 27 The Merchant Prince and the Sister Princess Well might Peter feel that his sister's house was like an enchanted castle. Large and elegant as it was, a spell of quiet hung over it. The very lion crouching at its gate seemed to have been turned into stone through magic. Within it was guarded by genii in the shape of red-faced servants who sprang silently forth at the summons of bell or knocker. There was a cat also, who appeared as knowing as any puss in boots, and a brass gnome in the hall whose business it was to stand with outstretched arms ready to receive sticks and umbrellas. Safe within the walls bloomed a garden of delight, where the flowers firmly believed it was summer, and a sparkling fountain was laughing merrily to itself because Jack Frost could not find it. There was a sleeping beauty too, just at the time of the boy's arrival, but when Peter, like a true prince, flew lightly up the stairs and kissed her eyelids, the enchantment was broken. The princess became his own good sister, and the fairy castle just one of the finest, most comfortable houses of the hag. As may well be believed, the boys received the heartiest of welcomes. After they had conversed a while with their lively hostess, one of the genii summoned them to a grand repast in a red-curtained room, where floor and ceiling shone like polished ivory, and the mirrors suddenly blossomed into rosy-cheeked boys as far as the eye could reach. They had caviar now, and salmagundi, and sausage and cheese, beside salad and fruit and biscuit and cake. How the boys could partake of such a medley was a mystery to Ben, for the salad was sour, and the cake was sweet. The fruit was dainty, and the salmagundi heavy with onions and fish. But while he was wondering, he made a hearty meal, and was soon absorbed in deciding whether he really preferred the coffee or the anisette cordial. It was delightful, too, this taking one's food from dishes of frosted silver and liqueur glasses from which Titania herself might have sipped. The young gentleman afterward wrote to his mother that, pretty in choice as things were at home, he had never known what cut glass, china, and silver services were, until he visited the haig. Of course, Peter's sister soon heard all of the boys' adventures, how they had skated over forty miles and seen rare sights on the way, how they had lost their purse, and found it again, how one of the party had fallen and given them an excuse for a grand sale in an ice boat, how, above all, they had caught a robber, and so for a second time saved their slippery purse. And now, Peter, said the lady when the story was finished, you must write it once to tell the good people of Brooke that your adventures have reached their height, that you and your fellow travellers have all been taken prisoners. The boys look startled. Indeed, I shall do no such thing, laughed Peter. We must leave tomorrow at noon. But the sister had already decided differently, and a Holland lady is not to be easily turned from her purpose. In short, she held forth such strong temptations, and was so bright and cheerful, and said so many coaxing and unanswerable things, both in English and Dutch, that the boys were all delighted when it was settled that they should remain at the egg for at least two days. Next the grand skating race was talked over. Mevrouw van Gendt gladly promised to be present on the occasion. I shall witness your triumph, Peter, she said, for you are the fastest skater I ever knew. Peter blushed, and gave a slight cough as Carl answered for him. Ah, Mevrouw, he is swift, but all the Brooke boys are fine skaters, even the rag-pickers. And he thought bitterly of poor Hans. The lady laughed. That will make the race all the more exciting, she said, but I shall wish each of you to be the winner. At this moment her husband, my near van Gendt, came in, and the enchantment falling upon the boys was complete. The invisible fairies of the household at once clustered about them, whispering that Jasper van Gendt had a heart as young and fresh as their own, and if he loved anything in this world more than industry, it was sunshine and frolic. They hinted also, something about his having a heart full of love and a head full of wisdom, and finally gave the boys to understand that when my near said a thing, he meant it. Therefore his frank, well now, this is pleasant, as he shook hands with them all, made the boys feel quite at home and as happy as squirrels. There were fine paintings in the drawing-room, an exquisite statuary, and portfolios filled with rare Dutch engravings, besides many beautiful and curious things from China and Japan. The boys felt that it would require a month to examine all the treasures of the apartment. Ben noticed with pleasure English books lying upon the table. He saw also over the carved upright piano life-sized portraits of William of Orange and his English queen, a sight that, for a time, brought England and Holland side by side in his heart. William and Mary have left a halo around the English throne to this day. He, the truest patriot that ever served an adopted country, she, the noblest wife that ever sat upon a British throne, up to the time of Victoria and Albert the Good. As Ben looked at the pictures he remembered accounts he had read of King William's visit to the Hague in the winter of 1691. He who sang the Battle of Ivory had not yet told the glowing story of that day, but Ben knew enough of it to fancy that he could almost hear the shouts of the delighted populace as he looked from the portraits to the street, which at this moment was a glow with a bonfire kindled in a neighboring square. That royal visit was one never to be forgotten. For two years William of Orange had been monarch of a foreign land, his head working faithfully for England, but his whole heart yearning for Holland. Now when he sought it sure as once more the entire nation made him welcome. Multitudes flocked to the Hague to meet him. Many thousands came sliding or skating along the frozen canals from Amsterdam, Rotterdam, Leiden, Haarlem, Delft, from Macaulay's history of England. All day long the festivities of the capital were kept up. The streets were gorgeous with banners, evergreen arches, trophies, and mottos of welcome and emblems of industry. William saw the deeds of his ancestors and scenes of his own past life depicted on banners and tapestries along the streets. At night superb fireworks were displayed upon the ice. Its glassy surface was like a mirror. Sparkling fountains of light sprang up from below to meet the glittering cascades leaping upon it. Then a feathery fire of crimson and green shook millions of rubies and emeralds into the ruddy depths of the ice. And all this time the people were shouting, God bless William of Orange! Long live the King! They were half mad with joy and enthusiasm. William, their own prince, their stockholder, had become the ruler of three kingdoms. He had been victorious in council and in war, and now, in his hour of greatest triumph, had come as a simple guest to visit them. The King heard their shouts with a beating heart. It is a great thing to be beloved by one's country. His English courteous complimented him upon his reception. Yes, said he, but the shouting is nothing to what it would have been if Mary had been with me. While Ben was looking at the portraits, my near vanguent was giving the boys an account of a recent visit to Antwerp. As it was the birthplace of Quentin Matzis, the blacksmith who, for love of an artist's daughter, studied until he became a great painter, the boys asked their host if he had seen any of Matzis's works. Yes, indeed, he replied, and excellent they are. His famous triptych in a chapel of the Antwerp Cathedral, with the descent from the cross on the centre-paddle, is especially fine, but I confess I was more interested in his well. What well, my near, asked Ludwig. One in the heart of the city, near the same cathedral, whose lofty steeple is of such delicate workmanship that the French emperor said it reminded him of Mecklen lace. The well is covered with a Gothic canopy, surmounted by the figure of a knight in full armour. It is all of metal, and proves that Matzis was an artist at the forge as well as at the easel. Indeed, his great fame is mainly derived from his miraculous skill as an artificer in iron. Next, my near showed the boy some exquisite Berlin castings which he had purchased in Antwerp. They were iron jewelry and very delicate, beautiful medallions designed from rare paintings bordered with fine tracery and open work, worthy, he said, of being worn by the fairest lady of the land. Consequently the necklace was handed with a bow and a smile to the blushing mevro van Gendt. Something in the lady's aspect as she bent her bright young face over the gift caused my near to say earnestly, I can read your thoughts, sweetheart. She looked up in playful defiance. Ah, now I am sure of them. You were thinking of those noble-hearted women, but for whom Prussia might have fallen. I know it by that proud light in your eye. The proud light in my eye placed me false then, she answered. I had no such grand matter in my mind. To confess the simple truth I was only thinking how lovely this necklace would be with my blue brocade. So, so, exclaimed the rather crestfallen spouse. But I can think of the other, Jasper, and it will add a deeper value to your gift. You remember the incident, do you not, Peter? How when the French were invading Prussia, and for lack of means the country was unable to defend itself against the enemy, the women turned the scale by pouring their plate and jewels into the public treasury. Ah-ha! thought my near, as he met his frows kindling glance. The proud light is there now, in earnest. Peter remarked maliciously that the women had still proved true to their vanity on that occasion, for jewelry they would have. If gold or silver were wanted by the kingdom they would relinquish it, and use iron, but they could not do without their ornaments. What of that? said the frow, kindling again. It is no sin to love beautiful things if you adapt your material to circumstances. All I have to say is the women saved their country and indirectly introduced a very important branch of manufacture. Is that not so, Jasper? Of course it is, sweetheart, said my near. But Peter needs no word of mine to convince him that all the world over women have never been found wanting in their country's hour of trial, though, bowing to Mevral, his own country women stand foremost in the records of female patriotism and devotion. Then, turning to Ben, the host talked with him in English of the final Belgian city. Among other things he told the origin of its name. Ben had been taught that Antwerp was derived from Antwerp, meaning on the wharf, but mineir van Gen gave him a far more interesting derivation. It appears that about three thousand years ago a great giant named Antigonus lived on the river Shelte, on the site of the present city of Antwerp. This giant claimed half the merchandise of all navigators who passed his castle. Of course, some were inclined to oppose this simple regulation. In such cases Antigonus, by way of teaching them to practice better banners next time, cut off and threw into the river the right hands of the merchants. Thus Handwerpen, or hand-throwing, changed to Antwerp, came to be the name of the place. The escutcheon, or arms of the city, has two hands upon it. What better proof than this could one have of the truth of the story, especially when one wishes to believe it? When mineir van Gen had related in two languages the story of Antwerp, he was tempted to tell other legends, some in English, some in Dutch, and so the moments, born upon the swift shoulders of gnomes and giants, glided rapidly away toward bedtime. It was hard to break up so pleasant a party, but the van Gent household moved with the regularity of clockwork. There was no lingering at the threshold when the cordial Good-Night was spoken. Even while our boys were mounting the stairs, the invisible household fairies again clustered around them, whispering that system and regularity had been chief builders of the master's prosperity. Beautiful chambers with three beds in them were not to be found in this mansion. Some of the rooms contained two, but each visitor slept alone. Before morning the motto of the party evidently was, every boy his own chrysalis, and Peter, at least, was not sorry to have it so. Tired as he was, Ben, after noting a curious bell-rope in the corner, began to examine his bed-clothes. Each article filled him with astonishment. The exquisitely fine pillow-spread trimmed with costly lace, and embroidered with a gorgeous crest and initial. The deck-bed cover, a great silk bag, larges the bed stuffed with swans down. And the pink satin quilts, embroidered with garlands of flowers. He could scarcely sleep for thinking what a queer little bed it was. So comfortable and pretty, too, with all its queerness. The morning he examined the top coverlet with care, for he wished to send home a description of it in his next letter. It was a beautiful Japanese spread, marvellous in texture, as well as in its variety of brilliant coloring and worth, as Ben afterward learned, not less than three hundred dollars. The floor was of polished wooden mosaic, nearly covered with a rich carpet bordered with thick black fringe. Another room displayed a margin of satin wood around the carpet. Hung with tapestry, its walls of crimson silk were topped with a gilded cornice which shot down gleams of light far into the polished floor. Over the doorway of the room in which Jacob and Ben slept was a bronze stork that, with outstretched neck, held a lamp to light the guests into the apartment. Between the two narrow beds of carved white wood and ebony stood the household treasure of the Van Gents, a massive oaken chair upon which the Prince of Orange had once sat during a council meeting. Opposite stood a quaintly carved clothes-press, waxed and polished to the utmost, and filled with precious stores of linen. Beside it a table holding a large Bible, whose great golden clasps look poor compared with its solid, ripped binding made to outlast six generations. There was a ship-model on the mantle-shelf, and over it hung an old portrait of Peter the Great, who, you know, once gave the dockyard cats of Holland a fine chance to look at a king, which is one of the special prerogatives of cats. Peter, though Tsar of Russia, was not too proud to work as a common shipwright in the dockyards of Sardom and Amsterdam, that he might be able to introduce among his countrymen Dutch improvements in shipbuilding. It was this willingness to be thorough even in the smallest beginnings that earned for him the title of Peter the Great. Peter the Little, comparatively speaking, was up first the next morning. Knowing the punctual habits of his brother-in-law, he took good care that none of the boys should oversleep themselves. A hard task he found it to wake Jacob Pute, but after pulling that young gentleman out of bed, and with Ben's help dragging him about the room for a while, he succeeded in arousing him. While Jacob was dressing and moaning within him because the felt slippers provided him as a guest were too tight for his swollen feet, Peter wrote to inform their friends at Brook of the safe arrival of his party at the Hague. He also begged his mother to send word to Hans Brinker that Dr. Bookman had not yet reached Leiden but that a letter containing Hans's message had been left at the hotel where the doctor always lodged during his visits to the city. Tell him also, wrote Peter, that I shall call there again as I pass through Leiden. The poor boy seemed to feel sure that the maester would hasten to save his father, but we, who know the gruff old gentleman better, may be confident he will do no such thing. It would be a kindness to send a visiting physician from Amsterdam to the cottage at once, if Euphraou. In Holland women of the lower grades of society do not take the title of Mrs. or Mephrou when they marry, as with us. They assume their husband's names but are still called Miss or Euphraou. If Euphraou Brinker will consent to receive any but the great king of the maesters, as Dr. Bookman certainly is. You know, mother, added Peter, that I have always considered Sister Van Gent's house as rather quiet and lonely, but I assure you it is not so now. He says we make him wish that he had a house full of boys of his own. He has promised to let us ride on his noble black horses. They are gentlest kittens, he says, if one have but a firm touch at the rain. Then, according to Jacob's account, is a glorious rider, and your son Peter is not a very bad hand at the business. So we too are to go out together this morning mounted like knights of old. After we return, Brother Van Gent says he will lend Jacob his English pony and obtain three extra horses, and all of the party are to trot about the city in a grand cavalcade led on by him. He will ride the black horse which father sent him from Friesland. My sister's pretty ron with a long white tail is lame, and she will ride none other, else she would accompany us. I could scarcely close my eyes last night after sister told me of the plan. Only the thought of poor Hans Brinker and his sick father checked me. But for that I could have sung for joy. Ludwig has given us a name already, the Bruck Cavalry. We flatter ourselves that we shall make an imposing appearance, especially in single file. The Bruck Cavalry were not disappointed. My near Van Gent readily procured good horses, and all the boys could ride, though none was as perfect horsemen or horseboys as Peter and Ben. They saw the hag to their hearts content, and the hag saw them, expressing its approbation loudly, through the mouths of small boys and cart-dogs, silently, through bright eyes that, not looking very deeply into things, shone as they looked at the handsome Carl, and twinkled with fun as a certainly portly youth with shaking cheeks rode past bumpity-bumpity- bump. On their return the boys pronounced the great porcelain stove in the family-sitting-room a decidedly useful piece of furniture, for they could gather around it and get warm without burning their noses or bringing on chill-blades. It was so very large that, although hot elsewhere, it seemed to send out warmth by the houseful. Its pure white sides and polished brass rings made it a pretty object to look upon, notwithstanding the fact that our ungrateful Ben, while growing thoroughly warm and comfortable beside it, concocted a satirical sentence for his next letter, to the effect that a stove in Holland must, of course, resemble a great tower of snow, or it wouldn't be in keeping with the oddity of the country. To describe all the boys saw and did on that day and the next would render this little book a formidable volume indeed. They visited the brass cannon foundry, saw the liquid fire poured into molds, and watched the smiths who, half-naked, stood in the shadow like demons playing with flame. They admired the grand public buildings and massive private-houses, the elegant streets and noble bosch, pride of all beauty-loving Hollanders. The palace with its brilliant mosaic floors, its frescoed ceilings, and gorgeous ornaments, filled Ben with delight. He was surprised that some of the churches were so very plain, elaborate sometimes in external architecture, but bare and bleak within with their blank whitewashed walls. If there were no printed record, the churches of Holland would almost tell her story. I will not enter into the subject here, except to say that Ben, who had read of her struggles and wrongs and of the terrible retribution she had from time to time dealt forth, could scarcely tread a Holland town without mentally leaping horror-stricken over the bloody stepping-stones of its history. He could not forget Philip of Spain, nor the Duke of Alba, even while rejoicing in the prosperity that followed the liberation. He looked into the meekest of Dutch eyes for something of the fire that once lit the haggard faces of those desperate, lawless men who, wearing with pride the title of beggars, which their oppressors had mockingly cast upon them, became the terror of land and sea. In Harlem he had wondered that the air did not still resound with the cries of Alba's three thousand victims. In Leiden his heart had swelled in sympathy as he thought of the long procession of scarred and famished creatures, who after the siege, with Adrian van der Werf at their head, tottered to the great church to sing a glorious anthem because Leiden was free. He remembered that this was even before they had tasted the bread brought by the Dutch ships. They would praise God first, then eat. Thousands of trembling voices were raised in glad thanksgiving. For a moment it swelled higher and higher, then suddenly changed to sobbing. Not one of all the multitude could sing another note. But who shall say that anthem, even to its very end, was not heard in heaven? Here in the hagg, other thoughts came to bed, of how Holland in later years unwillingly put her head under the French yoke, and how galled and lashed past endurance she had resolutely jerked it out again. He liked her for that. What nation of any spirit thought he could be expected to stand such work, paying all her wealth into a foreign treasury and yielding up the flower of her youth under foreign conscription? It was not so very long ago, either, since English guns had been heard booming close by in the German Ocean. Well, all the fighting was over at last. Holland was a snug little monarchy now in her own right, and Ben, for one, was glad of it. Arrived at this charitable conclusion, he was prepared to enjoy to the utmost all the wonders of her capital. He quite delighted by near van Gent with his hearty and intelligent interest. So, in fact, visited all the boys for a merrier, more observant party never went sightseeing. CHAPTER XXVIII This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. HUN SPRINKER, OR THE SILVER SKATES, by Mary-Mapes Dodge. CHAPTER XXVIII. THROUGH THE HEG. The picture gallery in the Maritz-Houles, a building erected by Prince Morris of Nassau, one of the finest in the world, seemed to have only flashed by the boys during a two-hour visit, so much was there to admire and examine. As for the royal cabinet of curiosities in the same building, they felt that they had but glanced at it, though they were there nearly half a day. It seemed to them that Japan had poured all her treasures within its walls. For a long period Holland, always foremost in commerce, was the only nation allowed to have any intercourse with Japan. One can well forego a journey to that country if he can but visit the museum at the Hague. Room after room is filled with collections from the Hermit Empire, costumes peculiar to various ranks and pursuits, models of ornament, household utensils, weapons, armor, and surgical instruments. There is also an ingenious Japanese model of the island of Desuna, the Dutch factory in Japan. It appears almost as the island itself would if seen through a reversed opera glass, and makes one feel like a gulliver coming unexpectedly upon a Japanese lily-put. There you see hundreds of people in native costumes, standing, dwelling, stooping, reaching, all at work, or pretending to be, and their dwellings, even their very furniture, spread out before you plain as day. In another room a huge, tortoise-shelled doll-house fitted up in Dutch style and inhabited by dignified Dutch dolls stands ready to tell you at a glance how people live in Holland. Gretel, Hilda, Katrinka, even the proud richie-corbs would have been delighted with this, but Peter and his gallant band passed it by without a glance. The war implements had the honor of detaining them for an hour, such clubs, such murderous crits, or daggers, such firearms, and above all, such wonderful Japanese swords, quite capable of performing the accredited Japanese feat of cutting a man in two at a single stroke. There were Chinese and other oriental curiosities in the nation. Native historical relics, too, upon which our young Dutchmen gazed very soberly, though they were secretly proud to show them to bend. There was a model of the cabin at Saradam in which Peter the Great lived during his short career as ship-builder. Also, wallets and bowls, once carried by the beggar Confederates, who, uniting under the Prince of Orange, had freed Holland from the tyranny of Spain. This sort of admiral von Speck, who about ten years before had perished in voluntarily blowing up his own ship, and von Trump's armor with the marks of bullets upon it. Jacob looked around, hoping to see the broom which the plucky admiral fastened to his mast-head, but it was not there. The waistcoat which William III of England wore during the last days of his life possessed great interest for Ben, and one and all gazed with a mixture of reverence and horror worship at the identical clothing worn by William the Silent when he was murdered at Delft by Balthazar Kiratz. William, Prince of Orange, who became King of England, was a great-grandson of William the Silent, Prince of Orange, who was murdered by Kiratz, or Gerard, July 10, 1584. A tawny leather doublet in plain sircoat of grey cloth, a soft felt hat, and a high neck-rough from which hung one of the beggar's medals, these were not in themselves very princely objects, though the doublet had a tragic interest from its dark stains and bullet holes. Ben could readily believe, as he looked upon the garments, that the Silent Prince, true to his greatness of character, had been exceedingly simple in his attire. His aristocratic prejudices were, however, decidedly shocked when Lumbert told him of the way in which William's bride first entered the hagg. The beautiful Louisa de Colligny, whose father and former husband both had fallen at the massacre of Saint Bartholomew, was coming to be fourth wife to the Prince, and, of course, said Lumbert, we Hollenders were too gallant to allow the lady to enter the town on foot. No, sir, we sent, or rather, my ancestors did, a clean open post-wagon to meet her, with a plank across it for her to sit upon. Very gallant indeed, exclaimed Ben with almost a sneer in his polite laugh, and she the daughter of an admiral of France. Was she? Upon my word I had nearly forgotten that. But you see Holland had very plain ways in the good old time. In fact, we are a very simple, frugal people to this day. The Vangent establishment is a decided exception, you know. A very agreeable exception, I think, said Ben. Certainly, certainly. But between you and me, my dear Vangent, though he has wrought his own fortunes, can afford to be magnificent and yet be frugal. Exactly so, said Ben profoundly, at the same time stroking his upper lip and chin, which latterly he believed had been showing delightful and unmistakable signs of coming dignities. While tramping on foot through the city, Ben often longed for a good English sidewalk. Here, as in the other towns, there was no curb, no raised pavement for foot-travelers. But the streets were clean and even, and all vehicles were kept scrupulously within a certain tract. Strange to say, there were nearly as many sleds as wagons to be seen, though there was not a particle of snow. The sleds went scraping over the bricks or cobblestones, some provided with an apparatus in front for sprinkling water to diminish the friction, and some rendered less musical by means of a dripping oil rag, which the driver occasionally applied to the runners. Ben was surprised at the noiseless way in which Dutch laborers do their work. Even around the warehouses and docks there was no bustle, no shouting from one to another. A certain twitch of the pipe, or turn of the head, or at most the raising of the hand, seemed to be all the signal necessary. Entire loads of cheeses or herrings are pitched from cart or canal boat into the warehouses without a word. But the passer-by must take his chance of being pelted, for a Dutchman seldom looks before or behind him while engaged at work. Poor Jacob Pute, who seemed destined to bear all the mishaps of the journey, was knocked nearly breathless by a great cheese which a fat Dutchman was throwing to a fellow laborer, but he recovered himself and passed on without evencing the least indignation. Ben professed great sympathy upon the occasion, but Jacob insisted that it was knotting. Then why did you screw your face so when it hit you? What false screw-mine face? repeated Jacob soberly. Vy, it fosh de, de. That what? insisted Ben maliciously. Vy, de, de, de, what you called is, what you taste mit de nos? Ben laughed. Oh, you mean the smell. Yes, dat is it, said Jacob eagerly. It fosh de smell. I draw mine face for dat. Rory Ben, that's a good one. A Dutch boy smell a cheese. You can never make me believe that. Vel, it is no matter, replied Jacob, trudging on beside Ben in perfect good humor. Vy, de, you hit mit cheese. Dat is all. Soon, he added, pathetically, Pensionman, I know likes to be called touch. Dat is no gut. I be sa hollander. Just as Ben was apologizing, Lumbert hailed him. Hold up! Ben, here is the fish market. There is not much to be seen at this season, but we can take a look at the Storks, if you wish. Ben knew that Storks were held in peculiar reverence in Holland and that the bird figured upon the arms of the Capitol. He had noticed cartwheels placed upon the roofs of Dutch cottages to entice Storks to settle upon them. He had seen their huge nests, too, on many a thatched gable-roof from brook to the hag. But it was winter now. The nests were empty. No greedy birdlings open their mouths, or rather their heads, at the approach of a great white-wing thing with outstretched neck and legs, bearing a dangling something for their breakfast. The long bills were far away, picking up food on African shores, and before they would return in the spring, Ben's visit to the land of Dykes would be over. Therefore he pressed eagerly forward, as Van Monen led the way through the fish market, anxious to see if Storks and Holland were anything like the melancholy specimens he had seen in the zoological gardens of London. It was the same old story. A tamed bird is a sad bird, say what you will. These Storks lived in a sort of kennel, chained by the feet like felons, though supposed to be honoured by being kept at the public expense. In summer they were allowed to walk about the market, where the fish stalls were like so many free dining saloons to them. Untasted delicacies in the form of raw fish and butchers awful lay about their kennels now, but the city guests preferred to stand upon one leg, curving back their long necks and leaning their head sideways in a blinking reverie. How gladly they would have changed their petted state for the busy life of some hardworking Stork mother or father, bringing up a troublesome family on the roof of a rickety old building, where flapping windmills frightened them half to death every time they ventured forth on a frolic. Ben soon made up his mind, and rightly, too, that the hag with its fine streets and public parks shaded with elms was a magnificent city. The prevailing costume was like that of London or Paris, and as British years were many a time cheered by the music of British words. The shops were different in many respects from those on Oxford Street and the Strand, but they often were illumined by a printed announcement that English was spoken within. Others proclaimed themselves to have London stout for sale, and one actually promised to regale its customers with English roast beef. Over every possible shop door was the never-failing placard, tobacco to coop, tobacco to be sold. Instead of colored glass globes in the windows or high jars of leeches, the drugstores held a gaping turks head at the entrance, or, if the establishment was particularly fine, a wooden mandarin entire, indulging in a full yawn. Some of these queer faces amused Ben exceedingly. They seemed to have just swallowed a dose of physics, but Van Monen declared he could not see anything funny about them. A druggist showed his sense by putting a gaper before his door, so that his place would be known at once as an apotheque, and that was all there was to it. Another thing attracted Ben, the milkman's carts. These were small affairs, filled with shiny brass kettles, or stone jars, and drawn by dogs. The milkman walked meekly beside his cart, keeping his dog in order, and delivering the milk to customers. Certain fish dealers had dog carts also, and when a herring dog, chance to meet a milk dog, he invariably put on airs and growled as he passed him. Sometimes a milk dog would recognize an acquaintance before another milk cart across the street, and then how the kettles would rattle, especially if they were empty. Each dog would give a bound, and, never caring for his master's whistle, insist upon meeting the other half way. Sometimes they contented themselves with an inquisitive sniff, but generally the smaller dog made an affectionate snap-snap at the larger one's ear, or a friendly tussle was engaged in by way of exercise. Then woe to the milk kettles, and woe to the dogs. The whipping over, each dog, expressing his feelings as best as he could, would trot demurely back to his work. If some of these animals were eccentric in their ways, others were remarkably well-behaved. In fact, there was a school for dogs in the city, established expressly for training them. Ben probably saw some of its graduates. Many a time he noticed a span of barkers trotting along the street with all the dignity of horses obeying the slightest hint of them man walking briskly beside them. Sometimes, when their load was delivered, the dealer would jump in the cart and have a fine drive to his home beyond the gates of the city. And sometimes, I regret to say, a patient fro would trudge beside the cart with a fish-basket upon her head and a child in her arms, while her lord enjoyed his drive, carrying no heavier burden than a stumpy clay pipe, the smoke of which mounted lovingly into her face. CHAPTER XXIX A DAY OF REST The sight-seeing came to an end at last, and so did our boys visit to the Hague. They had spent three happy days and nights with the Vangents, and, strange to say, had not once in all that time put on skates. The third day had indeed been one of rest. The noise and bustle of the city was hushed. Sweet Sunday bells sent blessed, tranquil thoughts into their hearts. Ben felt, as he listened to their familiar music, that the Christian world is one after all, however divided by sex and differences it may be. As the clock speaks everyone's native language in whatever land it may strike the hour, so church bells are never foreign if our hearts but listen. Led on by these clear voices, our party, with Mephro van Gent and her husband, trod the quiet but crowded streets until they came to a fine old church in the southern part of the city. The interior was large and, notwithstanding its great stained windows, seemed dimly lighted, though the walls were white and dashes of red and purple sunshine lay brightly upon pillar and pew. Ben saw a few old women moving softly through the aisles, each bearing a high pile of foot stoves which he distributed among the congregation, by skilfully slipping out the under one until none were left. It puzzled him that Minier should settle himself with the boys in a comfortable side pew after seating his fro in the body of the church, which was filled with chairs exclusively appropriated to the women, but Ben was learning only a common custom of the country. The pews of the nobility and the dignitaries of the city were circular in form, each surrounding a column. Elaborately carved they formed a massive base to their great pillars, standing out in bold relief against the blank white walls beyond. These columns, lofty and well proportioned, were nicked and effaced from violence done to them long ago. Yet it seemed quite fitting that, before they were lost in the deep arches overhead, their softened outlines should leaf out as they did in dir richness and beauty. Soon Ben lowered his gaze to the marble floor. It was a pavement of gravestones. Nearly all the large slabs of which it was composed marked the resting places of the dead. And our memorial design engraved upon each stone, with inscription and date, told whose form was sleeping beneath, and sometimes three of a family were lying one above the other in the same sepulcher. He could not help but think of the solemn funeral procession winding by torchlight through those lofty aisles and bearing its silent burden toward a dark opening whence the slab had been lifted in readiness for its coming. It was something to think that his sister Mabel, who died in her flower, was lying in a sunny churchyard where a brook rippled and sparkled in the daylight and waving trees whispered together all night long, where flowers might nestle close to the headstone, and moon and stars shed their peace upon it, and morning birds sing sweetly overhead. Then he looked up from the pavement and rested his eyes upon the carved oaken pulpit, exquisitely beautiful in design and workmanship. He could not see the minister, though not long before he had watched him slowly ascending its winding stair, a mild-faced man wearing a rough about his neck and a short cloak reaching nearly to the knee. Meantime the great church had been silently filling. Its pews were somber with men and its center radiant with women in their fresh Sunday attire. Suddenly a soft rustling spread through the pulpit. All eyes were turned toward the minister, now appearing above the pulpit. Although the sermon was spoken slowly, Ben could understand little of what was said, but when the hymn came he joined in it with all his heart. A thousand voices lifted in love and praise offered a grander language than he could readily comprehend. Once he was startled during a pause in the surface, by seeing a little bag suddenly shake him before him, it had a tinkling bell at its side and was attached to a long stick carried by one of the deacons of the church. Not relying solely upon the mute appeal of the poor boxes fastened to the columns near the entrance, this more direct method was resorted to, of awakening the sympathies of the charitable. Fortunately Ben had provided himself with a few stifers, so the musical bag must have tinkled before him in vain. More than once a dark look rose on our English boy's face that morning. He longed to stand up and harangue the people concerning a peculiarity that filled him with pain. Some of the men wore their hats during the surface, or took them off whenever the humor prompted, and many put theirs on in the church as soon as they arose to leave. No wonder Ben's sense of propriety was wounded, and yet a higher sense would have been exercised had he tried to feel willing that Hollander should follow the customs of their country. But as English heart said over and over again, it is outrageous, is sinful. There is an angel called Charity who would often save our hearts a great deal of trouble if we would but let her in. CHAPTER XXX A Monday morning, bright and early, our boys bade farewell to their kind entertainers and started on their homeward journey. Peter lingered awhile at the lion-garded door, for he and his sister had many parting words to say. As Ben saw them bidding each other good-bye, he could not but help feeling that kisses, as well as clocks, were wonderfully alike everywhere. The English kiss that his sister Jenny had given him when he left home had said the same thing to him that the fro van Gens Dutch kiss said to Peter. Ludwig had taken his share of the farewell in the most matter-of-fact manner possible, and though he loved his sister well, had winced a little at her making such a child of him as to put an extra kiss for mother upon his forehead. He was already upon the canal with Carl and Jacob. Were they thinking about sisters or kisses? Not a bit of it. They were so happy to be on skates once more, so impatient to dart at once into the very heart of Brooke that they spun and wheeled about like crazy fellows, relieving themselves meantime by muttering something about Peter and Dunder, not worth translating. Even Lumberton Ben, who had been waiting at the street corner, began to grow impatient. The captain joined them at last, and they were soon on the canal with the rest. Hurry up, Peter! growled Ludwig. We're freezing by inches. There, I knew you'd be the last, after all, to get on your skates. Did you? said his brother, looking up with an air of deep interest. Clever boy! Ludwig laughed, but tried to look cross, as he said. I'm in earnest. We must get home some time this year. Now, boys! cried Peter, springing up as he fastened the last buckle. There's a clear way before us. We will imagine it's the grand race. Ready? One, two, three, start! I assure you that very little was said for the first half hour. There were six mercuries skimming the ice. In plain English they were lightning. No, that is imaginary, too. The fact is, one cannot decide what to say when half a dozen boys are whizzing past at such a rate. I can only tell you that each did his best, flying, with bent body and eager eyes, in and out, among the placid skates on the canal, until the very guard shouted to them to hold up! This only served to send them onward with the two-boy power that startled all beholders. But the laws of inertia are stronger even than canal guards. After a while Jacob slackened his speed, then Ludwig, then Lumbert, then Carl. They soon halted to take a long breath and finally found themselves standing in a group gazing after Peter and Ben, who were still racing in the distance as if their lives were at stake. It is very evident, said Lumbert, as he and his three companions started up again, that neither of them will give up until he can't help it. What foolishness, growled Carl, to tire themselves at the beginning of the journey. But they're racing in earnest, that's certain. Halloo! Peter's flagging. Not so, cried Ludwig, catch him being beaten. Ha-ha! sneered Carl. I tell you, boy, Benjamin is ahead. Now, if Ludwig disliked anything in this world, it was to be called a boy. Probably because he was nothing else. He grew indignant at once. Huh! what are you, I wonder? There, sir, now look and see if Peter isn't ahead. I think he is, interposed Lumbert. But I can't quite tell at this distance. I think he isn't, retorted Carl. Jacob was growing anxious. He always abhorred an argument. So he said in a coaxing tone, Don't quarrel! Don't quarrel! Don't quarrel! mocked Carl, looking back at Jacob as he skated. Who's quarreling? Pute, you're a goose. I can't help that, was Jacob's meek reply. See, there are nearing the turn of the canal. Now we can see, cried Ludwig in great excitement. Peter will make it first, I know. He can't, for Ben is ahead. Insisted Carl. Gunst, that ice-boat will run over him. No, he is clear. There are a couple of geese anyhow. Hurrah! they're at the turn. Who's ahead? Peter! cried Ludwig joyfully. Good for the captain! shouted Lumbert and Jacob. And Carl condescended to mutter. It is Peter after all. I thought all the time that headfellow was Ben. This turn in the canal had evidently been their goal for the two racers came to a sudden halt after passing it. Carl said something about being glad that they had sense enough to stop and rest, and the four boys skated on in silence to overtake their companions. All the while Carl was secretly wishing that he had kept on with Peter and Ben as he felt sure he could easily have come out winner. He was a very rapid, though by no means a graceful skater. Ben was looking at Peter with mingled vexation, admiration, and surprise as the boys drew near. They heard him saying in English, You're a perfect bird on the ice, Peter von Hope, the first fellow that ever beat me in a fair race I can tell you. Peter, who understood the language better than he could speak it, returned a laughing bow at Ben's compliment but made no further reply. Possibly he was scant of breath at the time. Now, puncherman, what you do with yourself? Get so hot as a firebrick. Is no good, was Jacob's plaintive comment. Nonsense, answered Ben. This frosty air will cool me soon enough. I'm not tired. You are beaten, though, my boy, said Lumbert in English, and fairly too. How will it be, I wonder, on the day of the grand race? Ben flushed and gave a proud, defiant laugh as if to say, This was mere pastime. I'm determined to beat then. Come what will. CHAPTER XXXI of Hans Brinker. By the time the boys reached the village of Forhote, which stands near the Grand Canal about halfway between the Hague and Harlem, they were forced to hold a council. The wind, though moderate at first, had grown stronger and stronger, until at last they could hardly skate against it. The weather veins throughout the country had evidently entered into a conspiracy. No use trying to face such a blow as this, said Ludwig. It cuts its way down a man's throat like a knife. Keep your mouth shut, then, grunted the affable Carl, who was as strong chested as a young ox. I'm for keeping on. In this case, interposed Peter, we must consult the weakest of the party rather than the strongest. The captain's principle was all right, but its application was not flattering to Master Ludwig. Shrugging his shoulders, he retorted, Who's weak? Not I, for one. But the wind's stronger than any of us. I hope you'll condescend to admit that. Ha! Ha! laughed von Monon, who could barely keep his feet. So it is! Just then the weather veins telegraphed to each other by a peculiar twitch, and in an instant the gust came. It nearly threw the strong-chested Carl. It almost strangled Jacob and quite upset Ludwig. This settles the question, shouted Peter. Off with your skates! We'll go into Forhout. At Forhout they found a little inn with a big yard. The yard was well stocked, and better than all was provided with a complete set of skittles, so our boys soon turned the detention into a frolic. The wind was troublesome again even in that sheltered quarter, but they were on good standing ground, and did not mind it. First a hearty dinner. Then the game. With pins as long as their arms and balls as big as their heads, plenty of strength left for rolling, and a clean sweep of sixty yards for the strokes, no wonder they were happy. That night Captain Peter and his men slept soundly. No prowling robber came to disturb them, and as they were distributed in separate rooms they did not even have a bolster battle in the morning. Such a breakfast as they ate! The landlord looked frightened. When he had asked them where they belonged, he made up his mind that the brook people starved their children. It was a shame. Such fine young gentlemen, too. Fortunately the wind had tired itself out, and fallen asleep in the great sea cradle beyond the dunes. There were signs of snow, otherwise the weather was fine. It was mere child's play for the well-rested boys to skate the laden. Here they halted a while, for Peter had an errand at the Golden Eagle. He left the city with a lightened heart. Dr. Bookman had been at the hotel, read the note containing Hans's message, and departed for brook. I cannot say that it was your letter that sent him off so soon, explained the landlord. Some rich lady in brook was taken bad very sudden, and he was sent for in haste. Peter turned pale. What was the name? he asked. Indeed, it went in one ear and out of the other, for all I hindered it. Play gone, people who can't see a traveller in uncomfortable lodgings, but they must whisk him off before one can breathe. A lady in brook, did you say? Yes. Very gruffly. Any other business, young master? No, my host, except that I and my comrades here would like a bite of something and a drink of hot coffee. Ah! said the landlord sweetly. A bite you shall have, and coffee, too, the finest in laden. Walk up to the stove, my masters. Now I think again. That was a widow-lady from Rotterdam, I think they said, visiting at one van Stoepels, if I mistake not. Ah! said Peter, greatly relieved. They live in the White House by the Shawson Mill. Now, my dear, the coffee, please. What a goose I was, thought he, as the party left the Golden Eagle, to feel so sure that it was my mother. But she may be somebody's mother, poor woman, for all that. Who can she be? I wonder. There were not many upon the canal that day, between laden and harem. However, as the boys nearer to Amsterdam, they found themselves once more in the midst of a moving throng. The big ace-preaker, an ice-breaker, a heavy machine armed with iron spikes for breaking the ice as it is dragged along. Some of the small ones are worked by men, but the large ones are drawn by horses, sixty or seventy of which are sometimes attached to one ace-preaker. The big ace-preaker had been at work for the first time that season, but there was any amount of skating-ground left yet. Three cheers for a home! cried Van Monen as they came inside of the great western dock. Vastelik dock! Hurrah! hurrah! shouted Juan, and all! Hurrah! hurrah! This trick of cheering was an importation among our party. Lumbert Van Monen had brought it from England. As they always gave it in English, it was considered quite an exploit, and when circumstances permitted, always enthusiastically performed, to the sore dismay of their quiet-loving countrymen. Therefore their arrival at Amsterdam created a great sensation, especially among the small boys on the wharf. The eye was crossed. They were on the brook canal. Lumberts' home was reached first. Good-bye, boys! he cried as he left them. We've had the greatest frolic ever known in Holland. So we have. Good-bye, Van Monen! answered the boys. Good-bye! Peter hailed him. I say, Van Monen, the classes begin tomorrow. I know it. Our holiday is over. Good-bye again. Good-bye! The brook came in sight. Such meetings! Katrinka was upon the canal. Carl was delighted. Hilda was there. Peter felt rested in an instant. Richie was there. Ludwig and Jacob nearly knocked each other over in their eagerness to shake hands with her. Dutch girls are modest and generally quiet, but they have very glad eyes. For a few moments it was hard to decide whether Hilda, Richie, or Katrinka felt the most happy. Annie Bowman was also on the canal, looking even prettier than the other maidens in her graceful peasant's costume. But she did not mingle with Richie's party. Neither did she look unusually happy. The one she liked most to see was not among the newcomers. Indeed he was not upon the canal at all. She had not been near brook before, since the eve of St. Nicholas, for she was staying with her sick grandmother in Amsterdam and had been granted a brief resting-spell, as the grandmother called it, because she had been such a faithful little nurse night and day. Annie had devoted her resting-spell to skating with all her might toward brook and back again, in the hope of meeting her mother on the canal, or it might be Gretel Brinker. Not one of them had she seen, and she must hurry back even without catching a glimpse of her mother's cottage, for the poor helpless grandmother, she knew, was by this time moaning for someone to turn her upon her cot. Where can Gretel be, thought Annie, as she flew over the ice? She can almost always steal a few moments from her work at this time of day. Poor Gretel, what a dreadful thing it must be to have a dull father. I should be woefully afraid of him, I know, so strong and yet so strange. Annie had not heard of his illness. Dame Brinker and her affairs received but little notice from the people of the place. If Gretel had not been known as a goose-girl, she might have had more friends among the peasantry of the neighborhood. As it was, Annie Bowman was the only one who did not feel ashamed to avow herself, by word and deed, the companion of Gretel and Hans. When the neighbor's children laughed at her for keeping such poor company, she would simply flush when Hans was ridiculed, or laugh in a careless, disdainful way, but to hear little Gretel abused always awakened her wrath. Goose-girl indeed, she would say, I can tell you that any of you are fitter for the work than she. My father often said last summer that it troubled him to see such a bright-eyed, patient little maiden, tending geese. She would not harm them as you would, John Sume Culp, and she would not tread upon them as you might, Kate Vooders. This would be pretty sure to start a laugh at the clumsy, ill-natured Kate's expense, and Annie would walk loftily away from the group of young gossips. Perhaps some memory of Gretel's assailants crossed her mind as she skated rapidly toward Amsterdam, for her eyes sparkled ominously, and she more than once gave her pretty head a defiant toss. In that mood-past, such a bright, rosy, affectionate look illuminated her face that more than one weary working man turned to gaze after her, and to wish that he had a glad, contented last like that for a daughter. There were five joyous households in Brook that night. The boys were back safe and sound, and they found all well at home. Even the sick lady at neighbor Van Stoepels was out of danger. But the next morning, ah, how stupidly school-bells will ding-dong, ding-dong, when one is tired. Ludwig was sure that he had never listened to anything so odious. Even Peter felt pathetic on the occasion. Carl said it was a shameful thing for a fellow to have to turn out when his bones were splitting, and Jacob soberly bade Ben Koot-bye and walked off with his satchel as if it weighed a hundred pounds. John's Brinker, or the Silver Skates, by Mary-Mapes Dodge. CHAPTER XXXII. THE CRISIS. While the boys are nursing their fatigue, we will take a peep into the Brinker cottage. Can it be that Gretel and her mother have not stirred since we saw them last? That the sick man upon the bed has not even turned over? It was four days ago, and there is the sad group just as it was before. No, not precisely the same, for Raph Brinker is paler. His fever is gone, though he knows nothing of what is passing. Then they were alone in the bare clean room. Now there is another group in an opposite corner. Dr. Buchman is there, talking in a low tone with a stout young man who listens intently. The stout young man is his student and assistant. He listens as they are also. He stands near the window, respectfully waiting until he shall be accosted. You see, Wollinhoven, said Dr. Buchman. It is a clear case of—and here the doctor went off into a queer jumble of Latin and Dutch that I cannot conveniently translate. After a while, as Wollinhoven looked at him rather blankly, the learned man condescended to speak to him in simpler phrase. It is probably like Rip Donderdonk's case, he exclaimed in a low mumbling tone. He fell from the top of Wopelblut's Vinville. After the accident the man was stupid and finally became idiotic. In time he lay helpless like young fellow on the bed, moaned too like him, and kept constantly lifting his hand to his head. My learned friend Van Chopen performed an operation upon this Donderdonk and discovered under the skull a small dark sack which pressed upon the brain. This had been the cause of the trouble. My friend Van Chopen removed it, a splendid operation. You see, according to Celsius—and here the doctor again went off into Latin— Did the man live? Asked the assistant respectfully. Dr. Buchman scowled. It is of no consequence. I believe he died, but why not fix your mind on the grand features of the case? Consider a moment how—and he plunged into Latin mysteries more deeply than ever. But, my near, gently persisted the student, who knew that the doctor would not rise to the surface for hours unless pulled it once from his favorite depths. My near, you have other engagements today, three legs in Amsterdam you remember, and an eye in Broek, and that tumor up the canal. Hmm, the tumor can wait, said the doctor reflectively. That is another beautiful case, a beautiful case. The woman has not lifted her head from her shoulder for two months. Magnificent tumor, sir. The doctor by this time was speaking aloud. He had quite forgotten where he was. Fohlenhoven made another attempt. This poor fellow on the bed, my near, do you think you can save him? Ah, indeed, certainly, stammered the doctor, suddenly perceiving that he had been talking rather off the point. Certainly, that is, I hope so. If any one in Holland can, my near, murmured the assistant with honest bluntness, it is yourself. The doctor looked displeased, growled out a tender request for the student to talk less and beckoned Hans to draw near. This strange man had a great horror of speaking to women, especially on surgical matters. One can never tell, he said, what moment the creatures will scream or faint. Therefore he explained Raph Brinker's case to Hans and told him what he believed should be done to save the patient. Hans listened attentively, growing red in pale by turns, and throwing quick anxious glances toward the bed. It may kill the father, did you say, my near? He exclaimed at last in a trembling whisper. It may, my boy, but I have a strong belief that it will cure and not kill. Ah, if boys were not such dunces, I could lay the whole matter before you, but it would be of no use. Hans looked blank at this compliment. It would be of no use, repeated Dr. Bookman indignantly. A great operation is proposed, but one might as well do it with a hatchet. The only question asked is, will it kill? The question is everything to us, my near, said Hans with tearful dignity. Dr. Bookman looked at him and said in dismay, Ah, exactly so. You're right, boy. I am a fool. Good boy. One does not wish one's father killed. Of course I am a fool. Will he die, my near, if this sickness goes on? This is no new illness. The same thing growing worse every instant, pressure on the brain, will take him off soon like that, said the doctor, snapping his fingers. And the operation may save him, pursued Hans. How soon, my near, can we know? Dr. Bookman grew impatient. In a day, perhaps an hour, talk with your mother, boy, and let her decide my time is short. Hans approached his mother. At first, when she looked up at him, he could not utter a syllable. Then, turning his eyes away, he said in a firm voice, I must speak with the mother alone. Quick little Gretel, who could not quite understand what was passing, threw rather an indignant look at Hans and walked away. Come back, Gretel, and sit down, said Hans sorrowfully. She obeyed. Dame Brinker and her boy stood by the window while the doctor and his assistant, bending over the bedside, conversed together in a low tone. There was no danger of disturbing the patient. He appeared like one blind and deaf. Only his faint, piteous moans showed him to be a living man. Hans was talking earnestly, and in a low voice, for he did not wish his sister to hear. With dry, parted lips, Dame Brinker leaned toward him, searching his face, as if suspecting a meaning beyond his words. Once she gave a quick frightened sob that may Gretel start, but after that she listened calmly. When Hans ceased to speak, his mother turned, gave one long, agonized look at her husband, lying there so pale and unconscious, and threw herself on her knees beside the bed. Poor little Gretel! What did all this mean? She looked with questioning eyes at Hans. He was standing, but his head was bent as if in prayer, at the doctor. He was gently feeling her father's head and looked like one examining some curious stone at the assistant. The man coughed and turned away, at her mother. Ah, little Gretel, that was the best you could do. To kneel beside her, and twine your warm, young arms about her neck, to weep and implore God to listen. When the mother arose, Dr. Bookman, with a show of trouble in his eyes, asked gruffly, Where do you fro? Shall it be done? Will it pain him, my dear? She asked in a trembling voice. I cannot say. Probably not. Shall it be done? It may cure him, you said. And, my dear, did you tell my boy that perhaps—perhaps—she could not finish. Yes, your fro, I said the patient might sink under the operation. But we hope it may prove otherwise. He looked at his watch. The assistant moved impatiently toward the window. Come, your fro, time presses, yes or no. Hans wound his arm about his mother. It was not his usual way. He even leaned his head against her shoulder. The maester awaits an answer, he whispered. Dane Brinker had long been head of her house in every sense. Many a time she had been very stern with Hans, ruling him with a strong hand and rejoicing in her motherly discipline. Now she felt so weak, so helpless. It was something to feel that firm embrace. There was strength even in the touch of that yellow hair. She turned to her boy imploringly. Oh, Hans, what shall I say? Say what God tells the mother, answered Hans, bowing his head. One quick questioning prayer to heaven rose from the mother's heart. The answer came. She turned toward Dr. Bookman. It is right, my dear, I consent. Huh, grunted the doctor, as if to say, you've been long enough about it. Then he conferred a moment with his assistant, who listened with great outward deference but was inwardly rejoicing at the grand joke he would have to tell his fellow students. He had actually seen a tear in old Bookman's eye. Meanwhile Gretel looked on in trembling silence. But when she saw the doctor open a leather case and take out one sharp, gleaming instrument after another, she sprang forward. Oh, mother, the poor father meant no wrong. Are they going to murder him? I do not know, child, screamed Dane Brinker, looking fiercely at Gretel. I do not know. This will not do, you frau, said Dr. Bookman sternly, and at the same time he cast a quick penetrating look at Hans. You and the girl must leave the room. The boy may stay. Dane Brinker drew herself up in an instant. Her eyes flashed. Her whole countenance was changed. She looked like one who had never wept, never felt a moment's weakness. Her voice was low, but decided. I stay with my husband, my dear. Dr. Bookman looked astonished. His orders were seldom disregarded in this style. For an instant his eyes met hers. You may remain, you frau. He said in an altered voice. Gretel had already disappeared. In one corner the cottage was a small closet where her rough box-like bed was fastened against the wall. One would think of the trembling little creature crouching there in the dark. Dr. Bookman took off his heavy coat, filled an earthen basin with water, and placed it near the bed. Then turning to Hans he asked, Can I depend upon you, boy? You can, my dear. I believe you. Stand at the head, here. Your mother may sit at your right. So. And he placed a chair near the cottage. Remember, you frau. There must be no cries, no fainting. Dane Rinker answered him with a look. He was satisfied. Now, fallen-hoven, oh, that case with the terrible instruments! The assistant lifted them. Gretel, who had been peering with brimming eyes through the crack of the closet door, could remain silent no longer. She rushed frantically across the apartment, seized her hood, and ran from the cottage. CHAPTER 33 GRETEL AND HILDA It was recess hour. At the first stroke of the school-house bell, the canals seemed to give a tremendous shout and grow suddenly alive with boys and girls. Dozens of gaily-clad children were skating in and out among each other, and all their pent-up merriment of the morning was relieving itself in song and shout and laughter. There was nothing to check the flow of frolic. Not a thought of school-books came out with them into the sunshine. Latin, arithmetic, grammar, all were locked up for an hour in the dingy school-room. The teacher might be a noun if he wished, and a proper one at that, but they meant to enjoy themselves. As long as the skating was as perfect as this, it made no difference whether Holland was on the North Pole or the Equator, and as for philosophy, how could they bother themselves with inertia and gravitation and such things when it was as much as they could do to keep from getting knocked over in the commotion? In the height of the fun one of the children called out, What is that? What? Where? cried a dozen voices. Why, don't you see that dark thing over there by the idiot's cottage? I don't see anything, said one. I do, shouted another. It's a dog. Where's any dog? Put in a squeaky voice that we have heard before. It's no such thing. It's a heap of rags. Poo! Boost! Routed another gruffly. That's about as near the fact as you ever get. It's the goose girl, Gretel, looking for rats. Well, what of it? Squeaked, boost. Isn't she a bundle of rags, I'd like to know? Ha! Ha! Pretty good for you, boost. You get a medal for a wit yet, if you keep on. You get something else if her brother Hans were here. I'll war it, you would, said a muffled-up little fellow with a cold in his head. As Hans was not there, Boost could afford to scout the insinuation. Who cares for him, little sneezer? I'd fight a dozen like him any day, and you in the bargain. You would, would you? I'd like to catch you all at it. And by the way of proving his words the sneezer skated off at the top of his speed. Just then a general chase after three of the biggest boys of the school was proposed, and friend and foe, frolicsome as ever, were soon united in a common cause. Only one of all that happy throng remembered the dark little form by the idiot's cottage. Poor, frightened little Gretel. He was not thinking of them, though their merry laughter floated lightly toward her, making her feel like one in a dream. How low the moans were behind the darkened window! What if those strange men were really killing her father? The thought made her spring to her feet with a cry of horror. Ah, no! She sobbed, sinking upon the frozen mound of earth where she had been sitting. Neither is there, and Hans, they will care for him. But how pale they were, and even Hans was crying. Why did the cross-old maester keep him and send me away? She thought. I could have clung to the mother and kissed her. That always makes her stroke my hair and speak gently, even after she has scolded me. How quiet it is now! Oh, if the father should die, and Hans and the mother, what would I do? And Gretel, shivering with cold, buried her face in her arms and cried as if her heart would break. The poor child had been tasked beyond her strength during the past four days. Through all she had been her mother's willing little handmaiden, soothing, helping and cheering the half-widowed woman by day and watching him praying beside her all the long night. She knew that something terrible and mysterious was taking place at this moment, something that had been too terrible and mysterious for even kind, good Hans to tell. Then new thoughts came. Why had not Hans told her? It was a shame. It was her father as well as his. She was no baby. She had once taken a sharp knife from the father's hand. She had even drawn him away from the mother on that awful night when Hans, as big as he was, could not help her. Why then must she be treated like one who could do nothing? Oh, how very still it was! How bitter, bitter cold! If any bowman had only stayed home instead of going to Amsterdam, it would not be so lonely. How cold her feet were growing! Was it the moaning that made her feel as if she were floating in the air? This would not do. The mother might need her help at any moment. Rousing herself with an effort, Gretel sat upright, rubbing her eyes and wondering, wondering that the sky was so bright and blue, wondering at the stillness in the cottage, more than all, at the laughter rising and falling in the distance. Soon she sank down again. And a strange medley of thought growing more and more confused in her bewildered brain. What a strange lip the maester had! How the stork's nest upon the roof seemed to rustle and whisper down to her! How bright those knives were in the leather case! Brighter perhaps than the silver skates! If she had but worn her new jacket she would not shiver so. The new jacket was pretty, the only pretty thing she had ever worn. God had taken care of her father so long. He would do it still if those two men would but go away. Ah! Now the maesters were on the roof. They were clambering to the top. No, it was her mother-in-hands. Or the stork's. It was so dark, who could tell? And the mound rocking, swinging in that strange way. How sweetly the birds were singing! They must be winter birds, for the air was thick with icicles. Not one bird but twenty! Oh, hear them, mother! Wake me, mother, for the race I am so tired with crying and crying. A firm hand was laid upon her shoulder. Get up, little girl! Cried a kind voice. This will not do, for you to lie here and freeze! Well slowly raised her head. She was so sleepy that it seemed nothing strange to her that Hilda von Gleck should be leaning over her, looking with kind, beautiful eyes into her face. She had often dreamed it before. But she had never dreamed that Hilda was shaking her roughly, almost dragging her by main force, never dreamed that she heard her saying, Gretel, Gretel Brinker, you must wake! This was real. Hilda looked up. Still the lovely, delicate young lady was shaking, rubbing, fairly pounding her. It must be a dream. No, there was the cottage and the stork's nest and the maester's coach by the canal. She could see them now quite plainly. Her hands were tingling, her feet throbbing. Hilda was forcing her to walk. At last Gretel began to feel like herself again. I have been asleep! She faltered, rubbing her eyes with both hands and looking very much ashamed. Yes, indeed, entirely too much asleep! Laughed Hilda, whose lips were very pale. But you are well enough now. Lean upon me, Gretel. There, keep moving. You will soon be warm enough to go by the fire. Now let me take you into the cottage. Oh, no, no, no! You fro, not in there. The maester is there. He sent me away. Hilda was puzzled, but she wisely forebored to ask it present for an explanation. Very well, Gretel, try to walk faster. I saw you upon the mound some time ago, but I thought you were playing. That is right. Keep moving. All this time the kind-hearted girl had been forcing Gretel to walk up and down, supporting her with one arm and with the other, striving as well as she could to take off her own warm jacket. Suddenly Gretel suspected her intention. Oh, you fro, you fro! She cried imploringly, please never think of such a thing as that. Oh, please, keep it on. I am burning all over, you fro. I really am burning. Not burning exactly, but pins and needles pricking all over me. Oh, you fro, don't. The poor child's dismay was so genuine that Hilda hastened to reassure her. Very well, Gretel, move your arms then. So why your cheeks are as pink as roses already? I think the maester would let you in now. He certainly would. Is your father so very ill? Ah, you fro! cried Gretel, weeping afresh. He is dying, I think. There are two maesters in with him at this moment and the mother has scarcely spoken today. Can you hear him moan, you fro? She added with sudden terror. The air buzzes so I cannot hear. He may be dead. Oh, I do wish I could hear him. Hilda listened. The cottage was very near, but not a sound could be heard. Something told her that Gretel was right. She ran to the window. You cannot see there, my lady, sobbed Gretel eagerly. The mother has oiled paper hanging inside, but at the other one in the south end of the cottage you can look in where the paper is torn. Hilda and her anxiety ran around, past the corner where the low roof was fringed with its loosened thatch. A sudden thought checked her. It is not right for me to peep into another's house in this way, she said to herself. Then, softly calling to Gretel, she added in a whisper, You may look. Perhaps he is only sleeping. Gretel tried to walk briskly toward the spot, but her limbs were trembling. Hilda hastened to her support. You are sick yourself, I fear, she said kindly. No, not sick, Euphro, but my heart cries all the time now, even when my eyes are as dry as yours. Why, Euphro, your eyes are not dry. Are you crying for us? Oh, Euphro, if God sees you, oh, I know Father will get better now. In the little creature, even while reaching to look through the tiny window, kissed Hilda's hand again and again. The sash was sadly patched and broken. A torn piece of paper hung halfway down across it. Gretel's face was pressed to the window. Can you see anything? whispered Hilda at last. Yes. The father lies very still. His head is bandaged, and all their eyes are fastened upon him. Oh, Euphro! Oh, a scream Gretel, as she started back, and by a quick dexterous movement shook off her heavy wooden shoes. I must go into my mother. Will you come with me? Not now. The bell is ringing. I shall come again soon. Goodbye! Gretel scarcely heard the words. She remembered for many a day afterward the bright, pitying smile on Hilda's face as she turned away. CHAPTER XXXIV The room was very still. She could hear the old doctor breathe. She could almost hear the sparks as they fell into the ashes on the hearth. The mother's hand was very cold, but a burning spot glowed on her cheek, and her eyes were like a deer's, so bright, so sad, so eager. At last there was a movement upon the bed, very slight, but enough to cause them all to start. Dr. Bookman leaned eagerly forward. Another movement. The large hands, so white and soft for a poor man's hand, twitched, then raised itself steadily toward the forehead. It felt the bandage, not in a restless, crazy way, but with a questioning movement that caused even Dr. Bookman to hold his breath. Steady, steady! said a voice that sounded very strange to Gretel. Shift that mat higher, boys! Now throw on the clay. The waters are rising fast. No time to— Dame Brinker sprang forward like a young panther. She seized his hands, and leaning over him, cried, Raph! Raph, boy! Speak to me! Is it you, Major? He asked faintly. I have been asleep. Hurt, I think. Where is little Hans? Here I am, Father! Hurted Hans, half mad with joy, but the doctor held him back. He knows us! Screamed Dame Brinker, Craig God! He knows us! Gretel, Gretel, come see your father! In vain Dr. Bookman commanded, silence, and tried to force them from the bedside. He could not keep them off. Hans and the mother laughed and cried together as they hung over the newly awakened man. People made no sound, but gazed at them all with glad startled eyes. Her father was speaking in a faint voice. Is the baby asleep, Major? The baby, echoed Dame Brinker, O Gretel, that is you! And he calls Hans, little Hans, ten years of sleep. O, my dear, you have saved us all! He has known nothing for ten years. Children, why don't you thank the maester? The good woman was beside herself with joy. Dr. Bookman said nothing, but as his eye met hers he pointed upward. She understood. So did Hans and Gretel. With one accord they knelt by the cot, side by side. Dame Brinker felt for her husband's hand even while she was praying. Dr. Bookman's head was bowed. The assistant stood by the hearth with his back toward them. Why do you pray, murmured the father, looking feebly from the bed as they rose. Is it God's day? It was not Sunday, but his brow bowed her head. She could not speak. Then we should have a chapter, said Raph Brinker, speaking slowly and with difficulty. I do not know how it is. I am very, very weak. May hap the minister will read it to us. Gretel lifted the big Dutch Bible from its carved shelf. Dr. Bookman, rather dismayed at being called a minister, coughed and handed the volume to his assistant. Read, he murmured. These people must be kept quiet, or the man will die yet. When the chapter was finished, Dame Brinker motioned mysteriously to the rest by a way of telling them that her husband was asleep. Now you'll fro, said the doctor, in a subdued tone as he drew on his thick woollen mittens. There must be perfect quiet. You understand, this is truly a most remarkable case. I shall come again to-morrow, give the patient no food to-day. And, bowing hastily, he left the cottage followed by his assistant. His grand coach was not far away. The driver had kept the horses moving slowly up and down by the canal, nearly all the time the doctor had been in the cottage. Hans went out also. May God bless you, my dear, he said, blushing and trembling. I can never repay you, but if— Yes you can, interrupted the doctor crossly. You can use your wits when the patient wakes again. This clacking and sniveling is enough to kill a well-man, let alone one lying on the edge of his grave. If you want your father to get well, keep him quiet. So saying, Dr. Bookman, without another word, stalked off to meet his coach, leaving Hans standing there with eyes and mouth wide open. Hilda was reprimanded severely that day for returning late to school after recess and for imperfect recitations. She had remained near the cottage until she heard Dame Brinker laugh, until she had heard Hans say, Here I am, Father. And then she had gone back to her lessons. What wonder that she missed them? How could she get a long string of Latin verbs by heart when her heart did not care a fig for them, but would keep saying to itself, Oh, I am so glad, I am so glad. CHAPTER 35 BONES AND TONGS Those are strange things. One would suppose that they knew nothing at all about school affairs, but they do. Even Jacob Poots' bones, buried as they were in flesh, were sharp in the matter of study hours. Early on the morning of his return they ached through and through, giving Jacob a twinge at every stroke of the school bell, as if to say, Stop that clapper, there's trouble in it. Their school, on the contrary, they were quiet and comfortable, in fact, seemed to be taking a nap among their cushions. The other boy's bones behaved in a similar manner, but that is not so remarkable. Being nearer the daylight than Jacob's, they might be expected to be more learned in the ways of the world. Master Ludwig's, especially, were like beauty, only skin deep. They were the most knowing bones you ever heard of. Just put before him ever so quietly a grammar-book with a long lesson marked in it, and immediately the sly bone over his eyes would set up such an aching. Request him to go to the garret for your foot-stove. Instantly the bones would remind him that he was too tired. Ask him to go to the confectioners a mile away, and press, though, not a bone would remember now that it had ever been used before. Using all this in mind you will not wonder when I tell you that our five boys were among the happiest of the happy throng pouring forth from the school-house that day. Peter was in excellent spirits. He had heard through Hilda of Dane Brinker's laugh and of Hans's joyous words, and he needed no further proof that Raph Brinker was a cured man. In fact, the news had gone forth in every direction for miles around. Menace who had never before cared for the Brinkers, or even mentioned them, except with a contemptuous sneer or a shrug of pretended pity, now became singularly familiar with every point of their history. There was no end to the number of ridiculous stories that were flying about. Hilda and the excitement of the moment had stopped to exchange a word with the doctor's coachman as he stood by the horses, pummeling his chest and clapping his hands. Her kind heart was overflowing. She could not help pausing to tell the cold, tired-looking man that she thought the doctor would be out soon. She even hinted to him that she suspected, only suspected, that a wonderful cure had been performed, an idiot brought to his senses. Nay, she was sure of it, for she had heard his widow laugh. No, not his widow, of course, but his wife, for the man was as much alive as anybody. And for all she knew, sitting up and talking like a lawyer. All this was very indiscreet, Hilda, in an impenitent sort of way, felt it to be so. But it is always so delightful to impart pleasant or surprising news. She went tripping along by the canal, quite resolved to repeat the sin, add infinitum, and tell nearly every girl and boy and the school. From Yonsun Culp came skating by. Of course, in two seconds he was striking slippery attitudes and shouting saucy things to the coachman, who stared at him in indolent disdain. This to Yonsun was equivalent to an invitation to draw nearer. The coachman was now upon his box, gathering up the reins and grumbling at his horses. Yonsun accosted him. I say, what's going on at the idiot's cottage? Is your boss in there? Coachman nodded mysteriously. Whew! whistled Yonsun, drawing closer. Old Brinker dead? The driver grew big with importance and silent in proportion. See here, old pin-cushion, I'd run home yonder and get you a chunk of gingerbread if I thought you could open your mouth. Old pin-cushion was human. Long hours of waiting it made him ravenously hungry. At Yonsun's hint his countenance showed signs of a collapse. That's right, old fellow! Pursued his tempter. Hurry up! What news! Old Brinker dead? No! Cured! Got his wits! Said the coachman, shooting forth his words one at a time like so many bullets. But bullets, figuratively speaking, they hit Yonsun Culp. He jumped as if he had been shot. Guard at Gunst! You don't say so! The man pressed his lips together and looked significantly toward Master Culp's shabby residence. Just then Yonsun saw a group of boys in the distance, hailing them in a rowdy style, common to boys of his stamp all over the world. Whether in Africa, Japan, Amsterdam or Paris, he scampered toward them, forgetting coachmen, gingerbread, everything but the wonderful news. Therefore by sundown it was well known throughout the neighboring country that Dr. Brookman, chanceing to stop at the cottage, had given the idiot Brinker a tremendous dose of medicine, as brown as gingerbread. It had taken six men to hold him while it was poured down. The idiot had immediately sprung to his feet in full possession of all his faculties, knocked over the doctor, or thrashed him, there was admitted to be a slight uncertainty as to which of these penalties was inflicted, then sat down and addressed him for all the world like a lawyer. After that he had turned and spoken beautifully to his wife and children. Dame Brinker had laughed herself into violent hysterics. Hans had said, Here I am, Father, your own dear son. And Gretel had said, Here I am, Father, your own dear Gretel. And the doctor had afterward been seen leaning back in his carriage, looking just as white as a corpse. CHAPTER 36 A NEW ALARM When Dr. Brookman called the next day at the Brinker cottage, he could not help noticing the cheerful, comfortable aspect of the place. An atmosphere of happiness breathed upon him as he opened the door. Dame Brinker sat complacently knitting beside the bed. Her husband was enjoying a tranquil slumber, and Gretel was noiselessly kneading rye bread on the table in the corner. The doctor did not remain long. He asked a few simple questions, appeared satisfied with the answers, and after feeling his patience pulse said, Ah, very weak yet you'll throw. Very weak indeed. He must have nourishment. You may begin to feed the patient. Ahem! Not too much, but what you do give him, let it be strong and of the best. Black bread we have, my dear, and porridge, replied Dame Brinker cheerly. Oh, he's agreed with him well. Tut, tut, said the doctor, frowning. Nothing of the kind. He must have the juice of fresh meat, white bread, dried and toasted, good Malaga wine, and ahem! The man looks cold. Give him more covering, something light and warm. Where is the boy? Hans, my dear, has gone into Brook to look for work. He will be back soon. Will the maester please be seated? Whether the hard polished stool offered by Dame Brinker did not look particularly tempting, or whether the dame herself frightened him, partly because she was a woman, and partly because an anxious, distressed look had suddenly appeared in her face, I cannot say. Certain it is that our eccentric doctor looked hurriedly about him, muttered something about an extraordinary case, bowed and disappeared before Dame Brinker had time to say another word. Strange that the visit of their good benefactor should have left a cloud, yet so it was. Gretel frowned, an anxious childish frown, and needed the bread-dough violently without looking up. Dame Brinker hurried to her husband's bedside, leaned over him, and fell into silent but passionate weeping. In a moment Hans entered. Why mother? he whispered in alarm. What ails thee? is the father worse? She turned her quivering face toward him, making no attempt to conceal her distress. Yes, he is starving, perishing. A maester said it. Hans turned pale. What does this mean, mother? We must feed him at once. Here Gretel, give me the porridge. May! cried his mother, distractedly, yet without raising her voice. It may kill him. Our poor fare is too heavy for him. Oh Hans, he will die. The father will die if we use him this way. He must have meat and sweet wine and a deck bed. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do? She sobbed, wringing her hands. There is not a stiver in the house. Gretel pouted. It was the only way she could express sympathy just then. Her tears fell one by one into the dough. Did the maester say he must have these things, mother? asked Hans. Yes, he did. Well, mother, don't cry. He shall have them. I shall bring meat and wine before night. Take the cover from my bed. I can sleep in the straw. Yes, Hans, but it is heavy, scant as it is. The maester said he should have something light and warm. He will perish. Our peat is giving out Hans. The father has wasted it sorely, throwing it on when I was not looking, dear man. Never mind, mother, whispered Hans cheerfully. We can cut down the willow tree and burn it, if need be. But I'll bring home something to-night. There must be work in Amsterdam, though there's none in Brooke. Never fear, mother, the worst trouble of all is past. We can brave anything now that the father is himself again. Aye, sob, Dane Brinker, hastily drying her eyes. That is true indeed. Of course it is. Look at him, mother, how softly he sleeps. Do you think God would let him starve, just after giving him back to us? Why, mother, I'm as sure of getting all the father needs as if my pocket were bursting with gold. There now, don't fret. Dane hurriedly kissing her, Hans caught up his skates and slipped from the cottage. Poor Hans, disappointed in his morning's errand, half-sickened with this new trouble, he wore a brave look and tried to whistle as he tramped resolutely off with the firm intention of mending matters. Wanted never before pressed so sorely upon the Brinker family. Their stock of peat was nearly exhausted, and all the flour in the cottage was in Gretel's dough. They had scarcely cared to eat during the past few days, scarcely realized their condition. Dane Brinker had felt so sure that she and the children could earn money before the worst came that she had given herself up to the joy of her husband's recovery. She had not even told Hans that the few pieces of silver in the old mitten were quite gone. Hans reproached himself now that he had not hailed the doctor when he saw him enter his coach and drive rapidly away in the direction of Amsterdam. Perhaps there is some mistake, he thought. The maester surely would have known that meat and sweet wine were not at our command, and yet the father looks very weak. He certainly does. I must get work. If my near-finned hope were back from Rotterdam I could get plenty to do. But Master Peter told me to let him know if he could do ought to serve us. I shall go to him at once—oh, if it were but summer. All this time Hans was hastening toward the canal. Soon his skates were on and he was skimming rapidly toward the residents of my near-finned hope. The father must have meat and wine at once, he muttered. But how can I earn the money and time to buy them to-day? There is no other way but to go, as I promised, to Master Peter. What would a gift of meat and wine be to him? When the father is once fed I can rush down to Amsterdam and earn the morrow's supply. Then came other thoughts, thoughts that made his heart thump heavily and his cheeks burn with a new shame. It is begging, to say the least. Not one of the brinkers has ever been a beggar. Shall I be the first? Shall my poor father just coming back into life learn that his family has asked for charity? He always so wise and thrifty? No, cried Hans aloud, better a thousand times to part with a watch. I can at least borrow money on it in Amsterdam, he thought, turning around. That will be no disgrace. I can find work at once and get it back again. Nay, perhaps I could even speak to the father about it. This last thought made the lad dance for joy. Why not indeed speak to the father? He was a rational being now. He may wake, thought Hans, quite bright and rested, may tell us the watches of no consequence, to sell it, of course, and Hans almost flew over the ice. A few moments more and the skates were again swinging from his arm. He was running toward the cottage. His mother met him at the door. Oh, Hans! she cried, her face radiant with joy. The young lady has been here with her maid. She brought everything—meat, jelly, wine and bread—a whole basket full. Then the maester sent a man from town with more wine and a fine bed and blankets for the father. Oh, he will get well now. God bless them! God bless them! That goes to Hans, and for the first time that day his eyes filled with tears.