and not write any robber songs, or slip out things and sell them—even if it was only a Bible.

And, too, he must become reconciled to seeing Juffrouw Pieterse without a train on her dress. Fancy said it couldn't be helped.

This "Fancy" must have been some lady at his mother's court, who visited him in his exile to comfort and encourage him, so that he wouldn't think they were punishing him because they were angry with him.

She promised to visit him from time to time. "But," asked Walter, "how is my little sister getting along?"

"She's being punished, too. You know the law. She is patient with it all and promises to improve. At first she was a fire-ball; but she behaved so nicely that she was soon changed to a moon-beam; and also in this state there was nothing against her. It seemed to be a pleasure for her; and it was all her mother could do to keep from shortening the punishment. She was soon turned into vapor, and stood the test well; for she filled the universe. That was about the time you began to eat grass. Soon she was a butterfly. But your mother did not consider this suitable for a girl and had her changed into a constellation. There she stands before us now."

It often happens that we do not see a thing because it is too big.

"Look," said Fancy. "There—to the right! No, further—there, there—the north star! That is her left eye. You can't see her right, because she is bending over towards Orion, the doll which she holds in her lap and caresses."

Walter saw it plainly enough and cried: "Omicron, Omicron!"

"No, no, prince," said the lady of the court, "that will not do. Each must undergo his punishment alone. It's already a great concession that you two are imprisoned in the same universe. Recently, when your little brothers flooded the milky way with sin, they were separated completely."

Walter was sad. How gladly would he have kissed his little sister!—that group of stars nursing the doll.

"Ah, Fancy, let me be with Omicron."

Fancy said neither yes nor no.

She looked as if she were reflecting on the possibility of accomplishing the almost impossible.

Walter, taking courage from her hesitation, repeated his request.

"Ah, let me live with my little sister again, even if I have to eat grass or build continents—I will eat and build with pleasure, if I may only be with Omicron."

Probably Fancy was afraid to promise something beyond her power; and she was sorry not to be able to give her promise.

"I will ask," she whispered, "and now——"

Walter rubbed his eyes. There was the bridge and the ditch. He heard the ducks cackling from the distance. He saw his mills again. Yes, yes, there they were. But their name was no longer—what was their name?

The mills were called "Morning Hour" and "Eagle," and they called out just like other sawmills: "Karre, karre, kra, kra——"

Thereupon Walter went home. We have already seen what awaited him there.



CHAPTER XIII

The preacher had come and gone. Sentence had been passed and the penalty paid. But Walter was depressed and despondent. Leentje did her best to put some animation into him, but in vain. Perhaps it was because she no longer understood her ward.

Those confidential communications of Walter's were beyond her comprehension; and often she looked at him as if she doubted his sanity. From her meagre weekly allowance she saved a few doits, thinking to gladden Walter's heart with some ginger cakes, which he had always enjoyed. It was no use: Walter's soul had outgrown ginger cakes. This discovery caused Leentje bitter pain.

"But, my dear child, be reasonable, and don't worry over such foolishness. This Fancy, or whatever the creature's name is, has mocked you; or you have dreamed it all."

"No, no, no, Leentje. It's all true. I know everything she said, and it's all true."

"But, Walter, that story about your sister—you would have known that long ago."

"I did know it, but I had forgotten it. I knew everything that Fancy told me. It had only slipped out of my mind. When she spoke, then it all came back to me distinctly."

"I will go to those mills some day," said Leentje.

And she did it. After Walter's description she was able to find the place where that important meeting had taken place. She saw the timbers, the dirt, the ducks, the meadow—everything was there, even the ashes,—everything except Fancy and her stories.

Nor could Walter find Fancy now. In vain did he go out walking with those respectable Halleman boys as often as he was in the way at home. For hours he would stand on the bridge and listen to the rattling of the sawmills; but they told him nothing, and Fancy would not return.

"She has too much to do at my mother's court," Walter sighed, and went home sad and disappointed.

When he looked out the window and saw the beautiful stars twinkling encouragement to him, he cheered up a little. His sadness was less bitter, but it was still there. Pain passed into home-sickness, a sweet longing for home, and with tears in his eyes, but no longer despairing, he whispered "Omicron, Omicron!"

Who heard that call, or understood his grief over his exile? Who observed how that sigh for the "higher" and that fiery desire had passed into a nobler state?

After long deliberations and Walter's express promise to do better, Master Pennewip had at last been prevailed upon to allow our young robber to return to school. He now had the opportunity to perfect himself in verse-writing, penmanship, verbs, "Holland Counts" and other equally important things.

The teacher said that the boy at Muiderberg had been still worse, and he had known what to prescribe. Walter would do all right now, he thought; but Juffrouw Pieterse must get another pastor, for the present one belonged to the class of "drinkers." This she did. Walter was to receive religious instruction from a real preacher.

I don't remember the title of the book, but the first lines were:

"Q. From whom did you and everything in existence have its origin?"

Walter wanted to say, From my mother; but the book said:

"Ans. From God, who made everything out of nothing."

"Q. How do you know that?"

"Ans. From nature and revelation."

Walter didn't know what it meant, but like the good-natured, obedient child that he was, he repeated faithfully what he had memorized from the book. It was annoying for him to have his Sundays spoiled by recitations in the Kings of Israel—days so well suited for rambling. He was jealous of the Jews, who were always led away—a misfortune that seemed delightful to him. But he worked away patiently, and was not the worst of those apprentices in religion. At the end of the year he received a book containing three hundred and sixty-five scriptural texts, twenty-one prayers, as many graces, the Lord's Prayer, the ten commandments and the articles of faith. It also contained directions for using it—once a day through the year, three times a day for a week, etc., etc.; or simply use as needed. On a leaf pasted in the front of the book was written:

To Walter Pieterse as a Reward for Excellent recitations in the Noorderkerk and as an Encouragement for him to continue to Honor God in the manner in which he has begun.

Under this were the names of the preacher and the officers of the church, ornamented with flourishes that would have put Pennewip to shame.

The outward respectability of the Hallemans continued to increase. The parents of these children had hired a garden on the "Overtoom." That was so "far out," they said; and then they "couldn't stay in the city forever." Besides, the expense was "not so much"; for there was one gardener for everybody; and then, there were plenty of berries growing there, and that was always very nice. There would be grass enough for bleaching the linen—an important item, for just lately, said the mother of the Hallemans, there had been iron-rust in Betty's dress. For that reason it was the very thing to rent the garden; and if people said anything about it, it would only be because they were jealous. And, too, there was a barrel there for rainwater; and Mrs. Karels had said it leaked, but it was not true; for everyone must know what he's doing; but when you do anything, everybody is talking about it. If one paid any attention to it, one would never get anything done—and it would be such a recreation for the children. Juffrouw Karels ought to attend to her own business—and when Gustave's birthday came, he might invite some "young gentlemen."

Gustave's birthday came. "Young gentlemen" were to be invited, and—Walter was among that select number.

It would lead me too far from the subject to enter upon an investigation of the motives that prompted Gustave and Franz to invite their former partner in the peppermint business. The list was made out and approved by their mother; and as Juffrouw Pieterse felt flattered, there was no objection from her side. Walter must promise, of course, to behave properly and be "respectable," not to soil his clothes, not to wrestle and tear his clothes, and many other things of a similar nature. Juffrouw Pieterse added that it was a great favor on her part to let him go, for such visits made a lot of work for her.

Yes, Walter was to make a visit! Eat, drink and enjoy himself under a strange roof. It was a great event in his life, and already he was becoming less jealous of the Jews, who went away so often, and finally never came back home at all.

It was midday now—that glorious midday. With indescribable dignity, for a boy, Walter stepped through the gate-way. "A little to right—to the left, to the left again, then over a bridge, and then to the right straight ahead. You can't miss it," Gustave had said. The name of the garden was "City Rest," so all Walter had to do was to "ask," and he would "find it."

And so it was.

Anyone making a call or visit for the first time always arrives too early. So it was with Walter, who reached City Rest before any of the other guests. But the boys received him cordially and presented him to their mother, who said that Walter had a pretty face, if it were only not so pale.

The other playmates came then, and running and throwing began, in the customary boyish style. This was interrupted with waffles and lemonade, which they "must drink quite slowly," because they were "wet with perspiration."

When the proud mother of the Hallemans was speaking of berries and the grossly slandered rainwater barrel, she might have mentioned the advantages of the leafy bower, where Betty was now sitting with a gentleman.

"Who is that?" asked Walter of little Emma, who was playing with the boys.

"That? That's Betty's sweetheart."

From that touching story of slender Cecilia we know that Walter already had his first love affair behind him; but still Emma's statement was to him something new. Up to that time he had thought that a sweetheart was a girl to whom one gives slatepencils and bonbons. But she seemed to be above such things. Walter saw immediately that he had not taken the right course with Cecilia; and all at once a desire came over him to know how a grown man treats a girl who is through school.

"Her sweetheart?"

"Oh yes—engage!"

That word was too modern for Walter. If the reader is sharp he can calculate in what year that girl married the barber's apprentice. All that is necessary is to determine when that stupid engage came into use in this sense in "III. 7, a."

"What did you say?" asked Walter.

"Engage—they go together."

"What is that?"

"Oh, they're going to get married. Don't you know?"

Walter was ashamed not to know such a simple thing; and, as is often the case, he was ashamed of being ashamed.

"Certainly, of course I know. I hadn't understood right well. Emma—will you marry me?"

For the moment Emma was unable to accommodate him, as she was engage with her mother; but as soon as she was free she would consider the matter, and Walter would probably be favored. She looked at him sweetly—and then the game called her to another part of the yard.

Love is the instinct for unity—and the instinct for multiplicity. As everywhere, nature is simple here in principle, but manifold in application. The love of a thief means: Come, we will go steal together. The servant of the Word unites with his loved one in prayer and psalm, etc., every animal after his kind.

Or is this instinct to share, to be together, to be united at the same the instinct for the good?

In Walter's case it was, even though he himself did not know it. Had he not, in the name of Cecilia, liberated a bird that fluttered about its narrow cage in distress? Of course Cecilia had laughed and asked Walter if he was crazy. She did not know that there was any connection between his sympathy for the poor little bird and the beating of his heart when he scratched her name on the frozen window-pane in the back room. Perhaps she would have understood if she had loved Walter; but that was impossible, because he still wore his jacket stuffed in his trousers.

At all events, it was not possible for him to think of anything bad when he called "Omicron." He had now forgotten Cecilia, and would have been greatly surprised if she had appeared in answer to his call. Little Emma would have come nearer meeting his requirements.

Walter felt that he must know just how the young man was proceeding with Betty in the bower. He soon found an excuse to separate himself from his companions; and then he heard all sorts of things that did not make him much wiser.

"Yes, I said so too. In May——"

"Certainly, on account of the top story——"

"It's annoying! And what does your mother say?"

"Hm—she says we must wait another year, that it isn't respectable to get married in such a hurry—it's just as if——"

"Four years——"

"Yes, four years. Louw and Anna have been engaged for seven."

Walter was proud that he knew exactly what it all meant. To rent an upper story together, preferably in May!—that was the way he understood it.

"And do you get that press for the linen?"

"No, mother wants to keep it. But if we will only wait a year she will give us another one—a small one."

"The big one would have been nicer."

"I think so too, but she says young people don't need a big press. But when my sister was married she got a big one."

"Tell them you want a big one too."

"It's no use."

"Try it. I won't marry without that big one."

"I will make them——"

This is a fair sample of what Walter overheard. He was dissatisfied and slipped away and hid himself, lost in thought. He didn't even know himself what was the matter with him; but when Emma came and called him he looked as if he had been thinking of anything else but presses and vacant flats, for in a tone at once joyous and fearful he cried:

"Could it be she—my little sister?"

It was evening now, and the children were to continue their games indoors. As the little party was tired, one of the grown-ups was going to tell a story.

Just what "grown-up" had been requisitioned to narrate the story of Paradise and Peri, I don't know. Anyway the story hardly harmonized with Betty's engagement and that love-obstructing clothes-press. But just as Fortune is said to smile on everyone once in a lifetime, so, in the midst of the flatness and insipidity of everyday life, it seems that something always happens which gives that one who lays hold of it opportunity to lift himself above the ordinary and commonplace. To the drowning man a voice calls: "Stretch out thy arms, thou canst swim."

"After Peri had begged long, but in vain, at the gates of paradise to be admitted to the land of the blessed, she brought at last, as the most beautiful thing in the world, the sigh of a repentant sinner; and she found favor with the keeper of the gate on account of the sacredness of the gift she had brought——"

"Let's play forfeits now!" cried Gustave.

"Forfeits! Forfeits!" everybody called out after him.

And they played forfeits. Pawns were redeemed; and of course there was some kissing done. Riddles were given that nobody could guess; and who ever knew must not tell—a usual condition in this game.

"Heavy, heavy hangs over your head; what shall the owner do to possess it?"

"Stand on one leg for five minutes."

"Let him jump over a straw—or recite a poem!"

"No, a fable—la cigale, or something like that."

"Yes, yes!"

It was Walter's pawn.

"I don't know any fable," he said, embarrassed; "and I don't know French either."

"I will help you," cried Emma. "Le pere, du pere——"

"That's no fable! Go ahead, Walter!"

For some of the party it was a joy that Walter knew no Fable and no French. If it were only known how often one can do a kindness by being stupid, perhaps many, out of love for humanity, would affect stupidity.

But Walter did not think of the pleasure of the others—which he could not have understood. He wept, and was angry at Master Pennewip, who had taught him no French and no fable.

"Forward, Walter, forward!" insisted the holder of the pawn.

"It needn't be French. Just tell a fable."

"But I don't know what a fable is."

"Oh, it's a story with animals."

"Yes, or with trees! Le chene un jour dit au roseau—don't you see, you can have one without animals."

"Yes, yes, a fable is just a story—nothing else. You can have in it anything you want to."

"But it must rhyme!"

Walter was thinking about reciting his robber song, but fortunately he reconsidered the matter. That would have been scandalous in the home of the Hallemans, who were so particularly respectable.

"No," cried another, who was again wiser than all the rest, "it needn't rhyme. The cow gives milk—Jack saw the plums hanging—Prince William the First was a great thinker. Don't you see, Walter, it's as easy as rolling off of a log. Go ahead and tell something, or else you won't get your pawn."

Walter began.

"A little boy died once who was not allowed to go to heaven——"

"Oho! That's the story of Peri. Tell something else."

"I was going to change it," said Walter, embarrassed. "And so the little boy couldn't enter the heavenly gates, because he didn't know French, and because he had sometimes been bad, and because he hadn't learned his lessons, and also because he—because he"——I believe Walter had something on the end of his tongue about his mother's box of savings, but he swallowed it, that he might not offend the Hallemans by any allusion to the peppermint business—"because he once laughed during prayers. For it is certain, boys, that if you laugh during prayers you'll never get to heaven."

"So—o-oo?" asked several, conscious of their guilt.

"Yes, they can't go to heaven. Now the boy had had a sister, who died one year before him. He had loved her a lot, and when he died he began to hunt for his sister right away. 'Who is your sister?' he was asked."

"Who asked him that?"

"Be still! Don't interrupt him. Let Walter tell his story!"

"I don't know who asked that. The boy said that his little sister had on a blue dress and had dimples in her cheeks, and——"

"Just like Emma!"

"Yes, exactly like Emma. They told him that there was a little girl in heaven that looked just like that. She had come the year before, and had asked them to let her brother in, who would certainly inquire after her. But the boy could not go in. I have already said why."

"Had the little girl always learned her lessons?"

"Of course! Don't you see she had? Let Walter go on with his story!"

"It was sad that he could not get to see his sister any more. He felt that it hadn't really been worth the trouble to die. 'Oh, just let me in!' he begged the gentleman at the door——"

"At the gate!" corrected several simultaneously, who, though untouched by the sublimity of Walter's conception of death, were offended by the commonplaceness of the word door. But such things happen frequently.

"All right!" said Walter. He was ashamed that he had offended against propriety. "The gentleman at the gate said, 'No!' and then the poor boy returned to the earth."

"That won't do," cried the philosophical contingency, "whoever is dead remains dead."

"Don't interrupt him. Of course it's only a story!"

Walter continued: "He returned to the earth and learned French. Then he appeared at the gate again and said, 'Oui, Monsieur!' but it did no good; he was not admitted."

"I should think not; he ought to have said: 'j'aime, tu aimes.'"

"I don't know anything about that," Walter replied.

"Then he went to the earth again and learned his lessons till he could say them backwards. He did this for the keeper of the gate; but all this did no good; he was not allowed to go in."

"Of course not," cried one of the wise ones, "to get to heaven you must be confirmed. Had he been confirmed?"

"No. That's the reason it was so difficult. Then he tried something else. He said that he was engaged to his sister."

"Just like Betty," cried Emma.

"Yes, like Betty—and that he loved her and wanted to marry her. But it was all of no use; they wouldn't let him into heaven.

"Finally he didn't dare go to the gate any more, for fear the keeper would get angry at him."

"And then? What happened?"

"I don't know," Walter stuttered. "I don't know what he ought to do to get to heaven."

Walter knew the rest of the story very well, but he couldn't put it into words. This was shown in a peculiar manner an hour later.

On the way home the party was almost run over by a wagon just as they were crossing a bridge. In the commotion Emma slipped under the railing and fell into the stream. Somebody screamed, and Walter sprang after her.

If he had died at that moment the keeper of the gate would hardly have turned him away because he didn't know French and had not been confirmed.

When he was brought home, wet and dirty, Juffrouw Pieterse said that one ought not to tempt the Master, and that's what one did when one jumped into the water without being able to swim.

But I find that the man who can't swim is the very one to expect something of the Master; for the man who can swim has some prospect of helping himself.

And Juffrouw Pieterse complained that there was "always something the matter with that boy." There was something the matter with him.



CHAPTER XIV

Juffrouw Pieterse must have inherited something, for all at once the Pieterses moved to a more respectable neighborhood, and the daughters no longer knew any of the girls that they used to sew with. Such things do happen in cases of inheritance, when one moves to a more select quarter. Besides, there were other signs. They exerted themselves in trying to get Leentje to speak "better Dutch." Stoffel was zealous in teaching her, but Juffrouw Pieterse spoiled everything by her bad example.

Walter was now wearing a new jacket, with a small collar, such as cabmen wore later. For him a jacket to stuff in the trousers was a thing of the past. It "looked so babyish," the young ladies said, and was "out of the question now when the boy can write poetry."

That Walter could write poetry was boasted of to everybody that would listen. Under the circumstances they really had no right to reap any fame from Walter's robber song; but this only showed what an important role vanity plays in the world. Of course he himself never heard anything of this; it was mentioned only when he was not present.

The image of Cecilia had disappeared from Walter's heart; and little Emma was forgotten. Omicron must show her face in the stars from time to time to remind the child of his love. And even when he looked at the evening sky and his soul was stirred by an inexpressible longing after the good, it was not so much that he was thinking of Omicron as that he was moved by vague sweet memories. In the twelve years of his life there was a mythical prehistoric period which was difficult to separate from the historical period.

He didn't know that he could write verses. He accepted it as a matter of course that his robber song was very poor, and looked upon Klaasje van der Gracht with awe. It was from Juffrouw Laps he learned that he could write poetry; and it was an illumination for him.

Juffrouw Laps had an uncle whose birthday was coming the next week. She had paid the Pieterses a swell visit to ask if Walter wouldn't write her a poem for the occasion. She would see that he got some bonbons.

"But Juffrouw Pieterse, you must tell him that it must be religious and that my uncle is a widower. He must bring that in. I should like for it to be in the melody of the 103d psalm, for my uncle has that psalm in his lyre."

The reader will note that she did not mean the lyre of Apollo. What she spoke of was a thing that turned, and made a screechy noise.

Juffrouw Pieterse was going to speak with Walter about it when he came from school, but first she had to consider the matter with Stoffel, to decide whether it should be a request or a command, so that Walter would have no reason to be "stuck-up." For that she could not endure in a child.

"Walter, did you know your lesson?"

"No, mother; I had to learn thirteen mountains in Asia, and I knew only nine."

"Now, look here, that won't do. I'm paying tuition for nothing. Do you think money grows on my back? I don't know what's to become of you."

"I don't know, either."

After all, though, Walter was flattered by the commission to write a poem. Stoffel's and Juffrouw Pieterse's efforts to conceal their real opinion of his poetical talents had been useless. It was a pleasant surprise for the boy to learn that he was looked up to. He had always heard that he was worse than worthless, and that he would never amount to anything. It interested him now to hear the assurance of his mother and Stoffel that the commission was only a punishment for not knowing the mountains in Asia. In a great rush Stoffel taught him the difference between "masculine" and "feminine" verses, explaining that these must alternate, that all must be of the same length, and that if at any time the boy was in doubt he would clear the matter up, etc., etc.

Walter was delighted. He went to the back room, got a slate pencil and began to write. It could hardly be called a success. "A widower of God"—"O God, a widower!" That was as far as he got.

He gnawed on the pencil till he had pulverized it and worn out his teeth, but it wouldn't go. He was continually being interrupted by Stoffel's masculine and feminine verses. He had been too proud, and now he was receiving his punishment. He began to believe that his mother was right when she said nothing would ever come of him.

Nor could Leentje help him. So he determined to make another attempt to-morrow. Perhaps he could do better then. Leentje agreed with him.

"All right," said Juffrouw Pieterse. "But don't disgrace us all. Remember, I told Juffrouw Laps you could do it; and the man's birthday comes Thursday week. So you haven't any too much time."

Walter went to Ash Gate, found his bridge and began to weep bitterly.

"See what's the matter with that boy," he heard a woman saying to a girl fourteen or fifteen years old. "Perhaps he has lost something."

"Have you lost anything?"

Walter looked up, and was surprised; for he seemed to have seen that face before. It reminded him of Fancy.

"Now, everything will be all right There you are; and I have been hunting for you."

"For me?"

"Yes, yes, but I just didn't know it. But I know it now. Tell me right quick how to write the poem!"

The girl, who was helping her mother place the linen on the grass for bleaching, looked at Walter in astonishment. She hurried back to her mother to say that she didn't know what was the matter with the boy, but that there was certainly something wrong. "He looks as if he were scared half to death," she decided.

Then she ran and fetched water from the house near by and made Walter drink. He saw that he had made a mistake; but there was something in the manner of the girl that drew him to her irresistibly, even though her name was only Femke. So the mother addressed her. And this name reminded him of Fancy, which was something.

Femke pointed to an inverted basket and told him to tell the cause of his trouble; and Walter did it as well as he could, while the mother was busy with the linen.

"Maybe I can help you," the mother said. "I have a nephew who is a widower."

"Yes, Juffrouw—but the poem? And there must be something about God in it."

"Certainly. It's a long story. His wife was a niece of my husband's—you see we are Catholics, and she acted according to her religion—put a stone on those cloths, Femke, or they'll blow away—yes, bleaching is a job. You have no idea what a bother it is—yes, she acted according to her religion; and that was right. People that don't do that are not much. But he—draw that shirt back a little, Femke. The sleeve is hanging in the ditch—but he didn't believe in it, and said it was all nonsense. But when she died, and he saw all that was done for her—it was Father Jansen who was there. Of course you know him—he always walks with a black cane, but he never lets it touch the ground——"

The women looked at Walter questioningly. The poor boy sat on the basket, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands. He had listened with open mouth, wondering how he was going to apply it all to his poem. Of Father Jansen and that cane which despised the ground he had never heard. This he had to confess.

"Yes, it was Father Jansen who was there, and when my husband's nephew saw all that—don't spill any, Femke, or the mud will splatter so bad—yes, when he saw that a human being doesn't die like an animal, then he was more respectful, and after that he observed Easter like other people. And last year when he broke his leg—he's a dyer, you know—he drew thirteen stivers for nine weeks. And so I wanted to tell you that there's a widower in our family. And now you must get up, for I need the basket."

Walter arose quickly, as if he feared he might seem to be trespassing; and the woman went away, after having warned Femke to watch the linen and call her if any bad boys should come along.

"Are you better now?" Femke asked kindly.

"Oh yes; but I don't see how I'm to use all that in my poem. You must remember that it has to rhyme, and the verses must be of the same length, and that they must be masculine and feminine; for my brother said so, and he's a school-teacher."

Femke reflected, then all at once she cried, "Do you know Latin?" As if Latin would help Walter.

"No," disconsolately.

"Well, it really makes no difference. It's in Dutch, too. Just watch the linen a minute."

Walter promised, and Femke ran to the house.

Then some boys came along throwing rocks. Walter, conscious of his responsibility, called to them to desist—or words to that effect. This only made them worse. They came closer, and, to worry Walter, began to walk over the linen. For him it was as if they were mistreating Femke, and he charged on the miscreants. But it was two against one, and a weaker one at that; so he would have soon been defeated if his lady had not returned quickly. She rescued him and drove off his assailants; and when she saw that his lip was bleeding she gave him a kiss. The boy's heart trembled; all at once his soul was lifted to an unfamiliar level; and for the first time in weeks he felt again that princely nature that had given Leentje such a fright. His eyes shone, and the boy, who but a moment ago did not know how he was to write some rhymes, was filled with the feelings and emotions that make poets of men.

"O Fancy, Fancy, to die for thee—to die with such a kiss on the lips!"

It hurt him to think that the boys were gone. If there had been ten of them he would have had courage for the unequal fight.

And Femke, who had never heard of poetical overflows, understood him immediately, for she was a pure, innocent girl. She felt Walter's chivalry, and knew that she was the lady to reward it.

"You are a dear sweet boy," she said, taking his head between her hands and kissing him again, and again—as if she had done something of this kind before. But such was not the case.

"And now you must read the verses in the little book. Maybe it will help you to write for your aunt——"

"She isn't my aunt," Walter said, "but of course I will look through the book."

He laid it on the railing of the bridge and began to read. Femke, who was taller than he, had put one arm around his neck, while with the other hand she was pointing out what he should read.

"Don't you see?" she said, "the lines are the same length."

"Yes, but they don't rhyme." And Walter read:

Mother most pure, Mother undefiled, Virgin most powerful, Virgin most merciful, Virgin most faithful, Spiritual vessel, Vessel of honor, Vessel of singular devotion, Mystical rose, Tower of David, Tower of Ivory, Gate of Heaven——

"But, Femke, how am I to use that for my poem? I don't understand any of it."

Femke didn't understand much of it either. She had been reading the book every day for the past four or five years, and she had always been satisfied with her comprehension of it. But now she saw that she was as ignorant about it as Walter. She was ashamed and closed the book.

"But don't you know what Faith is?" she asked, as if this defect might account for the general ignorance of both.

"Not that way," Walter replied. "I learned it another way."

"But you believe in Jesus, don't you?"

"Oh, yes. That's God's son. But I didn't learn anything about vessels and towers. Do they belong to faith?"

"Why, certainly! But you know the holy virgin, Maria!"

"So? Maria? No, I don't."

"And Purgatory?"

"I don't know anything about it."

"And confession?"

"No."

"What do you do then?"

"How do you mean, Femke?"

"I mean to be saved."

"I don't know," Walter replied. "You mean, to get to heaven?"

"Why, certainly. That's the point. And you can't do that without the holy virgin and such a book. Shall I teach you the creed, Walter? Then we'll be together in heaven."

That pleased Walter, and Femke and Walter began:

"God created the world——"

"What did he do before that, Femke?"

"I don't know. But the people were made wicked by a snake; then the Pope pronounced a curse upon the snake, for the Pope lives in Rome, you know. And then Jesus was crucified to make the people good again. That was a long time ago."

"Yes, I know," Walter said, "Jesus changed the number of the year. At his birth he began at nought."

Femke didn't know again. In this way each supplemented the knowledge of the other; and Walter was proud that he knew something about the creed, even if Femke did think it the wrong creed.

"And so Jesus made the people good again, and if you will pray out of such a book you will be saved. Do you understand, Walter?"

"Not quite. What is an ivory tower?"

"Why, that's only a name for the virgin. It's as if you were to call the pastor father. Now you understand."

Femke hunted for another illustration.

"You have a mother; what do you call her?"

"Why, I call her mother."

"Correct. What do the other people call her?"

"They call her Juffrouw Pieterse."

"Just so. When we call the holy virgin 'ivory tower' it's just like calling your mother Juffrouw Pieterse. Ivory gate means that to get to heaven we must go through the holy virgin. That's the main thing."

"But, Femke, what is a virgin?"

Femke blushed.

"That is anybody that has never had a child."

"Me?" asked Walter in astonishment.

"No, child, it must be a girl!"

"Are you a virgin?"

"Of course!"

Femke spoke the unvarnished truth.

"Of course—because I'm not married."

"But Maria was married—and Jesus was her child."

"Ah, that's where the holiness comes in," replied Femke. "And for that reason she is called the ivory gate. Do you understand now, Walter?"

Walter did not understand; but he asked permission to take the book home with him, that he might study it. That, however, was not possible, as Femke needed the book every day. Walter consoled himself easily, for not for anything in the world would he have endangered Femke's salvation. Femke asked him to come again. She would be glad to tell him all she knew about the matter; and, if both should get tangled up, she would ask Father Jansen about it. And then Walter would soon be as wise as she was.

Walter withdrew; i. e., after he had kissed Femke heartily. This meeting with her, the mysterious book, salvation, the fight with the boys—all these things would run through his mind whenever he tried to think of the poem. It seemed to him that there was some connection between them.

When he got home he turned through Stoffel's books, hoping to find something about holy vessels, ivory towers, and immaculate virgins. But they were all school books, and gave information about everything else but salvation. Walter was crushed, but he was still searching.

"Master Pennewip had a father and mother; and certainly old Pennewip, too, who slaughtered hogs; and the one before him, too—but who was the first Pennewip? And who slaughtered the hogs before old Pennewip? And before there were any hogs, what did butchers do? And——"

I will know all of that some day, Walter thought. If he could have only quieted himself so well about his poem! If that were only written, he thought, then he would clear up the lost causes of everything. In the meanwhile he dreamed of Femke, of her blue eyes, her friendliness, her soft lips—and of her voice, when she said, "You are a dear, sweet boy."

Could it be that she is Omicron? he thought.

And thus the child dreamed, dreamed; and, just as in the development of humanity, in his life was working a three-fold impulse, towards love, knowledge, and conflict.

"But Walter, don't you read any books at home about the creed?"

Thus Femke questioned her little friend the next day, as he sat on her basket again.

"Yes, but they're not pretty."

"Don't you know anything by heart?"

Walter repeated a stanza of a reformed church hymn. This found no favor with Femke; though she liked his reciting.

"Don't you read anything else?"

Walter reflected: he flew through Stoffel's library—works of the Poetical Society, Geology by Ippel, On Orthography, Regulations for the Fire-Watch, Story of Joseph by Hulshoff, Brave Henry, Jacob Among His Children, Sermons by Hellendoorn, A Catechism by the same, Hoorn's Song-book.

He felt that all of this would not prove very imposing for Femke. Finally:

"I do know something, but it isn't about faith and the creed. It's about Glorioso."

Femke promised to listen, and he began to relate the story. At first he spoke mechanically, using all the "and then's": but soon he put himself into the soul of the hero and told the story better than he had read it in the greasy book. At every deed of Glorioso he would spring from the basket and act the part of that hero in a way that made Femke's blood run cold. Still, how magnificent she found it! And when at last he was through, a spark from his peculiar but sincere enthusiasm had fallen into her heart, which like his beat with delight over the beauty of what she had heard. Her cheeks glowed—really, if a Treckschent had started to Italy at that moment I believe she would have gone along, in order to take part in so much danger and adventure—and love. The nicest thing about the story was that it showed how firm such a robber is in the faith.

"Don't you know another story?"

"Yes," said Walter. "One more. It's in a little book—a calendar, I believe."

And he related the story of Telasco and Kusco and the beautiful Aztalpa.

Telasco and Kusco, sons of the King of the Sun-worshipers, were twins; and so both were equally near the throne. They loved each other devotedly; so which would give way for the other? Which of the two was to become Inca? Funeral pyres were built, one for each, and prayers were offered to the sun that one of the piles might be ignited. But the sun did not light either. He ordered that Aztalpa, the sister, should choose one. That one to whom she offered her hand should inherit the throne and the empire. But the princess could not decide, for she loved them both dearly and both equally. It was then decided that both should go out hunting on a certain morning, and that the one who killed the first doe should become king. Telasco had red arrows, Kusco blue. The morning came. The brothers were lying in a thicket as the deer approached. Both fired, and both missed. Then they swore mutually not to miss intentionally the next time. They kept the oath, and two deer fell; but Telasco had shot one of Kusco's arrows, and Kusco one of Telasco's. Telasco then proposed that Aztalpa should be killed, to avoid any discord in the empire; and in the other world both would enjoy the same place in her affections. All agreed to this; but when the fatal day came, Aztalpa fell on her knees before Telasco and begged that she might receive her death at the hand of Kusco. Telasco cried: "Aztalpa, you have chosen!" All bowed down before Kusco; and when they looked for Telasco he had disappeared. He was never seen again.

Often Femke interrupted with questions, for there was much that was strange and wonderful to her; but she was charmed with the story and shared all of Walter's enthusiasm.

"I tell you, though, Walter, if that girl had known what Telasco was up to she wouldn't have done it. But the story is beautiful. I wonder if such things really happen."

"That was far from here, Femke, and a long time ago. That's just the way it was in the book. But now I must go home, for I haven't a stiver to pay the gate-keeper if I come in after eight. Oh, Femke—if I were only through with that poetry business."

"It will turn out all right. Just think of Telasco. He had a difficult task, too."

"No! I will think of the girl. Good-evening, Femke——"

Walter received the hearty kiss that his story had earned him, and dreaming of Aztalpa, who was guarding the linen, he passed through the Ash Gate and turned towards home. The moon shone so brightly that he was annoyed not to have been able to remain with Femke. How much better, he thought, could he have told his story by moonlight! But he didn't have the price—a stiver.



CHAPTER XV

The moon paused on the sky, as if she were weary of her lonely lot. Was she grieved because ungrateful humanity had fallen asleep and was ignoring her?—or because of the light borrowed from her for thousands of years, and none returned? She poured forth her sorrow in heart-breaking noiseless elegies till the night-wind was moved to pity. Whish! he went through the trees; and the leaves danced. Crash! he went over the roof; and the tiles flew away, and chimneys bowed meekly; and over the walls and ditches the sawmills danced with the logs they were to saw. There a girl sat sleeping. Could it be Femke? The linen danced about her to the music of the wind, the shirts making graceful bows and extending their sleeves. Nightcaps, dickeys and drawers danced the minuet; stockings, skirts, collars, handkerchiefs waltzed thicker and thicker around the sleeping girl. Her curls began to flutter—a smile, a sigh, and she sprang to her feet. A whirlwind caught her up and——

"O, heavens, Femke, Femke!" and Walter grasped at the apparition that was being borne away towards the moon in a cloud of stockings, socks, drawers, shirts and collars.

"Mother! Walter's pinching me," cried Laurens, the printer's apprentice; and Juffrouw Pieterse groaned, that those boys couldn't even keep quiet at night.

The "House of Pieterse" gathered at Walter's bed. There was the noble mother of the family enveloped in a venerable jacket that fell in broad folds over a black woolen skirt. There was Trudie, with her stupid blue eyes; and Myntje and Pietje—but what am I talking about? In the new home Trudie had become Gertrude, like a morganatic princess in Hessia; and Myntje was now Mina, but preferred to be called Mine, as that sounded more Frenchy. But her stupid face remained unchanged. Pietje was now Pietro. Stoffel had said that was a very swell name.

Stoffel, too, had now appeared on the scene, to the great astonishment of his mother, who expected so much of him. This fine sense of propriety had been developed in the new home.

"What's the matter with you, boy?" cried everybody at once.

"Oh, mother, Femke—Femke!"

"The boy is foolish." That was the unanimous verdict of the family.

And they were not altogether wrong. Walter was delirious.

"They are carrying her away—around and around—Daughter of the Sun, decide—here is Telasco—thou shalt die, Aztalpa—Femke, stay, stay, I will watch the clothes—I will shoot the doe—a widower of God—together through the ivory gate—there she is again—stay, Omicron!"

"Ought we to call in a preacher?" asked Juffrouw Pieterse hesitatingly. She didn't know whether praying was needed or a whipping—or both.

And now, perhaps for the first time in his life, Stoffel expressed a sensible thought: "Mother, we ought to have a doctor. Walter is sick."

Walter had nervous fever. It was fortunate for him that a doctor was called in, and still more fortunate that it was a man who understood Walter's mental troubles. He exerted a most wholesome influence on the boy; though this came later, as at first he could only treat the disease.

On Juffrouw Pieterse, too, he had a good influence. To her great astonishment, he explained to her that children ought not to be packed together in a bed as if they were superfluous pieces of furniture being thrown aside; that air, light, play, enjoyment, exercise are all necessary for the development of body and soul; that whipping does no good, and that she had better dispense with her "divine worship." He told her of other things she had never heard of; and she listened willingly, for the doctor——

"Ah, dear Juffrouw Laps, you must manage to be here when he comes. He writes the prescriptions with a gold pen; and his coachman wears a brown bear-skin cape."

That gold pen and the bear-skin cape! Ah, if everyone who preaches truth could only dress up his coachman so swell! But alas, alas—I know a great many people who love the truth, and they have no coachman at all—not to mention the bear-skin.

And gold pens often get into the wrong hands.

"I just wanted Juffrouw Zipperman to come sometime when the doctor's here. Run and tell her, Gertrude, that I said Walter was sick, and say that we have lunch about twelve. He came about that time yesterday. And Leentje, you go to the grocer's—we need salt—have something to say about it—it's not just to be gossiping, you know—I despise gossip—but I would like to know if the people have noticed it. And you, Pietro, remember that you are to give me a clean cap when he comes—for the doctor is such an elegant gentleman, and such a doctor! And all that he said—I drank it all in. Mina, you mustn't stare at him again like that; it's not proper. But I'm curious to know if the people at the grocer's have seen him!"

I shouldn't like to be severe on her; but it seems to me that Juffrouw Pieterse was gradually beginning to take pleasure in Walter's illness.

There is something swell in having such a carriage standing before one's door.

Juffrouw Laps had come: "But dear Juffrouw Pieterse, what am I to do about my uncle? You are invited; and I have told him that there will be a poem."

"Very bad, Juffrouw Laps. You can see though that that poor worm can't write the poem. What about Stoffel? Why not ask him to write it?"

"It's all right with me. Just so it's a poem; otherwise I'm disgraced."

Stoffel was requested to take Walter's place, but he raised objections at once.

"You don't know what that would mean, mother. I would lose the respect of the boys. For anyone working with youth, respect is the main thing; and such a poem——"

"But the boys at school need not know it."

"But the man would tell somebody and then—you don't understand it. At the Diaconate school there was a fellow who wrote verses; and what has become of him? He went to India, mother, and he still owes me for half a bottle of ink. That's the way it goes, mother. For me to write such a poem? No, no, mother—for a boy like Walter it's all right; but when one is already a teacher!"

"And Master Pennewip?" cried Juffrouw Laps.

"The very man!" cried Stoffel, as if this supported his former argument. "A happy thought! Master Pennewip will do it."

"I've read a poem by him, Stoffel."

"Yes, yes. And you've read a poem by him. That's because—but how shall I explain that to you, Juffrouw Laps? You know that in teaching there are all kinds of things. Take Geography, for example. I will just mention one fact: Madrid is on the Manganares. Understand, mother?"

"Yes, yes, Stoffel. That's just as if you were to say——"

"Amsterdam on the Y. Exactly so. And then there are many, many more things, Juffrouw Laps. You have no idea how much there is of it. A grocer mixes sugar with something else. He must calculate exactly what he must get for a pound in order not to lose money. Think of it! And then you have partnership, and breakage, and the verbs—but I must go before those rascals break everything."

Stoffel returned to school earlier than usual, without having diminished Juffrouw Laps's difficulties very much. That poor woman could not comprehend how geography and Madrid and the grocer and partnerships made it impossible for Stoffel to write verses. Juffrouw Pieterse smoothed the matter over as well as she could and sent Juffrouw Laps to Master Pennewip.

That gentleman was alarmed when he saw the angry "sucking animal," but he quieted down as soon as he heard the object of her visit.

"To what class does your uncle belong, Juffrouw?"

"Why, to the class—you mean the mussel-shells and eggs?"

"No, no, Juffrouw, I mean on which rung of the ladder is he—how high up. I repeat it, on what rung—it's a figure, Juffrouw—on what rung of the social ladder?"

"In the grain business? Is that what you mean?"

"That is not sufficient, Juffrouw Laps. One may be in the grain business as a pastry cook, a baker, a retailer, a wholesaler, or as a broker; and all these vocations have their peculiar sub-divisions. Take Joseph in Egypt, for example. This man of God, whom some place in the class of patriarchs, while others claim—but let that be as it may. It is certain that Joseph bought corn and was on the topmost rung of the ladder, for we read in Genesis, chapter 41——"

"Yes, indeed, he rode in Pharaoh's carriage, and he wore a white silk coat. My uncle is an agent, and my father was the same."

"So-o-oo? Agent! That's something Moses doesn't mention, and I don't know in what class——" He spoke slowly, puzzling over his words.

"Besides, my uncle is a widower."

"Ah, there we have the difference! We read that Joseph wooed Asnath, the daughter of Potiphar; but nowhere do we read that his spouse was already dead when he went into the corn business. Therefore, Juffrouw Laps, if it is your earnest desire to have a pious poem written on your uncle, I advise you to go to my pupil, Klaasje van der Gracht."

He explained to her where that prodigy might be found.

Again I must beg pardon if my criticism of Pennewip is too severe; but he gave me reasons enough to harbor ugly suspicions against him. I am convinced that he would have written that poem for Juffrouw Laps if her uncle had received a white silk coat from the king, or had ever driven through The Hague in a royal carriage. But to sing an agent in verse! He would leave that to the genius of "the flying tea-kettle" in the Peperstraat. That was not nice of Pennewip. Was that uncle to blame because his brothers never threw him into a well? or sold him into Egypt? Or because he couldn't interpret dreams? Or because cleverness is not rewarded to-day with rings, white coats, carriages and high official position?

Juffrouw Laps footed it over to the Peperstraat, where she made the acquaintance of the elder van der Gracht. The old gentleman felt flattered.

He was most gracious, and assured the Juffrouw that the poem should be written that very evening. Klaasje could bring it over the next morning and repeat it to Juffrouw Laps, and if it were found worthy as an expression of her feelings toward her uncle, then Klaasje was to be invited to be present on that evening. The father assured her that Klaasje would wear a white stand-up collar.

"Just like Joseph," said the Juffrouw. "Everything is in the Bible."

When she got home she read the forty-first chapter of Genesis, trying to find the relation of Klaasje's apotheosis to Joseph's exaltation. That night she dreamed she had a mantle in her hand.



CHAPTER XVI

It was the afternoon of the day on which Juffrouw Laps sought out Klaasje van der Gracht, and Walter was lying in bed, still weak but no longer delirious. The doctor had ordered rest and quiet. The child counted the flowers in the curtain, and, in his imagination tried to arrange them in some other order. He allowed them to jump over one another, or flow into one another. He saw in them faces, forms, armies, clouds—and all were alive and moving. It was tiresome, but he couldn't do anything else. If he turned his face toward the wall it was still worse. The hieroglyphic scratches on the wall told him all sorts of things that he didn't need to know and overwhelmed him with unnecessary impressions. He closed his eyes; but still he found no rest. It seemed to him as if he were being swept away to take part in that entertainment that the night-wind gave the moon. Everything was turning round and round, taking him along. He seized his head in both hands, as if he would stop his imagination by main strength; but it was useless. The curtains, the cords, the wall, the flowers, the dance, the whirlwind that tore Femke away—his efforts to hold her——

The boy burst into tears. He knew that it was all imagination; he knew that he was sick; he knew that chimneys don't dance, and that girls are not blown to the moon; and yet——

Weeping he called Femke's name softly, not loud enough to be heard by the others, but loud enough to relieve his own depression.

"What's that?" he cried suddenly. "Does she answer? Is that imagination, too?"

Actually, Walter heard his name called, and it was Femke's voice!

"I must know whether I'm dreaming, or not," he said, and straightened himself up in bed. "That is a red flower, that is a black one, I am Walter, Laurens is a printer's apprentice—everything is all right; and I'm not dreaming."

He leaned out of bed and listened again, his mouth and eyes as wide open as he could get them, as if the senses of taste and sight were going to reinforce that of hearing.

"O, God! Femke's voice! Yes, yes, it is Femke!" He jumped out of bed, ran out the door, and half ran, half fell down the steps.

To return to Femke for a little while. She had expected Walter at the bridge the next day after the story of the sun-worshipers. At first she thought that Walter was waiting till he could borrow from Stoffel the book with the picture showing Aztalpa embracing the two brothers. She wanted to see Walter with the picture; now she would have been satisfied with him without the picture. It couldn't be the boy's person, she thought—such a child!—but he did recite so well. Perhaps in the heart of the girl Walter and his recitals had already coalesced.

"Put the clothes in the sun," cried her mother; and Femke translated that: Sun—Peru—Aztalpa—Kusco—Walter.

"Run those fighters away; they'll throw dirt on the clothes."

Femke dreamed: Courageously fighting against the enemies of the country—the noblest tribe of the Incas—Telasco—Walter.

Everything seemed to be calling for Walter; but he did not come.

The first day she was sad; the second, impatient; the third, restless.

"Mother, I'm going to see what's become of the little boy who was going to write a poem."

"Do, my child!" said the mother. "Do you think you will find him?"

Femke nodded; but her nod was not convincing. She did not know where Walter lived and was afraid to say so. It took courage to start out to trace the child when she didn't know where he lived; and this courage she wished to conceal. And why? Just timidity incident to the tender feelings. Sometimes we conceal the good and boast of the bad.

The girl dressed herself as prettily as she could and put all her money in her pocket. It was only a few stivers. She hurried through Ash Gate and inquired where the shop was that lent books. Thus she came directly to the Hartenstraat. She simply retraced the steps of our hero, when he made that first sally with Glorioso.

Less timid than Walter—Femke was older, and had had more experience with men—she asked the gruff fellow in a business-like way for "the book about the countess with the long train or her dress."

"What? What's the title?"

"I don't know," Femke said. "It's about a robber—and the Pope's mentioned in it, too. I am hunting for the boy who read the book. I wanted to ask where he lives—I will pay you for your trouble."

"Do you think I'm a fool? Am I here to hunt for boys?"

"But, M'neer, I will pay you," the girl said, and laid the money on the counter.

"Oh, get on! What do I know about your boy?"

Femke got angry now.

"I haven't done anything, and you can't run me off like that. No, you can't. If you don't want to tell me, you needn't to. You are an unaccommodating fellow!"