"Walter, did you know your lesson?"

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

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

"I don't know, either."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Have you lost anything?"

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

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

"For me?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, Juffrouw--but the poem? And there must be something about G.o.d in it."

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

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

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

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

"Are you better now?" Femke asked kindly.

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

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

"No," disconsolately.

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

Walter promised, and Femke ran to the house.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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