She was going to leave, when it occurred to her to ask, "And won't you lend me a book, either?"

"Yes, you can get a book. What do you want?"

"That book about the robber and Amalia," said Femke. She felt now that she was a "customer," and oh, how proud she had become all at once!

"I don't know anything about such a book. Do you mean Rinaldo Rinaldini?"

"No. Is there more than one robber book? Just call over the names of them for me."

This was said with an air of importance that was not without its effect on the shopman. He pulled down the catalogue, and soon he came to "Glorioso."

"That's it, that's it!" cried Femke, delighted.

"But you must deposit a forfeit," the man said, as he mounted the ladder to get that precious book.

"No, no, I don't want the book at all. I only want to know where the boy lives who read it. I will pay you gladly," and she pointed to her money.

"That isn't necessary," he said. "I don't mind accommodating you when you ask me politely."

He looked in the register and found the name Femke had mentioned, with the address. He showed it to her, and was even going to explain to her the best way to get there; but Femke was already out the door. The fellow had difficulty in overtaking her to return the money she had forgotten on the counter.

When she reached the address given, Femke learned that the Pieterses had moved to a "sweller neighborhood." It was quite a distance away; but Femke was not deterred by that.

Once at the Pieterses', she was received by the young ladies with a rough, "What do you want?"

"Oh, Juffrouw, I wanted to ask about Walter."

"Who are you?"

"I am Femke, Juffrouw, and my mother is a wash-woman. I would like to know if Walter is all right."

"What have you got to do with Walter?" asked Juffrouw Pieterse, who had heard the commotion and came down.

"Ah, Juffrouw, don't be angry—I wanted to know; and my mother knows that I've come to ask. Walter told me about Telasco, and the girl that was to die—oh, Juffrouw, tell me if he's sick! I cannot sleep till I know."

"That's none of your business. Go, I tell you! I don't want strange people standing around the door."

"For mercy's sake, Juffrouw!" cried the girl, wringing her hands.

"The girl's crazy. Put her out, Trudie, and slam the door!"

Trudie began to execute the order. Myntje and Pietje got ready to help her; but the child clung to the balustrade and held her ground.

"Throw her out! The impudent thing!"

"Oh, Juffrouw, I'm not impudent. I will go. Just tell me whether Walter is sick. Tell me, and I will go right now. Just tell me if he's sick—if, if he's going—to die."

The poor child began to weep. Anybody else but those Pieterse women would have been touched at the sight. They were too far up the ladder.

Plainer people, or nobler people would have understood Femke. Feeling, sympathy, is like the money in a gambling-place. It doesn't come to everybody. There wenches and countesses sit side by side; merely respectable people, who sell shoes made in Paris, are not there.

"I won't go!" cried Femke. "Oh, God! I won't go! I will know whether that child is sick!"

A door was heard opening above; and Walter came in sight. He tumbled down the steps and fell unconscious at Femke's feet.

"That boy!" groaned the old lady, while the girls stood as if transfixed. Femke picked Walter up and carried him upstairs. His bed was pointed out to her, and she placed him in it. No one had the courage to run her away when she took a chair by the bedside. If at this moment the rights of the Pieterses and Femke had been voted upon, all the votes would have gone to Femke.

She wept, and stammered "Don't be angry, Juffrouw; but I couldn't sleep for thinking of him."



CHAPTER XVII

The evening of the birthday party came. All of the Pieterses went, leaving Walter to be taken care of by Leentje.

Juffrouw Laps was doing the honors.

"A strange state of affairs," said the birthday uncle. "And what did she want?"

"Oh, goodness, M'neer, I don't know myself. I've told Gertrude a hundred times that it's too much for me. Just imagine to yourself—such a thing issuing commands in my house! I told Mina to pitch her out. And Pietro said——"

"You ought to have seen me get hold of her," croaked that brave young woman, showing a blue place on her hand. From this it might have been inferred that Femke had had hold of Pietro.

"Just wait till she comes again," cried Gertrude, "and I will attend to her!"

"And what will I do for her?" said Mina significantly.

Every one of them was ready for the fray. That is often the case. If the vote had been taken now on moral worth, Femke would have been defeated.

"A common girl, M'neer!"

"Worse than common!"

"How did you get rid of her?"

"Ah, it wasn't easy. I said——"

"No, mother, I said——"

"No, it was I!"

"But it was I!"

Each one of them had said something. Everyone wanted to play the leading role in the interesting drama.

"I would like to know where the young Mr. van der Gracht is," said Juffrouw Laps. "Yes, uncle, it's a surprise——"

Juffrouw Pieterse did not like to be interrupted when she had something to tell.

"And so we said—what did we say, Gertrude?"

"Mother, I said it was a disgrace."

"Yes, I said so, too. Then that thing asked for cold water, and when we didn't get it quick enough for her, she ran and fetched it herself—just as if she were at home! She wet a cloth and put it on Walter's head. I was amazed at her insolence. When the child came to she gave him a kiss! Think of it—and all of us standing there!"

"Yes," cried the three daughters, "think of it—and us standing there!"

"Then she sat down in front of the bed again and talked to him."

"Where can the young Mr. van der Gracht be!" sighed Juffrouw Laps. "It's only because we have a little surprise, uncle."

"And finally she went away like a princess!"

"Exactly like a princess," testified the girls; and they did not know that they were telling the truth.

"And she told Walter she would come again. But I just want to see her do it!"

The door-bell rang. Juffrouw Laps arose; and the catechist van der Gracht with his son walked into the room. Juffrouw Pieterse didn't like this; she felt that the star of her narration would pale in the light of the poem Klaasje had brought with him. And even without a poem: such dignity, such a carriage, such manners, such a voice!

"Mynheer and Juffrouwen, may God bless you all this evening! This is my son Klaas, of whom you have heard, I suppose. He's too close kin to me for me to praise him; but you understand—when it's the father—well, all blessings come from above."

"Yes, uncle, it will be a surprise."

"Yes, indeed, Juffrouw, a beautiful surprise. I congratulate this gentleman on the happy return of his natal day. It puts me in the mood of the psalmist—and I thank God—for Mynheer, everything comes from above, you know."

"Take a seat. I thank you," said the host, who understood that he had been congratulated. "It's cold out, isn't it?"

"Yes, a little cool; hardly cold. It's just what we call cool, you understand. The Master gives us weather as he sees fit; and for that reason I say cool. Everything comes from above."

To this last statement all assented in audible sighs and thought themselves pious. What would have happened to him if some poor devil had announced to them that some things come from below?

"And now, uncle, what do you say? Shall we begin with the surprise?"

"Go ahead, niece; what have you got?"

"Oh, it's only a trifle, Mynheer," put in the catechist. "My son is a poet. I don't praise him, because he's too close kin to me; but he's a clever fellow—I can say that without bragging—for everything comes from above. No, I won't praise him—praise is for the Master alone. But he's a clever fellow."

The poet Klaas looked conscious, and sat toying with the bottom button on his vest. He looked poetical all over.

"And so, Mynheer, without bragging—get it out, my son. As a father, Mynheer, I may say that he's a clever fellow; for in the Bible——"

Klaasje drew a piece of paper from his pocket.

"In the Bible there is really nothing said about widowers—the Master has his own good reasons for it—but what does the boy do? He takes the hint and writes a whole poem on widows."

Klaasje laid the paper on the table.

"Yes, I dare say, he has brought into it all the widows mentioned in the Bible."

"You see it's a surprise. I told you so," said Juffrouw Laps.

"Read it, Klaasje! There are seventy, Mynheer, seventy widows. Read, my boy."

Klaas pulled at his clothes, arranged his cuffs and began:

"The widows that in the Bible appear, I've brought together in this poem here, For the birthday that we celebrate Of him who sadly lost his mate, Exalting always the Master of Love, For all that we have comes from above."

"That's the prologue," explained the father.

"Yes, that's the prologue. Now I will read:

"Genesis, 38, verse 11, it is said: At her father-in-law's must the widow have her bed. Exodus, 20, 22, it is penned: Widows and orphans thou shalt not offend. Two verses further he threatens, wrathful and grim To make widows of all the women that anger him. Leviticus, 21, verse 14, thou read'st That a widow won't do for the wife of a priest. A chapter further, one verse less, we have read, That a childless widow must eat her father's bread. From Numbers, 30, verse 10, we clearly infer, That a widow's vow is sufficient for her."

In this style he continued glibly, without any interruption; but when he came to:

"Second Samuel, 20, 3, very clearly outlines, That as widows must live David's concubines——"

Juffrouw Pieterse became restless and had to have an explanation.

"Yes, Juffrouw, concubines," said van der Gracht senior. "You see the boy has brought in everything relating to widows."

"The verses are not the same length," Stoffel complained; and there is no alternation of masculine and feminine lines."

"You may be right, Stoffel, for you are a school-teacher; but that's immaterial to me. These—these con—what shall I say——"

"Juffrouw Pieterse, you ought not to mock at it," cried Juffrouw Laps.

"That's right," said the catechist, "all blessings come from above. Go ahead, Klaas!"

"No, I will not hear such things—on account of my daughters!"

The girls were examining their finger nails, and looked preeminently respectable.

"Go ahead, Klaas!"

"If I had known that this was going to happen, I would have left my daughters at home."

"But, Juffrouw, it's in the Bible. You're not opposed to the Bible, are you?"

"No, but I refuse to hear anything that isn't respectable. My husband——"

"Your husband sold shoes. I know it, Juffrouw, but you're not going to turn against——"

"I'm not going to do anything against the Bible, but I will not endure such coarseness. Come, Gertrude, come, children!"

Juffrouw Pieterse was climbing the ladder of respectability. Moving out of a side street into one of the principal avenues, giving the children French names, calling in a doctor whose coachman wears furs—that is what lifts us up.



CHAPTER XVIII

Walter's illness now took a favorable turn. As soon as he was strong enough to leave his bed, the whole family noticed that he had grown. All remarked about it and called each other's attention to it. No one was better convinced of the fact than Juffrouw Pieterse; for "that boy" had "outgrown all of his clothes," and it would not be easy "to fit him out respectably again." So much interesting notoriety and respectability had been reaped from Walter's illness that it was only natural that his convalescence should be turned to the best account.

The child would sit and fill in the colors in pictures. The doctor had presented him the pictures and a box of colors. The latter, so Stoffel said, were the genuine English article.

Oh, such pictures!

Walter was interested especially by pictures from the opera and the tragedy. There were pictures from Macbeth, Othello, Lear, Hamlet, from "The Magic Flute," "The Barber of Seville," "Der Freischuetz," and from still a few more—each one always more romantic than the last. In selecting suitable colors for his heroes and heroines, Walter had the advice of the entire family, including Leentje. Usually there was disagreement, but that only made the matter more important. In only two details were they agreed: faces and hands were to have flesh-color, and lips were to be painted red. It had always been that way; otherwise, why was it called flesh-color? On account of this arrangement Hamlet came off rather badly, receiving a much more animated countenance than was suited to his melancholy.

"I wish I knew what the dolls mean," said Walter. He was talking about his pictures.

"It's only necessary to ask Stoffel," his mother replied. "Wait till he comes from school."

Walter asked him. Stoffel—there are more such people in the world—would never admit that he did not know a thing; and he always knew how to appear knowing.

"What the dolls mean? Well, you see—those are, so to say, the pictures of various persons. There, for instance, the one with a crown on his head—that is a king."

"I told you Stoffel could explain them," corroborated his mother.

"Yes, but I should have liked to know what king, and what he did."

"Well! There it is at the bottom. You can read it, can't you?"

"Macbeth?"

"Certainly. It's Macbeth, a famous king of ancient times."

"And that one there with a sword in his hand?"

"Also a king, or a general, or a hero, or something of the kind—somebody that wants to fight. Perhaps David, or Saul, or Alexander the Great. That's not to be taken so exactly."

"And the lady with the flowers? She seems to be tearing them up."

"That one? Show her to me: Ophelia. Yes, that's Ophelia. Don't you know?"

"Yes. Why does she throw the leaves on the ground?"

"Why? why? The questions you do ask!"

Here the mother came to the rescue of her eldest son.

"Yes, Walter, you mustn't ask more questions than anybody can answer."

Walter did not ask any more questions, but he determined to get to the bottom of the matter at the first opportunity. His imagination roamed over immeasurable domains—such an insatiate conqueror was the little emperor Walter in his night-jacket!

He associated the heroes of his pictures with the doctor, who had been so friendly to him, and with his immortal Glorioso. The Peruvian story, too, furnished a few subjects for his empire. He married Telasco to Juliet; and the priests of the sun got their rights again. Master Pennewip received a new wig, but of gold-colored threads, on the model of the straw crown of a certain King Lear. Persons that he could see from the window were numbered among his subjects. He had to do something; and this foreign material was preferable to that in his immediate surroundings. Even Lady Macbeth, who was washing her hands and not looking particularly pleasing, seemed to him to be of a higher order than his mother or Juffrouw Laps.

In fact, for him those pictures were the greatest things in the world. He was carried away with the crowns, diadems, plumes, iron gratings over the faces, with the swords and the daggers with cross-hilts to swear on—with the trains and puff-sleeves and girdles with pendents of gold—and the pages. All this had nothing in common with his everyday surroundings. How is it possible, he thought, that anyone who has such beautiful pictures should sell them? The doctor must have inherited them!

Even if he had known that Lady Macbeth was the personification of crime, it would still have seemed to him a profanation to bring her into contact with the plebeian commonness around him.

All at once something in Ophelia's form reminded him of Femke. She too could stand that way, plucking the petals from the flowers and strewing them on the ground.

He had dim recollections of what had happened, and occasionally he would ask indifferently about "that girl." He was afraid to speak her name before Gertrude, Mina, and Pietro. He was always answered in tones that showed him that there was no room for his romance there; but he promised himself to visit her as soon as he got up.

"When you're better you must go to see the doctor and thank him for curing you—but thank God first; and then you can show him what you've painted."

"Of course, mother! I will give her the Prince of Denmark—I mean him, the doctor."

"But be careful not to soil it; and don't forget that the ghost of the old knight must be very pale. Stoffel said so—because it's a ghost, you see."

"Yes, mother, I'll make it white."

"Good. And you'll make the lady there yellow?" pointing with a knitting-needle to Ophelia.

"No, no," cried Walter quickly, "she was blue!"

"She was? Who was?"

"I only mean that I have so much yellow already, and I wanted to make her—this one—Ophelia—I wanted to make her blue. That one washing her hands can stay yellow."

"So far as I'm concerned," the mother said, "but don't soil it!"

Stoffel, in the meantime, had got on the track of those pictures. He was slick and had an inquiring mind. One of his colleagues at school, who was in some way connected with the stage, told him that such costume-pictures were of great value to players. He also told him other things about these pictures and about the play in general.

It was fortunate for Walter that Stoffel brought this knowledge home with him. Even to-day there are people who find something immoral in the words "Theatre" and "Player"; but at that time it was still worse. The satisfaction, however, of imparting knowledge and appearing wise put Stoffel in an attitude of mind on this occasion that ordinarily would have been irreconcilable with that narrowness which with him took the place of conscience.

"You see, mother, there are comedies and comedies. Some are sad, some funny. Some are all nonsense, and there's nothing to be learned from them; but there are comedies so sad that the people wail when they see them—even respectable people!"

"Is it possible!"

"Yes, and then there are others where there's music and singing. They are nice, and moral too. They are called operas; and people who are entirely respectable go there. You see, mother, there's nothing bad about it; and we ought not to be so narrow. The old Greeks had comedies, and our professors still study them."

"Is it possible!"

"Walter's pictures are from real comedies; but I can't tell all the details now. I will only say there are good comedies."

"You must tell Juffrouw Laps. She always says——"

"And what does she know about it? She never saw a comedy in her life."

That was the truth; but it was just as true of the Pieterse family—with the exception of Leentje.

One afternoon Leentje had complained of a terrible headache and had left off sewing and gone out. Later it was learned that she had not spent the evening with her mother; and then there was a perfect storm. But Leentje would not say where she had been that night. "That night" was Juffrouw Pieterse's expression, though she knew that the girl was at home by eleven o'clock. Leentje betrayed nothing. She had promised the dressmaker next door not to say anything; for the dressmaker had to be very careful, because her husband was a hypocrite.

In Leentje's work-box was found a mutilated program; and then one day she began to sing a song she had never sung before—"I'm full of honor, I'm full of honor; oh, yes, I'm a man of honor!"

And then it was all out! She had been to the Elandstraat and had seen the famous Ivan Gras in a comedy!

Leentje began to cry and was going to promise never to do so again, when, to her amazement, she was told that there was nothing wrong in it, and that even the greatest professors went to see comedies.

And now she must tell them about it.

It was "The Child of Love," by Kotzebue, that had greeted her astonished eyes.

"There was music, Juffrouw, and they played beautifully; and then the curtain went up, and there was a great forest, and a woman wept under a tree. There was a Baron who made her son a prisoner, because he was a hunter—but he spoke so nice, and his mother, too. The Baron said he was master on his place, and that he would punish such thieves. He was in a great rage. And then the mother said—no, somebody else came and said—but then the curtain went down. The dressmaker bought waffles that were being passed around, and we drank chocolate. The dressmaker said that every day wasn't a feast day. A man sat behind us and explained everything and took our cups when they were empty. Then the band played, 'Pretty girls and pretty flowers.'"

"Shame!" cried the three young ladies. For it was a common street song.

"And then the curtain went up again of its own accord; but the gentleman behind us said somebody raised it—perhaps the 'Child of Love' himself, for he was not in prison when the curtain was down. The dressmaker gave him a peppermint-drop, and he said: 'Watch the stage, Juffrouw, for you have paid to see it.' It cost twelve stivers, without the waffles and chocolate. Then the Baron said—but I can't tell it all exactly as it was. I will only say that the old woman wept all the time, and she could not be reconciled, because she was so unhappy. You see, Juffrouw, the child of love was her own child; and it was also the Baron's child of love. That was bad—because it was just a child of love, you see; and that is always bad. He had no papers, no credentials; nor the mother, either. And he was to die because he had hunted. Oh, it was beautiful, Juffrouw! And then the curtain went down again and we ate another waffle. The gentleman behind us said it was well that they gave plays with prison scenes in them. There were so many bad people in the hall, such as pickpockets and the like, and this would be a warning for them. The dressmaker was going to offer him another mint-drop, when she saw that her box was gone. It was silver. The gentleman said of course some pickpocket had taken it."

"He was the pickpocket!" exclaimed several.

Leentje was indignant at the idea.

"No, no! Don't say that; it's a sin. He was a very respectable gentleman, and addressed me as Juffrouw, just as he did the dressmaker. He tried to find the thief. He asked where the Juffrouw lived, and said that if he found the box he would bring it to her. He wore a fancy vest—no, no, no. Don't say that of him!"

"Well, tell some more about the child of love." All were interested.

"Oh, the music was so nice! And a gentleman showed them with a stick how to play."

"But tell us about the comedy!"

"That is not so easy. It was very beautiful. It must be seen; it can't be told. The Baron saw that the hunter in prison was his own son; because a long time before, you see, that is—formerly, he had been acquainted with—you understand——"

Poor Leentje turned as red as fire, and left her audience in a temporary suspense.

"Yes, he had known the old woman formerly, and then they were good friends, and were often together—I will just tell it that way—and they were to marry, but something came between them; and so—and—for that reason the comedy was called the 'Child of Love.'"

Walter listened with as much interest as the others; but he was less affected than the girls, who sat quietly staring into space. Stoffel felt called upon to say something.

"That's it! He abused her chastity—that's the way it's spoken of—and she was left to bear the disgrace. The youth of to-day cannot be warned enough against this. How often have I told the boys at school!"

"Listen, Walter, and pay attention to what Stoffel says!"

Encouraged by the approval of his mother, Stoffel continued.

"Yes, mother, virtue must be revered. That is God's will; and what God does is well done. Of all sins sensual pleasure is—a very great sin, because it is forbidden; and because all sins are punished, either in this world or in the next."

"Do you hear, Walter?"

"Here, or in the next world, mother! Innocent pleasure, yes; but sensual pleasure—it is forbidden! It loosens all the ties of human society. You see that such a comedy can be very fine. Only you must understand it properly—that's the idea."

"And what did the Baron do then?"

"Ah, Juffrouw, what shall I say! He talked a whole lot to the old woman, and was very sad because he had—away back there—because he had——"

"Seduced her," added Stoffel, seeing that Leentje couldn't find the word. "That's what it's called."

"Yes, that's what she said, too; and he promised never to do it again. And then he told the child of love always to follow the path of virtue, and that he would marry the old woman. She was satisfied with the arrangement."

"I suppose so," cried the three girls in a breath. "She will be a rich baroness!"

"Yes," said Leentje, "she became a great lady. And then the child of love fell on the Baron's neck; and they played 'Bridal Wreath.' The 'Child of Love' became a hussar and sang, 'I'm full of honor, I'm full of honor; Oh, I'm a man of honor!' I don't know what became of the old Baron. And then we went home; but the dressmaker took no more pleasure in the play now, because her silver box was gone. I don't know whether the gentleman ever brought it to her, or not."

The play was out.

The girls thought: "Baroness!"

Stoffel was thinking: "Virtue!"

The mother's thoughts ran: "Twelve stivers for a ticket, and waffles and chocolate extra!"

Walter was saying to himself: "A hunter! A whole year in the forest, in the great forest, and alone. I'd like to do it, too."

He took up his brush and looked at Ophelia: "To be alone in the great forest with—Femke!"

But the theatre question was far from being settled. Leentje had to clear up many doubtful points yet. For instance, Pietro wanted to know how old the woman was when the Baron finally married her. Leentje thought she must have been about sixty.

Also Juffrouw Laps had to express her opinion. She declared that she was opposed to everything "worldly," and insisted that Walter be sent to church.

Later she got into a big dispute over the theatre with Master Pennewip, whom Stoffel had brought in to reinforce his position. He had brought with him "Floris the Fifth," that powerful comedy by the noble Bilderdyk. With many declensions and conjugations and remarks on rhyme and metre, he explained, firstly, that "Floris the Fifth" was a play from which much could be learned; and, secondly, that the theatre was something very moral and thoroughly respectable.

To be sure, he failed to convince Juffrouw Laps. Nor was Walter greatly impressed by that masterpiece, despite the fact that there were three deaths in it. He much preferred the beautiful story of Glorioso, or the Peruvian story—or even Little Red Riding Hood.



CHAPTER XIX

Walter had been to church: that was now behind him. Stoffel thought the pastor had preached a beautiful sermon, and said that "in a way all he said could be accepted." He hoped that it would "bear fruit."

"Yes," said the mother, "and he mustn't tear his new breeches again. They cost too much hard work for that."

As a matter of fact the "hard work" done in the Pieterse family might be regarded as a negligible quantity. There was the necessary housework, and the usual complaining—or boasting, if you will—but this was to be expected.

That Walter had postponed his visit to go to church was a result of the frightful threats of Juffrouw Laps. She cited Second Chronicles xvi. 12, and in the face of this text the Pieterses were not able successfully to defend their new and more liberal position. Juffrouw Pieterse could only say that the Bible was not to be interpreted that way, as if everything in it applied to a given individual.

But Juffrouw Laps stuck to it, that if one has faith and grace one may come through all right; whereupon Juffrouw Pieterse expressed her willingness at all times to take advice.

"Those are the essential things; through them we are saved! And—send him to me the first of the week. Or he can come Sunday, but after church. Then he can tell me about the sermon, even if the pastors are—but what does a child know about it!"

Juffrouw Laps didn't think much of pastors. She held that people with grace in their hearts can understand God's word without Greek and Latin.

"Yes, Sunday after church. I will count upon it." And in order to make her invitation more insistent she mentioned certain sweets that she usually served her guests at that time.

Supposing that Juffrouw Laps was really anxious for Walter to come, we must admit that she showed deep knowledge of boy-nature.

As for Walter, he was afraid to be alone with this pious lady. For him she was the living embodiment of all the plagues that are made use of in the Old Testament to convert rebellious tribes to the true faith. For instance, thunder and lightning, pestilence, abysses, boils, flaming swords, etc.

If he had had the courage he would have asked her just to deposit the promised dainties somewhere outside of her flat. He would find them then. But he didn't have the courage.

"And why didn't you go?" asked the mother when Stoffel's enthusiasm over the sermon had begun to die down.

Walter said he had a pain in his stomach, which children always have when they want to bridge over disagreeable duties. With a better understanding between the parents and children this disease would be less frequent.

"I don't believe you have any pain in your stomach," declared the mother. "It's only because you're a bad child and never do what you're told to do."

Stoffel agreed with her; and then a council of war was held. Walter was condemned to go to Juffrouw Laps's at once; and he went.

Expecting some terrible ordeal, he was greatly embarrassed and confused by the show of friendliness with which he was received.

"And you did come, my dear boy! But you are so late! Church has been out a long time. See what I have for you, expressly for you!"

She thrust him into a chair at the table and shoved all sorts of sweets over to him. Walter's embarrassment increased; and he felt even less at ease when she began to stroke him and call him pet names.

"Now, tell me about the sermon," she said, when the child tried to escape the tenderness and affection to which he was not accustomed. "What did the pastor say?"

"The text——"

"But that's all right—afterwards, when your mouth is empty. You must eat a few cakes first. Nobody can do everything at once. There is chocolate; and you're to have a little dram, too. I've always said that you are a nice boy; but they're forever plaguing you so. But you're not eating enough; do just as if you were at home."

For Walter that was not the right expression. At home!

His first surprise over Walter began to be possessed by a feeling of fear. Why, he could not have told to save him.

Suddenly he got up and declared that his mother had told him not to stay long.

There wasn't a word of truth in it. Juffrouw Laps protested, but Walter held his ground. Despite all of that kindness Walter was able to escape from the enemy.

Promising "to come back soon" he ran down the steps and into the street.

An indescribable feeling of freedom regained thrilled through him. He had escaped. It was incomprehensible even to him. Never had he been received so kindly, so cordially; never had he been treated in a manner approaching this. But why his antipathy? When he left she was going to kiss him, but he managed to dodge her. Why? He didn't know. But it made him shudder to think of it.

Should he go home now? What excuse could he give for coming back so soon?

Involuntarily he bent his steps toward Ash Gate. It was not his intention to visit Femke—not at all, really not! For he didn't have his Ophelia with him—proof conclusive that when he left home he had not thought of Femke.

And when he came in sight of his mills on the Buitensingel—oh, they were silent! Was there no wind? Or were they observing Sunday?

The Buitensingel was full of people taking a Sunday stroll. Walter followed the small stream, which led him towards Femke's house. Soon he stood before the low enclosure; but he did not dare to go in. Why? He put the blame on the absent Ophelia.

"If I only had that picture here I'd certainly go in!"

That is questionable. Even with the picture he would have probably been just as shy. He didn't know what he ought to say—or, better, whether he could say anything, or not. He reflected. Suppose Femke's mother should ask, "Did you want anything?"

We—yes, the "gentle reader" and I—we should have known what to answer. I wonder if our wisdom would have been wiser than the stupidity of the child, who stood irresolute and hesitating before the fence?

He stood staring at the house, his mouth wide open. His knees trembled, his heart fluttered, his tongue was dry.

A small column of smoke curling up from the chimney aroused him. What if a fire should break out! Then he would have to go in. He would rescue her, and carry her away in his arms—far, far away—to the end of the world, or at least outside of the town! Just anywhere where the people wear red velvet and green silk, where the gentlemen carry big swords and the ladies wear long trains. They would be so becoming to Femke. And she should ride horseback, and he would follow her—no, he would ride by her side, with a falcon on his hand!

If a fire should break out!

But Walter saw that the house was in no danger. This smoke came from the kitchen. He noticed other houses in the neighborhood where cooking seemed to be going on, and everywhere the chimneys were bearing witness to activities below which were presumably similar to those of Femke.

Finally a crowd of fellows came along who had evidently been stopping at one of those establishments where "refreshments" are served. They had been greatly refreshed, and in their exuberance of freshness, so to say, they crowded Walter away from the fence and took him along with them for a little way.

He was easily reconciled to this; for why, he thought, should he stand there and watch the smoke? There wasn't going to be any fire; and then he didn't have Ophelia with him.

But to-morrow! To-morrow he would bring that picture with him! And then he wouldn't stand at the fence like a baby.

He felt ashamed when he thought of his friends in their gay colors, or in armor, with plumes and swords. Those kings and knights and pages—they had been courageous, otherwise they never would have received such high orders and distinctions. Unless there were some change, he felt that he would never be pictured like that.

However, he expected that such a change would come—without doubt, surely, certainly, truly! The further he went, the more determined he became to go in the next day and put on a bold front and say: "Good-day, Juffrouw, how do you do?"

It was more difficult for him to decide what he would say to Femke.

He made up various little speeches in the manner of Floris the Fifth. In case Femke shouldn't like them he was going to say, "Why, that is from our greatest poet."

And then he would ask her to explain a lot of mysterious words in Floris that he hadn't understood—for instance, "fast fellow," "coverture," "chastity," and others.

Walter's development was determined by his desire to know things. His feeling for Femke, which was hardly real love, was subordinated to his thirst for knowledge. He knew that he couldn't get much from her, especially book-learning; but it was a pleasure merely to discuss things with her, even if she knew nothing about them.

He was curious to know all that she might have to tell him, or to ask him; for no doubt she too had been saving up her impressions for her first friend. But, alas! he was not so certain of her friendship! True, when he was sick she had asked about him; but perhaps she was just passing by, and thought how easy it would be to ring the bell and ask, "How is Walter?"

Still it had taken courage to do it. What would Mungo Park have said if he had seen him hesitating before the gate! Walter knew that wasn't the way to conquer the world.

And if anybody had asked Mungo Park: "What do you want in Africa?"

Well, he would have answered. Such a traveller in such a book is never embarrassed.

Then Walter began to address all sorts of remarks to negro kings that he had conquered with lance and sword. All the women kissed his hand as he rode by on his bay, with fiery red caparison. He inquired patronizingly after those good girls who had nursed him in his illness, "because the strange white man was far from mother and sisters and had no home." He would reward them princely.

In all this conquered land Walter was king and Femke was—queen! How magnificent the big red velvet cloak would look on her—and the gold crown!

Conquering continents was easy. He was scarcely thirteen; and yet he was afraid that somebody might get ahead of him while he was being detained by the treacherous Pennewip with declensions and conjugations. And, then there were still more things to learn before one could be king, even of a small country. Pocket-change would have to be increased too, for, with all possible economy, six doits a week were insufficient. The Hallemans—well, they had more; but fortunately they were not thinking of Africa. For the present he was not afraid of any competition from that quarter; but other children, nearer the "grown-up" stage, might get the idea in their heads! And then, what would he do to keep his mother from guessing when he made his trips into the "interior" longer, and stayed out later than was allowed by the regulations of the Pieterse household?

It was a difficult matter, but he would manage it.

All that might happen to him and Femke in Africa would be read afterwards in pretty little books with colored pictures. He already saw himself sitting on a throne, and Femke by his side. She was not proud; she was willing for everybody to know—all those kneeling before her—that she had been a poor wash-girl. She had become queen because Walter had loved her; and now they needn't kneel any more.

On special occasions—well, of course, that was different; for instance, when his mother and Stoffel came to visit him. They should see how all the people honored him—and Femke whom they had treated so badly. But once would be enough; then he would forgive them everything and build them a big house with water-barrels and wash-tubs. For Pennewip he would build a big schoolhouse, with desks and ink-bottles and copy-books and wall maps of Europe and tables of the new weights and measures. Then the old master could give instruction from early in the morning till late at night—or even all night.

He was just puzzling over how he was going to reconcile Master Pennewip and the dusky young African to one another when Leentje opened the door.

Without noticing it he had got home and rung the door-bell. Unsuspectingly he fell into an environment quite different from that in which he had moved for the last half hour. He scarcely understood what his mother meant when she asked him how the visit turned out, and whether Juffrouw Laps was satisfied with his report on the sermon.

Sermon? Laps? He was unprepared for such an examination. He stammered out a sort of miscellaneous and irrelevant jumble of words, but fortunately containing nothing about Africa.

It now developed that in the meantime there had been a sudden change in certain details of religious belief.

"You see, mother?" said Stoffel. "Just as I've always said, it would take a lawyer to explain anything to suit her. She always knows better——"

"That's so," answered the mother. "She's cracked or crazy. Now, just tell me, Stoffel, if anyone can expect such a child to remember everything a preacher says. I can't do it myself; and you can't do it, either. Master Pennewip can't do it. I tell you, nobody can do it. And to require that of such a child! She just wants to play the professor; that's the reason she does it."

Stoffel was of the same opinion. Encouraged by his sympathy the mother became eloquent.

"I would like to know what she's thinking about; or if she thinks she's a pastor. With all her biblical quotations! And then to torment a child hardly out of a sick bed—it's a disgrace. You don't need to go to her. What business have you got with her? I tell you——"

Here it occurred to her that she herself had compelled Walter to go, and she interrupted this line of thought to scold Walter and tell him to get out of his Sunday breeches. Her dissatisfaction with herself expressed itself further in a funeral oration on Walter's last suit, which had cost so much "hard work."

"And then to let that child sit there for an hour without anything to eat or drink! She would——"

Walter's feeling for justice couldn't let that pass. He assured them that on the contrary—and then that excessive kindness got in his way again. In his confusion he went into all the details of the chocolate.

"Well! Why didn't you say so at once? But it's all the same. I was going to add that she ought to have given you something to eat. That's the way such folks are—always grumbling about others and they won't see themselves. I believe in grace too, and when I have my housework done I like to hear the Scripture read—but to be everlastingly and eternally prating about it? No, that isn't religion. What do you say, Stoffel? One must work part of the time. Walter! aren't you going to pull off those new breeches? I've told him a dozen times. Trudie, give him his old ones!"

Walter changed his breeches; but he promised himself that in Africa he would wear Sunday breeches every day.



CHAPTER XX

The next day Walter rang the doctor's door-bell. His heart was in a flutter, for the doctor lived in an imposing house. He was admitted and, after he had been announced, was told just to come upstairs.

The maid conducted Walter to the "study," where the doctor was busy performing one of his paternal duties: he was teaching his children.

There were three. A boy, somewhat older than Walter, sat alone in one corner writing at a small table. The other two, a boy of Walter's age and a girl that seemed to be a few years younger, stood before the table behind which the doctor was sitting. On the table stood a large globe, evidently the subject of discussion. This became clear to Walter later, for, as far as he knew, he had never seen such a large ball. He didn't know that there was any other way to explain the location of countries except by means of maps. Thus he noticed in the room all sorts of things that he didn't understand till later.

When the maid opened the door of the room he heard the voices of the children, and also that of the father. He even heard laughter; but when he walked in all became as still as death. The two children at the table stood like soldiers. There was something so comical in their attitude that Walter could have laughed at them if he hadn't been so embarrassed. Even the girl had a touch of official earnestness in her face more striking than he had seen it in older people, even at church. While the doctor was welcoming Walter and offering him a chair, the boy stood with hands clapped down on the seams of his trousers as if he expected someone to say, "Right about—face!" or, "Forward, column right, march!"

The larger boy in the corner had only looked up once, but with that peculiarly hostile expression which distinguishes man from other animals—to the disadvantage of the former. It is noticeable especially in children—sometimes in women.

"I'm glad to see you, my boy. It was nice of you to come. What have you there?"—then he turned to the little soldiers.

"Remind me afterward to tell you at dinner something about Olivier van Noort. William, you can think of it, can't you?"

Walter squinted at his Lady Macbeth, and was so embarrassed that he was helpless to present it to the doctor. The room was so magnificent; and the furnishings—the big cases full of books! His picture seemed so common and ugly that, if he could have done so, he would have swallowed it.

At home they had taught him how he must stand and sit and speak; and now he stood there, as awkward as a cow, stammering and stuttering. Making a supreme effort he managed to get it out that he had "come to thank the doctor" for his recovery—"but God first"!

The two soldiers bit their lips; and even the doctor found it difficult to keep a straight face.

"God first! Well said, my boy. Have you already thanked God?"

"Yes, M'nheer, every evening in bed, and yesterday at church."

Little Sietske unable to control herself any longer had to laugh outright. Her laughter threatened to become contagious. William was busier than usual with his nose; Hermann had come to life and was eyeing Walter slyly.

"Order!" thundered the doctor, giving the table a rap with a ruler that made the globe tremble. Walter was frightened. "Order! This is a nice caper during study-hours."

The clock began to strike. Sietske seemed to be counting, for at every stroke she raised a finger.

"I am going to——"

"Five!" she cried. "All my fingers—just look, five! Five o'clock, papa—Tyrant! Hurrah, hurrah!"

Both boys joined in the uproar. It was a quodlibet from "Gaudeamus igitur," "Vive la joie," and "God save the king." Forward, all! Vive la vacance! A bas les tyrans! Revenge! * * * *

The children were determined to have their well earned romp; and they had it. Walter rubbed his eyes, and would not believe his ears. It was beyond his comprehension. * * * *

"That will do now," said the doctor. "Come, mamma is waiting dinner—and you, too, my boy!"

William took Sietske on his back and Hermann mounted the father. Thus they descended the stairs, Walter bringing up the rear. Lady Macbeth had disappeared, being now crumpled up in Walter's breast-pocket.

Walter was nonplussed. Was this the same man who used the gold pen?—whose coachman wore the furs?

How was it possible? Was it a dream, that he and all the family had looked on this man and simply been overcome by his dignity?

He couldn't understand it.

Again the atmosphere of the dining-room was quite different from that of the schoolroom, either before or directly after five.

"Present the young gentleman to your mamma," said the doctor, turning to William.

"May I do it?" asked Sietske.

Doctor Holsma nodded, and the little girl took Walter by the hand and conducted him to a lady who sat at the head of the table preparing the salad.

"Mamma, this is a young gentleman—oh, I must know your name. What is your name?"

"Walter Pieterse."

"This is Mr. Walter Pieterse, who has come to thank papa, because he—he was sick; and he—the young gentleman is going to stay for dinner, papa?"—the doctor nodded again—"and he's going to stay for dinner, mamma."

"With mamma's consent," said the father.

"Yes, with mamma's consent."

Mevrouw Holsma spoke to Walter kindly and offered him a chair. It was necessary, too.

Everything seemed so princely to Walter that he was glad to be seated. Three-fourths of his little figure was hidden under the table. That was something gained. He was amazed at almost everything he saw and heard. He folded his hands.

"Do you want to say a grace, little man?" asked the doctor.

"Yes, M'nheer," Walter stammered.

"A good custom. Do you always do that at the table?"

"Yes, always—at warm meals, M'nheer!"

Those children had been taught good manners. Nobody smiled.

Walter bowed his head for a moment; and the doctor took advantage of the opportunity to give the children a look of warning. They remembered; and, if afterwards Walter discovered that he had cut a singular figure in this household, they were not to blame.

"You do well to do it," said Holsma. "We don't do it; and perhaps we do well not to."

"Certainly," said the mother. "Everyone must act according to his own conviction."

This simple statement moved Walter more than any of them could have imagined. He—a conviction! That short sentence of Mevrouw Holsma attributed to him a dignity and importance that was strange to him, and gave him a right he had never thought of before. Through the soup he was thinking continually: "I may have a conviction!"

It never occurred to him that a thing could be interpreted otherwise than it was interpreted for him by his mother or Stoffel, or some other grown-up person. The whole question of praying, or not praying, did not appear so important to him as this new fact, that he could have a conviction. His heart swelled.

The doctor, who understood Walter, recalled him from his thoughts.

"Everyone must act according to his conviction; and in order to come to a conviction one has to reflect a long time over the matter. I am convinced that our little guest would like to eat some of those peas. Pass them to him, Sietske."

Walter had grasped the import of Holsma's words, and also the meaning of this transition to the peas. Walter felt—without putting his feelings into words—that the pedantry of the schoolroom had been put aside at five o'clock, and that his host merely wanted to give him a friendly warning against dogmatic bigotry, without tainting the fresh, wholesome atmosphere of the dining-room.

Despite his shy, retiring nature—or, better, in connection with this characteristic—Walter was an extremely intelligent boy. This fact had escaped almost everybody he had come in contact with because of his lack of self-confidence, which prevented him from revealing his true self. He usually seemed to comprehend more slowly than others; but this was because he was less easily satisfied with the result of his thinking. His mind was exacting of knowledge. During Walter's sickness Holsma had remarked this peculiarity of the boy, and his interest had been enlisted at once.

Walter's shyness was due in a great measure to the manner in which he had been taught what little he knew. Everything his teachers taught him was looked upon by them as something immutable and irrefutable. Twice two is four, Prince so-and-so is a hero, good children go to heaven, God is great, the Reform Church represents the true faith, etc., etc. It was never hinted to him that there was any room for doubt. Indeed, he was led to believe that his desire to know more about things was improper and even sinful.

After all those extraordinary occurrences in the study, Walter was prepared to expect almost anything in the way of the unusual, but that William and Hermann, and even little Sietske, were allowed to help their plates to whatever they wanted—that was more wonderful to him than the aerial voyage of Elias. With Genevieve in the famous wilderness—yes, even in Africa it couldn't be any more free and easy. He was continually surprised and taken off his guard by the unwonted and unexpected. In fact, his thoughts were so far away that when during dessert the little girl passed him a saucer of cream——

Ye gods, it happened and—I must tell it. Oh, if like the chroniclers of old, I might put the blame on some privy councilor, "who unfortunately advised," etc.

But what privy councilor in the whole world could have advised Walter to let that porcelain spoon tilt over the edge of the saucer and fall into Sietske's lap! He did it, he!

Oh, how sad it was. He had just begun to pull himself up in his chair. Another moment and he would have actually been sitting. Perhaps he might have said something soon. The name of a certain country in Africa, which Sietske could not remember a moment before, had occurred to him. It was not that he might seem smarter than Sietske that he was going to speak out. No, it was only that he might seem a little less stupid than himself. But now—that miserable spoon!

Before he had time to wonder how his awkwardness would be received, Sietske was talking along smoothly about something else—just as if this little "catastrophe" was a matter of course.

"Papa, you were going to tell us something about Olivier van Noort."

She arose, wiped off her little skirt and fetched Walter another spoon from the buffet.

"Yes, papa, Olivier van Noort! You promised it, papa."

All urged him to tell the story. Even Mevrouw Holsma manifested great interest in it. Walter was aware that this conversation was intended to cover up his accident. He was moved; for he was not accustomed to anything like this. As Sietske took her seat again she noticed a tear creeping down across his cheek.

"Mamma, I got a silver spoon. That's just as good, isn't it? These porcelain things are so heavy and awkward. They've fallen out of my hand three times; and Hermann can't manage them, either."

The mother nodded to her.

"And how it is with Olivier van Noort?"

The door-bell rang, and almost immediately afterwards a gentleman entered the room who was greeted by the children as Uncle Sybrand.

The host now invited all to the garden and sent Hermann to the study for a book.

"You young rascal, don't you go now and maliciously break that globe. It can't help it."

Then came the story of Admiral Olivier van Noort and the poor Vice-Admiral Jan Claesz van Ilpendam, who was put ashore in the Strait of Magellan for insubordination. It interested all, and called forth a lively discussion, in which the entire family as well as the guests took part.



CHAPTER XXI

To readers of a certain class of fiction it will no doubt seem strange if I say that Walter's visit to the Holsma family influenced greatly his spiritual development. Not immediately; but a seed had been planted which was to grow later. He saw now that after all independent thought was possible, even if he could not yet allow himself that luxury. The mere knowledge that there were other opinions in the world than those of his daily mentors was a long stride forward.

He was depressed on account of his lack of knowledge. Those children knew so much more than he did; and this made him sad.

They had spoken of someone who was startled to find footprints. Who was it? The child had never heard of Defoe's hermit. He asked Stoffel.

"Footprints? Footprints? Well, you must tell me what footprints you mean—whose footprints. You must give names when you ask questions."

"That's right," said the mother, "when you want to know anything you must mention names. And Mevrouw made the salad herself? Well, that's strange. The girl must have been out somewhere."

As to other "strange" things, which were not likely to meet the approbation of his family, Walter was silent. Not a word about that Saturnalia, or the omission of grace at a "warm meal"! Nor did he mention the liberties that were allowed the children, or the freedom with which they joined in the conversation. Perhaps it was a superfluous precaution. That bearskin would have been excused for many shortcomings.

Juffrouw Pieterse asked repeatedly if he had been "respectable." Walter said he had, but without knowing exactly what she meant. That affair with the spoon—had it been respectable? He didn't care to have this question decided—at least by his mother. But it was nice of Sietske; and wouldn't he have done the same?

He learned that the day was approaching when he must return to school. More than ever he felt that this source of knowledge was insufficient for him; but opposition was not to be thought of. He was dissatisfied with himself, with everything.

"I shall never amount to anything," he sighed.

His Lady Macbeth seemed uglier to him than ever. He tore her up. And Ophelia?

Goodness! He hadn't thought of Femke the whole day. Was it because she was only a wash-girl, while the doctor's children were so aristocratic? Walter censured himself.

He took advantage of the first opportunity to pay his debt in that quarter. For he felt that it was a debt; and this consciousness gave him courage. Picture in hand, he passed the familiar fence this time and knocked boldly on the door. His heart was thumping terribly; but he must do it! In a moment he stood before Femke. The lady of his heart was quietly darning stockings. It is hard on the writer; but this little detail was a matter of indifference to Walter.

"Oh!" she cried, extending her hand. "Mother, this is the young gentleman we saw that time—the little boy who was so sick. And how are you now? You look pale."

"Take a seat, little boy," said the mother. "Yes, you do look pale. Worms, of course."

"No, no, mother. The child has had nervous fever."

"All right—fever, then; but it could be from worms. Give him a cup, Femke. It won't hurt you to drink coffee; but if it were worms——"

Mrs. Claus's worms were more in Walter's way than the stockings.

"Where does your mother have her washing done?" she asked. "Not that I want to pump you—not at all. But if she isn't satisfied with her wash-woman—it sometimes happens, you understand. Everybody must look out for himself; and I just thought I'd mention it. Whenever there are any ink-spots Femke takes them out with oxalic acid; and it never makes any holes—yes, it did happen once, and we had to pay for a pair of cuffs. You can ask Femke."

The fact was, he wanted to ask Femke something else; and she knew it. The story of Aztalpa had left its marks on her mind. But she was hampered very much like Walter was at home. She couldn't say, "Mother, speak a bit more Peruvian!" So she simply asked what the roll was that he had in his hand.

Walter was confused, but he managed to stammer that it was a present for her. Femke said she would always take good care of the picture.

"Yes," said the mother, "and you must iron out those creases. We iron, too, little boy, and we deliver the clothes ready to put on. Nobody can complain. You can tell your mother. And your collar—it isn't ironed nicely—and such bluing! Ask Femke. Femke, isn't the blue in stripes?"

His collar not ironed nicely? and blued in stripes? And the infallible Pietro had laundered it! Even here, were there differences in method and conception? And in this respect, too, was the Pieterse tradition not the only one that brought happiness?

Femke was on nettles. She studied Ophelia, wondering who she was, and tried to turn the conversation. At last something occurred to her. It was necessary for her to run some errand or other, and "the young gentleman" could "accompany" her a part of the way.

"As far as I'm concerned," said the mother.

The young couple retired, taking one of those ways which in the neighborhood of Amsterdam are simply called "the ways." That is all they are. Whoever walks there for pleasure must take a good stock of impressions with him, in order to escape tedium.

But Walter and Femke were not lacking in this respect. Walter had so much to tell Femke that he could scarcely hope to get through; and she, too, had thought of him more than she was willing to admit, and more than he had any idea of. She began by saying that she hadn't told her mother of her unfriendly reception by Walter's mother and sisters, because she didn't want her mother——

"Oh, Femke—and you thought I would come?"

"Yes." said Femke, hesitating, but still with a readiness that delighted Walter. "Yes, of course I expected to see you again. And I had a mass said for your recovery."

"Really?" said Walter, who hardly knew what it meant. "You did that for me?"

"Yes, and I prayed, too. I should have been sad if you had died. For I believe you are a good boy."

"I ought to have come sooner; and I wanted to, but—Femke, I was afraid."

He related to her how he had been near her on Sunday. The girl attributed his timidity to his diffidence toward her mother.

"My mother is a good woman. She wouldn't hurt anybody, but—you understand. She doesn't mix with people much. I understand the world better, because, you see, I was a nurse for three weeks. I was only substituting; I was too young to be a real nurse. It was at a relation's of ours, where the girl was sick. You know we really come of a good family. But that makes no difference. Tell me, are you well and strong again?"

Walter told her now all about his sickness, and soon he came involuntarily to the thing that gave him most trouble, his defective knowledge.

"All the children know French; but at our school it isn't taught. It's impossible to be a great man without knowing French."

Walter had difficulty in explaining to her that he meant something other than the possession of three houses, though that might not be bad.

"I should like—you understand? I should like—yes—I should like—how shall I explain?"

The sovereignty of Africa was on the end of his tongue; but he didn't have the courage to put his dreams into words.

"You know, Femke, that we live here in Europe. Now, down there in the south, far away—I will draw it for you. We can sit down here and I will show you exactly what I mean."

He selected some small sticks suitable for making outlines on the ground, then he and Femke sat down on a low pile of boards. He proceeded to scratch up the sand for some distance around.

"That is Europe. The earth is round; that is, it consists of two halves, like a doughnut. You see, it looks like a pair of spectacles. With that half we are not concerned. That's America. You can put your feet on it if you want to. Here is where we live; there is England; and here is Africa. The people there are uncivilized. They can't read, and they don't wear many clothes. But when a traveler comes along they are very nice to him—the book says so. I'm going down there and teach all the people to read and give them clothes and see to it that there is no injustice done in the whole land. And then we will——"

"I, too?" asked Femke in amazement.

"Why, certainly! I wanted to ask you if you were willing to go with me. We will be man and wife, you understand; so when I get to be king you will be——"

"I? Queen?"

She laughed. Involuntarily she rose and trampled to pieces all the kingdoms that Walter had just laid at her feet.

"But—won't you be my wife?"

"Oh, you boy! How did you get such nonsense into your head? You are still a child!"

"Will you wait then till I'm grown up? Will you let me be your friend?"

"Certainly! Only you mustn't think of that nonsense—not that you may not go to Africa later. Why not? Many people go on journeys. Formerly there lived a carpenter near us, and he went to the Haarlem with his whole family. But—marrying!"

She laughed again. It pained Walter. The poor boy's first proposal was turning out badly.

Suddenly Femke became serious.

"I know that you are a good boy; and I think a great deal of you."

"And I!" cried Walter. "Femke, I have thought of you all the time—when I was sick—in my fever—I don't know what I thought of in my fever, but I think it must have been you. And I talked to the picture I painted for you as if it were you; and that picture answered like you and looked like you. I was Kusco and Telasco, and you were Aztalpa, the daughter of the sun. Tell me, Femke, may I be your friend?"

The girl reflected a moment; and in her pure, innocent heart she felt the desire to do good. Was that seventeen-year-old girl conscious of the influence that Walter's childish soul exerted upon her? Scarcely. But she wanted to give him a less cruel answer.

"Certainly, certainly you shall be my friend. But—but——"

She was hunting for some excuse that would not hurt him, and still let him see the difference in their ages. He had grown during his illness, to be sure, but still—she could have carried him on her arm. And he had dreamed of rescuing her from a fire!

"My friend, yes. But then you must do everything that I require."

"Everything, everything! Tell me quick what I can do for you."

It was painful for the girl. She didn't know what she should require; but she was under the necessity of naming something. She had always heard that it was good for children to study hard. What if she should spur him on to do that?

"Listen, Walter. Just for fun I told my mother that you were the best in school."

"I?" cried Walter abashed.

"Study hard and be the first in school inside the next three months," said Femke to the conqueror of continents, unaware of the sarcasm that lay in her words. "Otherwise, you see, my mother might think I had made fun of you; and I don't want that to happen. If you will only do that——"

"I will do it, Femke!"

"Then you must go home and begin at once."

Thus she sent him away. As she told him "Good-bye" she noticed all at once that he was too large for her to kiss. A few hours later, when Father Jansen was calling on her mother and incidentally saw Walter's painting, Walter suddenly became a child again. The priest had said that in Dutch Ophelia meant Flora, who was the patron-saint of roses and forget-me-nots.

"Oh, that picture is from a little boy, a very small boy. He's about ten years old—or nine. He's certainly not older than nine!"

"Girl, you are foolish!" cried the mother. "The boy is fifteen."

"Yes, that may be—but I just meant that he's still only a child."

She stuck Ophelia away in some hidden nook, and Mrs. Claus and Father Jansen never saw that new edition of the old flower-goddess again.

"Femke, I will do it!" Walter had said.

There was really reason to believe that he would learn faster now; but Pennewip's instruction would wear Femke's colors. Walter knew very well that in requiring this service she had had his own welfare in view; but this showed her interest in him, and was not so bad. How would it have looked, he thought, if, after all that had gone before, he had answered: "Everything except that!"

Of course he would have greatly preferred to serve his lady on some journey full of adventure. But one cannot select for one's self heroic deeds. In these days Hercules and St. George would have to put up with miniature dragons.

At all events, Walter took hold of his work in earnest. He studied his "Ippel," his "Strabbe," his "National History" and even the "Gender of Nouns," and everything else necessary to the education of a good Netherlander. Poetry was included; and Walter's accomplishments along this line were such that other "Herculeses" might have envied him.

He had never read the stories of tournaments. No enchantress gave him a charmed coat of mail; no Minerva put the head of Medusa on his shield—no, nothing of all that. But—Keesje, the butcher's boy, might look sharp for his laurels!

In justice to Walter it must be said that he gave his opponent fair warning, in true knightly style.

At the end of three months Walter was actually the first in his classes. Pennewip was compelled to take notice of it.

"It is strange," he remarked. "I might say that it is remarkable. Yes, in a way, it is unprecedented—without a parallel!"

At home the result was that a great council was held regarding Walter's future. He didn't want to become a compositor; and to be a sailor—that would have suited him, but his mother was opposed to it. Stoffel, too, objected on the ground that usually only young people who are worthless on land are sent to sea.

Thus Walter's plans for conquest were slipping away from him. He was not attracted by the brilliant careers that were proposed: They left Africa out of account. He didn't want to be a school-teacher, or a shoemaker, or a clerk, or a counter-jumper.

However, after all authorities had been heard, Stoffel came to the conclusion that Walter was peculiarly well fitted for "business." Juffrouw Pieterse agreed with him thoroughly.



CHAPTER XXII

"A responsible business firm wants a young man (Dt. Ref.) of good family. He must be moral, well-behaved and not under fifteen years old. Prospect of salary if diligent and reliable. Good treatment guaranteed. Address written applications in own handwriting to 'Business,' care E. Maaskamp's book and art store, Nieuwendyk, Amsterdam."

The writer cannot recall what sort of art publications E. Maaskamp was dealing in just at that time, and will not make any guesses, for fear of getting the reader into chronological difficulties. If it should become necessary in writing Walter's history, the writer would have no compunctions of conscience in putting the republic after Louis, or William I. before the republic.

And as for that "Dt. Ref."—Dutch Reform—in the advertisement—that gives the writer no trouble. He knows very well that "Dt. Ref." as a necessary qualification for servants, apprentices, etc., was introduced after E. Maaskamp's pictures had been forgotten. Nevertheless, it must be insisted upon that the aforesaid abbreviation was in the advertisement which was now occupying the undivided attention of the Pieterses.

"There couldn't be anything more fortunate," said the mother. "What do you think, Stoffel?"

"Yes, mother, it couldn't be better."

"What pleases me especially is the 'well-behaved.'"

"Moral and well-behaved, mother."

"Yes, moral and well-behaved—do you hear, Walter? Just as I have always said. And 'prospect of salary.' What do you think of that, Stoffel?"

"Yes, mother; but—he must be 'diligent and reliable.'"

"Yes, Walter, you must be diligent and reliable. Haven't I always told you that? And they require 'Dt. Ref.'; but you are that, thank God."

"Yes, mother, he's that all right."

"Stoffel, don't you think you'd better write the letter?"

"But it says 'in own handwriting.'"

"That's so! But if you write the letter in your own handwriting—that will be better than for such a child to write it."

Stoffel had some difficulty in making it plain to his mother that "own handwriting" meant Walter's own handwriting; but she finally saw the point, and Walter was given a seat at the table.

"Well? What must I write at the top?"

"Now, have you forgotten that again? Such a simple thing? Have you got down the date? Then write 'Gentlemen,' in business style. It says, 'responsible business firm.'"

"Yes," said the mother, "and add that your father had a business, too. We sold shoes from Paris. Otherwise they will think we're only shoemakers."

"And write that you are the first in school."

"And that you belong to the Dutch Reform Church."

"And that you are moral and well-behaved."

"And that you are diligent and reliable. Don't you see, you may get a salary then right away."

At last the letter was ready. It only remained to stamp it and post it. But why couldn't the young applicant deliver the letter in person and save the postage? Stoffel thought there would be no impropriety in such a course. Even a responsible business firm ought to overlook such a detail.

With a heavy heart Walter started out on his important errand. He was entering the real world, and was about to become a worshiper of the great god of "business." He was depressed by his lack of confidence, and felt that it was unbecoming in himself to make application to a "responsible business firm."

If he met a man that looked well-to-do, he would ask himself if the gentleman was a "business man," and belonged to a "responsible business firm." This last high-sounding expression embodied mysteries which he did not attempt to understand. He would learn it all later.

Walter stammered an excuse to the young fellow in the shop for not having sent his letter by post. The fellow didn't understand him, but threw the letter carelessly into a box containing a few dozen others that were awaiting the favorable consideration of Messrs. Motto, Business & Co.

The fellow was busy with some Turkish battles in glaring colors, and declined to enter into any conversation with our hero. Walter's mouth watered for a bright picture of Grecian chivalry. But what good did it do? He had no money; and, besides, he was out for business, not for heroic deeds.

"Later!" he thought.

Arrived at home he received the usual scolding. His mother maintained that he had certainly not entered the shop in a "respectable" manner; otherwise the young gentleman would have given him a friendlier reception. She was afraid that those excellent gentlemen, Motto, Business & Co., would take this into consideration to his detriment.

"And you say there were already a whole lot of letters there? You see, Stoffel—if he only isn't too late! That's the way—those people would break their necks or be first. And who knows but what some of them are Roman Catholics? I wonder if they all think they're moral and well-behaved. You can just see what kind of people there are in the world!"

Walter had to go back to Maaskamp's and get the address of the firm in question. The idea was for him to call on the firm in person and thus get ahead of everybody else. Juffrouw Pieterse wanted to bet her ears that not a one of the other applicants could boast of a father who had sold Parisian shoes.

"Tell them that! Your father never took a stitch in his life. He didn't even know how to. It's only to prove that we had a business, too. He never had an awl in his hand—isn't it so, Stoffel?"

Those eminently respectable gentlemen, Motto, Business & Co., lived—I don't know where they lived; but they had founded on the Zeedyk a cigar store and a circulating library. It was probably not far from the place where six or eight centuries earlier a few fishermen had founded the greatest commercial city of Europe.

Walter found one of those worthy gentlemen behind the counter. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and was engaged in weighing out some snuff for an old woman. "Business" was evidently being carried on.

As Walter had formed no conception of "responsible business firm," he was far from thinking that the gentlemen had claimed too much for themselves. With his peculiar timidity he even reproached himself for not having understood the conception "business" before.

Now he understood it. Business meant to stand behind a counter, in shirt-sleeves, and weigh snuff. And, too, on the Zeedyk.

The cigar store occupied only half the width of the house, and was connected with the circulating library by a side door. Motto, Business & Co. were simultaneously cultivating two industries: those who didn't care for snuff or tobacco could get something to read, and vice versa.

Over the shelves, on the tobacco side, were posted signs bearing the assurance that something was "manufactured" here. Differing entirely from the Pieterses, these gentlemen seemed to think that to make a thing meant more than merely to sell it. We leave the question undecided.

Was it true that this business firm manufactured anything? The only thing they manufactured was the paper bags that were to be pasted together by the moral, well-behaved, diligent and reliable young man who was a member of the Dutch Reform Church.

The amount of business done was small, the profits barely paying the rent. The wicked world on the Zeedyk even said that the two blue porcelain vases bearing in old-fashioned letters the inscriptions "Rappee" and "Zinking," had been borrowed from a second-hand dealer in the neighborhood, and that the good man came by every day to look after his property.

The shop was small, and was closed off in the rear by a green curtain, which was calculated to make customers think there was something more beyond. To be exact, there was something beyond that curtain. There hung a dilapidated mirror, consoling with a lonely chair, which was now ornamented by the coat of the worthy senior partner; and leaning against the wall was a half-round table, on which a pomatum-pot was making fun of a comb because for years it had been expecting to grow new teeth. Business was not so exacting but that Mr. Motto could devote a little spare time to the improvement of his personal beauty. He had succeeded in developing two beautiful bunches of hair on the sides of his face. They cost him much pains and grease; but they were the delight of all the ladies who entered the shop.

"And so you want to go into business, do you?" asked Mr. Motto, after he had given the old woman a "pinch" from the jar. "What all have you studied? Reading, writing, arithmetic, French? Eh? And what are your parents."

"They dealt in shoes—from Paris, M'neer. But I don't know French. Arithmetic—yes. Went through Strabbe."

"And you know arithmetic, do you? How much then is a Pietje and a half?"

Walter stammered that he didn't know. Does the reader know?

"But you must know that if you expect to calculate. And you don't know what a Pietje is? Do you know the difference between a sesthalf and a shilling? And between a dollar and a twenty-eight piece? Look——"

Mr. Motto pulled out the cash-drawer and seemed to be hunting for a dollar; but for some reason or other he decided to make out with a sesthalf. This he laid on the counter and asked Walter to imagine a shilling lying beside it. He then proceeded to test Walter's knowledge of business by asking him to point out the differences between the two coins. Mr. Motto claimed that in business one must know these details thoroughly.

And Mr. Motto was right about it. At that time there were more different kinds of money in the Netherlands than there are in Germany now. To be able to distinguish the various coins readily and make change accurately a regular course of study was necessary. Just as a law was about to be passed to confer the title, "Doctor of Numismatics," on examination, the secretary of the treasury discovered that all this trouble could be spared by simplifying the money. He became very unpopular after this.

In Walter's time, though, such a reform had not been thought of. The florin had twenty stivers; the regular Holland dollar had fifty stivers, the Zeeland dollar had forty-two. The dollar was worth a florin and a half, and the gold florin was called a "twenty-eight," because it contained twenty-eight stivers. The coins were well-worn and seldom exhibited any traces of inscriptions, milling, etc. Matters were further complicated by three-florin pieces and ducats of sixty-three stivers, not to mention any other coins.

For Walter the money question was a serious one.

"And you don't know French, either?" in a tone that was scarcely encouraging.

"No——" mournfully.

"And would your parents put up cash security for you?"

Walter didn't understand the question.

"Caution. Don't you understand? Security! There's lots of money handled, and I must know who I'm turning the shop over to. And—do you know Danish?"

Mr. Motto did not always speak grammatically.

"No—M'neer."

"What! Nor Danish, either? But Danish sailors come in here to buy tobacco, and then you need to speak Danish. In a business like this here you must know all languages. That's the main thing—otherwise your cake's dough! I've even had Greeks to come in here."

Walter's heart gave a jump. What heroic deeds might they not do on such occasions!

"Yes, Greeks; but they were drunk and wanted a smoke for nothing. We don't do it that way. The main thing is to look out for the little things. Otherwise your cake's dough, you understand. Yes, in business you must know all languages, otherwise you can't talk to the customers. That's the main thing. But that will be all right if your parents can deposit a caution. Sometimes there are at least ten florins in the cash-drawer, you know; and in business a man must have security. That's the main thing. Otherwise your cake's dough; you can see that for yourself."

"My father is dead," said Walter, as if that fact rendered the cash security unnecessary. He didn't know anything else to say.

"That so? Dead! Yes, it often happens. Dead? All right! But haven't you a mother who can pay for you?"

"I—will—ask—her," Walter stammered.

"Certainly. Ask her right away; for you know in business things are done in a hurry. Said, done! That's the main thing. Otherwise your cake's dough. Here is another shop, and you will have work to do in there, too—if your mother can put up the money. That's the main thing."

Mr. Motto conducted Walter into the circulating library. On three sides of the room were bookcases reaching to the rather low ceiling. For the rest, the place was provided with a ladder to be used in gathering such fruits of literature as hung out of reach. And then there was a big, thick book, in which the diligent and reliable young man of Protestant faith was to enroll the names of the people who paid a dubbeltje a week for a book. It's cheaper now.

"You see," said Mr. Motto, "that is the book, so to say the great book. You understand bookkeeping, don't you?"

Unfortunately Walter had to admit that he had not yet studied that branch.

"Nor bookkeeping, either? Boy! that's the main thing in business. If a man can't do that his cake's dough. It's very simple. You write down who takes out a book, with the day and date and street and number. And when they bring the book back you drawn a line through it; and you've got a pretty kettle of fish if you don't do it. When you don't know the people you must——"

"Ask for a deposit!" cried Walter quickly, rejoiced that he knew something. It's doubtful if he knew what he was to draw the line through.

"Yes, a deposit. A florin a week for a volume. Then, you understand, when a volume's gone, the cake's dough with that volume. Later I will explain to you everything about the cigars and tobacco; but first I must know whether your mother—ask her right away! And now I've explained everything to you at least half a dozen times. For there's no lack of boys that want to go into business; but when it comes to Moses and the Prophets—then they set the bow-sails. And that's the main thing. Otherwise you look a little delicate, but I must know first if your mother can deposit a caution. Adieu!"

Walter went home in a peculiar frame of mind. At first the family did not think favorably of that "cash security." Stoffel, however, had often heard of such things, and negotiations were opened with the said firm. It was finally agreed that a deposit of one hundred florins should be made, for which the firm agreed to pay 3 1/2% interest. Juffrouw Pieterse was not quite satisfied with this, as she was accustomed to getting 4%; but "one must do something for one's children."

Stoffel, who represented the Pieterses in these negotiations, was surprised that he never got to see more than the first half of the firm—or, better, the first third. He even took the liberty of remarking on the peculiar circumstance, when he learned that the "Co." was merely ornamental, while "Business" existed only in Mr. Motto's imagination. In fact that handsome and worthy gentleman alone constituted the "responsible business firm," and like an Atlas carried on his broad shoulders all the responsibilities incident to such a complicated and extensive undertaking. It was quite natural that he should desire to put a part of the burden on the back of some diligent, reliable Protestant boy, who could furnish cash security. For that was "the main thing."

On the library side Walter developed a diligence against which only one thing could be urged: it was prejudicial to the tobacco industry adjoining. If he had smoked as much as he read, he would have made himself sick; and even his reading wasn't the best thing in the world for his health.