"What do you mean, dear?"

"I would rather stay here.... There's not much about me to cure; and I'm not anxious to be cured. And in your house...."

"Well?"

"I should be so gloomy. I am never bright or cheerful, you know. And I hardly ever come downstairs."

Adolphine's eyes filled with tears.

"It's true," she said, softly. "She lives up here."

"You would be cheerful enough with us, Marietje."

"No, Auntie, I should feel uncomfortable with you ... because I am not cheerful. I should depress you all."

"We are not so easily depressed. And the chief thing is that Addie could treat you regularly."

Marietje gave a pale smile.

"Why won't you go, dear?" asked Adolphine.

The girl retained her pale smile. She seemed to be wrestling with a temptation that opened up soft and peaceful visions in her pale life as a constant invalid; but she did not wish to yield.

"Come," said Constance, "you had much better, really."

Suddenly Marietje felt herself grow very weak. She saw death, saw the end so very close before her eyes; and the soft, peaceful visions would never be more than a very brief hallucination, which after all she might as well accept. And, because she suddenly felt as though in a dream, she had no strength to resist the gently persuasive voices of her mother and her aunt, which were luring and luring her, like voices from very far away, voices which she seemed to hear through the haze of vague and enticing distance. Yet her own wan voice did not reveal what she felt, as she continued feebly objecting:

"I should be too much trouble. An invalid is so depressing."

"It would be very difficult for Addie to look after you here."

"Besides, you have Grandmamma...."

"She's no trouble."

"And little Klaasje."

"Yes, but that's different."

"How are Marietje and Adele?"

"Quite well, very well indeed. We'll go on calling her Marietje and, if you come down, we'll call you ... let's say Mary, to avoid confusion."

"Mary...."

"Will that do?"

"But your house is so full as it is."

"Guy is giving you his room."

The girl uttered more faint words and phrases, but they were like little waves which carried her softly and tenderly towards the gentle vision and the dream.

"Very well, Auntie," she said, at last. "You are very good to me."

"It's only natural, as far as I'm concerned. But, when you're at Driebergen, you'll thank your uncle, won't you?"

"Of course. It's his house."

"Yes."

"Won't it be rather damp ... for Marietje?" asked Adolphine, hesitatingly.

"I don't think so," said Constance.

"Constance," said Adolphine, taking her hand, "it is so kind of you ...

and I am so grateful...."

Her voice trembled as she spoke.

"My dear, what a fuss you make!" said Constance. "I'm your sister and Marietje is my niece. But...."

"But what?"

"It certainly is kind ... of Henri."

"Yes, it's very nice of your husband."

"You see, it's his house."

"Yes ... and he had so many calls on him," said Adolphine, humbly.

"Constance, won't you let me pay something ... for Marietje's keep? So much a month, I mean ... until she's a little better...."

"You'd better not bother to do that, Adolphine."

"You have so many expenses."

"Yes, but you've plenty of use for your money too."

"What I mean is ... it's your husband's money."

"I know. But Henri would rather you didn't pay anything ... really."

"Really?"

"I'm sure of it. If you or Van Saetzema wrote him a line ... he'd like that."

"Of course I shall. I shall thank him myself."