That gentleman was alarmed when he saw the angry "sucking animal,"

but he quieted down as soon as he heard the object of her visit.

"To what cla.s.s does your uncle belong, Juffrouw?"

"Why, to the cla.s.s--you mean the mussel-sh.e.l.ls and eggs?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Besides, my uncle is a widower."

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

He explained to her where that prodigy might be found.

Again I must beg pardon if my criticism of Pennewip is too severe; but he gave me reasons enough to harbor ugly suspicions against him. I am convinced that he would have written that poem for Juffrouw Laps if her uncle had received a white silk coat from the king, or had ever driven through The Hague in a royal carriage. But to sing an agent in verse! He would leave that to the genius of "the flying tea-kettle"

in the Peperstraat. That was not nice of Pennewip. Was that uncle to blame because his brothers never threw him into a well? or sold him into Egypt? Or because he couldn't interpret dreams? Or because cleverness is not rewarded to-day with rings, white coats, carriages and high official position?

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XVI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Femke dreamed: Courageously fighting against the enemies of the country--the n.o.blest tribe of the Incas--Telasco--Walter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What? What's the t.i.tle?"

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

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

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

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

Femke got angry now.

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

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

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

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

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