"Aunt Seréna," said Johannes, at table that noon, "that poor boy in the

back street, with the inflamed eyes and that ulcerated leg--is he a

religious boy?"

"Yes, Johannes, so far as I know."

"Then is the Lord his Shepherd, too?"

"Yes, Johannes," said his aunt, more seriously now, having in mind his

former remark. But Johannes spoke quite innocently, as if deep in his

own thoughts.

"Why is it, then, that he lacks so much? He has never seen the dunes nor

the ocean. He goes from his bed to his chair, and from his chair to his

bed, and knows only that dirty room."

"The Lord knows what is good for us, Johannes. If he is pious, and

remains so, sometime he will lack for nothing."

"You mean when he is dead?... But, Aunt Seréna, if I am pious I shall go

to heaven, too, shall I not?"

"Certainly, Johannes."

"But, Aunt Seréna, I have had a fine time in your home, with raspberries

and roses, and delicious things to eat, and he has had nothing but pain

and plain living. Yet the end is the same. That does not seem fair,

does it, Aunt Seréna?"

"The Lord knows what is good for us, Johannes. The most severely tried

are to Him the best beloved."

"Then, if it is not a blessing to have good things, we ought to long for

trials and privations?"

"We should be resigned to what is given us," said Aunt Seréna, not quite

at her ease.

"And yet be thankful only for all those delicious things? Although we

know that trials are better?"

Johannes spoke seriously, without a thought of irony, and Aunt Seréna,

glad to be able to close the conversation, replied:

"Yes, Johannes, always be thankful. Ask the dominie about it."

Dominie Kraalboom came in the evening, and, as Aunt Seréna repeated to

him Johannes' questions, his face took on the very same scowl it always

wore when he stood up in the pulpit; his wry mouth rolled the _r's_,

and, with the emphasis of delightful certainty, he uttered the

following:

"My dear boy, that which you, in your childlike simplicity, have asked,

is--ah, indeed--ah, the great problem over which the pious in all ages

have pondered and meditated--pondered and meditated. It behooves us to

enjoy gratefully, and without questioning, what the good Lord, in His

eternal mercy, is pleased to pour out upon us. We should, as much as

lies in our power, relieve the afflictions that He allots to others, and

at the same time teach the sufferers to be resigned to the inevitable.

For He knows what we all have need of, and tempers the wind to the shorn

lamb."

Then said Johannes: "So you, and Aunt Seréna, and I, have a good time

now, because we have no need of all that misery? And that sick boy does

need it? Is that it, Dominie?"

"Yes, my dear boy, that is it."

"And has Daatje, too, need of privations? Daatje said that she was

converted as completely as you and Aunt Seréna were."

"Daatje is a good, pious soul, entirely satisfied with what the Lord has

apportioned her."

"Yes, Dominie; but," said Johannes, his voice trembling with his

feeling, "I am not converted yet, not the least bit. I am not at all

good. Why, then, have I so much more given me than Daatje has? Daatje

has only a small pen, up in the garret, while I have the big guest-room;

she must do the scrubbing and eat in the kitchen, while I eat in the

house and get many more dainties. And it is not the Lord who does that,

but Aunt Seréna."

Dominie Kraalboom threw a sharp glance at Johannes, and drank in

silence, from his goblet of green glass, the fragrant Rhine wine. Aunt

Seréna looked, with a kind of suspense, at the dominie's mouth,

expecting the forthcoming oracle to dissipate all uncertainty.

When the dominie spoke again, his voice was far less kindly. He said: "I

believe, my young friend, that it was high time your aunt took you home

here. Apparently, you have been exposed to very bad influences. Accustom

yourself to the thought that older and wiser people know, better than

yourself, what is good for you; and be thankful for the good things,

without picking them to pieces. God has placed each one in his station,

where he must be active for his own and his fellow-creatures'

salvation."

With a sigh of contentment, Aunt Seréna took up her embroidery again.

Johannes was frightened at the word "picking," which brought to mind an

old enemy--Pluizer. Dominie Kraalboom hastened to light a fresh cigar,

and to begin about the "tombola."

* * * * *

That night, in the great bed, Johannes lay awake a long while, uneasy

and restless. His mind was clear and on the alert, and he was in a state

of expectancy. Things were not going right, though. Something was the

matter, but he knew not what. The furniture, in the still night-time,

wore a hostile, almost threatening air. The call of the cuckoo spelled

mischief.

About three or four o'clock, when the night-light had sputtered and gone

out, he lay still wider awake. He was looking at the bed-cord, which,

bigger and thicker than ordinary, was growing ominously visible in the

first dim light.

Suddenly--as true as you live--he saw it move! A slight quiver--a

spasmodic, serpentine undulation, like the tail of a nervous cat.

Then, very swiftly and without a rustle, he saw a small shadow drop down

the bed-cord. Was it a mouse?

After that he heard a thin little voice:

"Johannes! Johannes!"

He knew that voice. He lifted up his head and took a good look.

Seated upon the bed-tassel, astride the handle, was his old friend

Wistik.

He was the same old Wistik, looking as important as ever; yes, his

puckered little face wore a peculiar, almost frightened expression of

suspense. He was not wearing his little acorn-cup, but a smart cap that

appeared black in the twilight.

"I have news for you," cried Wistik. "A great piece of news. Come with

me, quick!"

"How do you do, Wistik?" whispered Johannes. He lay cozily between the

sheets, and was glad to see his friend again. Let the chest of drawers

and the cuckoo be as disagreeable as they wanted to, now; here was his

friend again. "Must I go with you? How can I? Where to?"

"This way--up here with me," whispered Wistik. "I have found something.

It will make you open your eyes. Just give me your hand. That's the best

way. You can leave your body lying here while you are away."

"That will be a fine sight," said Johannes.

But it happened without any trouble. He put out his hand, and in a

twinkling he was sitting beside Wistik, on the bed-tassel. And truly,

as he looked down below, there he saw his body lying peacefully fast

asleep. A ray of light streamed into the room, through the clover-leaf

opening in the blinds, and lighted up the sleeping head. Johannes

thought it an extremely pretty sight, and himself still a really nice

boy as he lay there among the pillows, with his dark curly hair about

the slightly contracted brows.

"Do you believe that I am very bad, Wistik?" said he, looking down upon

himself.

"No," said Wistik, "we must never fib to each other. Neither am I bad;

not a bit. I have found that out now, positively. Oh, I have discovered

so much since we last met! But we must not admire ourselves on that

account. That would be stupid. Come, now, for we have not much time."

Together they climbed up the bed-cord. It was easy work, for Johannes

was light and small, and he climbed nimbly up the shaggy rope. But it

felt warm, and hairy, and alive in his hands!

Up they worked themselves, through the folds of the canopy. But the

bed-cord did not end there. Oh, no! It went on farther and grew bigger

and bigger, and then.... What they came to, I will tell you in the

following chapter.

[1] Lottery-Fair.

VII

It was, indeed, a real lion's tail, and not a bed-cord.

Johannes and Wistik were now sitting on the very back of the mighty

beast. Above them it was all dark, but out in front--away where the lion

was looking--the daylight could be seen.

They let themselves down cautiously to the ground. They were in a large

cave. Johannes saw streaks of water glistening along the rocky walls.

Gently as they tried to slip past the monster, he yet discovered them,

and turned his shaggy head around, watching them distrustfully.

"He will not do anything," said Wistik. And the lion looked at them as

if they were a pair of flies, not worth eating up.

They passed on into the sharp sunlight outside, and, after several

blinding moments, Johannes saw before him a wide-spread, glorious

mountain view.

They were standing on the slope of a high, rocky mountain. Down below,

they saw deep, verdant valleys, whence the sound of babbling brooks and

waterfalls ascended.

In the distance was the dazzling, blinding glitter of sunshine upon a

sea of deepest, darkest blue. They could see the strand, and every now

and then it grew white with the combing surf. But there was no sound; it

was too far away.

Overhead, the sky was clear, but Johannes could not see the face of the

sun. It was very still all around, and the blue and white flowers among

the rocks were motionless. Only the rushing of the water in the valleys

could be heard.

"Now, Johannes, what do you say to this? It is more beautiful than the

dunes, is it not?" said Wistik, nodding his head in complete

satisfaction.

Johannes was enchanted at the sight of that vast expanse before him,

with the rocks, the flowers, the ravines, and the sea.

"Oh, Wistik, where are we?" asked he, softly, enraptured with the view.

"My new cap came from here," said Wistik.

Johannes looked at him. The pretty cap that had appeared black in the

twilight proved to be bright red. It was a Phrygian cap.

"Phrygia?" asked Johannes, for he knew the name of those caps well.

"Maybe," said Wistik. "Is not this a great find? And I know, too...."

Here he spoke in whispers again, very importantly, behind the back of

his hand, in Johannes' ear: "Here they know something more about the

little gold key, and the book, which we are both trying to find."

"Is the book here?" asked Johannes.

"I do not know yet," said Wistik, a trifle disturbed. "I did not say

that, but the people know about it--that is certain."

"Are there people here?"

"Certainly there are. Human beings, and elves, and all kinds of animals.

And they know all about it."

"Is Windekind here, too, Wistik?"

"I do not doubt it, Johannes, but I have not seen him yet. Shall we try

to find him?"

"Oh, yes, Wistik! But how are we going to get down there? It is too

steep. We shall break our necks."

"No, indeed, if only you are not afraid. Just let yourself float. Then

you will be all right."

At first Johannes did not dare. He was wide awake, not dreaming; and if

any one wide awake were to throw himself down from a high rock, he would

meet his death. If one were dreaming, then nothing would happen. If only

he could know, now, whether he was awake or dreaming!

"Come, Johannes, we have only a little time."

Then he risked it, and let himself drift downward. And it was

splendid--so comfortable! He floated gently down through the mild,

still air, arms and legs moving as in swimming.

"Is it only a dream, then?" he asked, looking down attentively at the

beautiful, blooming world below him.

"What do you mean?" asked Wistik. "You are Johannes, just the same, and

what you see, Johannes sees. Your body lies asleep, in Vrede-best, at

your aunt's. But did you ever in the daytime see anything so distinct as

this?"

"No," said Johannes.

"Well, then, you can just as well call your Aunt Seréna and Vrede-best a

dream--just as much as this."

A large bird--an eagle--swept around in stately circles, spying at them

with its sharp, fierce eyes.

Below, in the dark green of the valley, a small white temple, with its

columns, was visible. Close beside it a mountain stream tumbled

splashing down below. Still and straight as arrows, tall cypresses, with

their pale grey trunks and black-green foliage, encircled it. A fine

mist rose up from the splashing water, and, crowned with an exquisite

arc of color, remained suspended amidst the glossy green myrtle and

magnolia. Only where the water spattered did the leaves stir; elsewhere

everything was motionless.

But over all rang the warbling and chattering of birds, from out the

forest shade. Finches sang their fullest strains, and the thrushes

fluted their changeful tune, untiringly.

But listen! That was not a bird! That was a more knowing, more cordial

song; a melody that _said_ something--something which Johannes could

feel, like the words of a friend. It was a reed, played charmingly. No

bird could sing like that.

"Oh, Wistik, who is playing? It is more lovely than blackbird or

nightingale."

"Pst!" said Wistik, opening his eyes wide. "That is only the flute, yet.

By and by you will hear the singing."

They sank down upon a mountain meadow, in a wide valley. The limpid,

blue-green rivulet flowed through the sunny grass-plot, between

blood-red anemones, yellow and white narcissi, and deep purple

hyacinths. On both sides of it were thick, round azalea-bushes, entirely

covered with fragrant, brick-red flowers. White butterflies were

fluttering back and forth across it. On the other side rose tall laurel,

myrtle, olive, and chestnut trees; and still higher the cedars and

pines--half-way up the mountain wall of red-grey granite.

It was so still and peaceful and great blue dragon-flies with black

wings were rocking on the yellow narcissus flowers nodding along the

stream.

Then Johannes saw a fleeing deer, springing up from the sod in swift,

sinewy leaps; then another, and another.

The flute-playing sounded close by, but now there was singing also. It

came from a shady grove of chestnut trees, and echoed gloriously from

mountain-side to mountain-side, while the brook maintained the rhythm

with its purling, murmuring flow. The voices of men and women could be

heard, vigorously strong and sweetly clear; and, intermingling with

these somewhat rude shouts of joy, the high-pitched voices of children.

On they came, the people, a joyous, bright-colored procession. They all

bore flowers--as wreaths upon their heads, as festoons in their hands or

about their shoulders-flute-players, men, women, and children. And they

themselves seemed living flowers, in their clear-colored, charming

apparel. They all had abundant, curling hair which gleamed like dull

gold in the sunshine, that tinted everything. Their limbs and faces were

tanned by the sun, but when the folds of their garments fell aside,

their bodies beneath them shone white as milk. The older ones kept step,

with careful dignity; the children bore little baskets, with fruit,

ribbons, and green branches; but the young men and maidens danced as

they went, keeping the rhythm of the music in a way Johannes had never

seen before. They swayed their bodies in a swinging movement, with

little leaps; sometimes even standing still, in graceful postures,

their arms alternately raised above their heads, their loosened garments

flowing free, and again arranging themselves in charming folds.

And how beautiful they were! Not one, Johannes noted, old or young, who

had not those noble, refined features, and those clear, ardent eyes, in

which was to be found the deep meaning he was always seeking in human

faces--that which made a person instantly his friend--that made him long

to be cordial and intimate--that which he had first perceived in

Windekind's eyes, and that he missed so keenly in all those human faces

among which he had had to live. _That_, they all had--man and woman,

grey-haired one and little child.

"Oh, Wistik," he whispered, so moved he could scarcely speak, "are they

really human beings, and not elves? Can human beings be so beautiful?

They are more beautiful than flowers--and much more beautiful than the

animals. They are the most beautiful of all things in this world!"

"What did I tell you?" said Wistik, rubbing his little legs in his

satisfaction. "Yes, human beings rank first in nature,--altogether

first. But until now we have had to do with the wrong ones--the trash,

Johannes--the refuse. The right ones are not so bad. I have always told

you that."

Johannes did not remember about it, but would not contradict his friend.

He only hoped that those dear and charming people would come to him,

recognize him as their comrade, and receive him as one of them. That

would make him very happy; he would love the people truly, and be proud

of his human nature.

But the splendid train drew near, and passed on, without his having been

observed by any one; and Johannes also heard them singing in a strange,

unintelligible language.

"May I not speak to them?" he asked, anxiously. "Would they understand

me?"

"Indeed, no!" said Wistik, indignantly. "What are you thinking about?

This is not a fairy tale nor a dream. This is real--altogether real."

"Then shall I have to go hack again to Aunt Seréna, and Daatje, and the

dominie?"

"Yes, to be sure!" said Wistik, in confusion.

"And the little key, and the book, and Windekind?"

"We can still be seeking them."

"That is always the way with you!" said Johannes, bitterly. "You promise

something wonderful, and the end is always a disappointment."

"I cannot help that," said Wistik.

They went farther, both of them silent and somewhat discouraged. Then

they came to human habitations amid the verdure. They were simple

structures of dark wood and white stone, artistically decorated and

colored. Vines were growing against the pillars, and from the roofs hung

the branches of a strange, thickly leaved plant having red flowers, so

that the walls looked as if they were bleeding. Birds were everywhere

making their nests, and little golden statues could be seen resting in

marble niches. There were no doors nor barriers--only here and there a

heavy, many-colored rug hanging before an entrance. It seemed very

silent and lonely there, for everybody was away; yet nothing was locked

up, nor concealed. An exquisite perfume was smoldering in bronze basins

in front of the houses, and columns of blue smoke coiled gently up into

the still air.

* * * * *

Then they ventured farther into the forest that lay behind the houses.

It was dusky twilight there, and all was solemnly and mysteriously

silent. The moss grew thick upon the massive rocks between which the

mighty chestnut and cedar trees took root. Foaming rivulets were flowing

down; and frequently it seemed to Johannes as if he saw some creature--a

deer or other animal--peep at him, and then dart away between the

tree-trunks. "What are they? Deer?" asked Johannes.

"Indeed, no!" said Wistik, lifting a finger. "Only listen! They are

laughing. Deer do not laugh."

Truly, Johannes heard every now and then, as he saw a figure disappear

in the twilight of the woods, a soft peal of laughter--clearly, human

laughter.

"Now! now we are going to see him!" said Wistik.

"Who?" asked Johannes.

"Pst!" said Wistik, very mysteriously, pointing toward an open place in

the forest.

Johannes saw there such a pretty and captivating spectacle that he stood

speechless, with only a light laugh of joy and amazement.

The forest was more open there, and the sun shone in upon a grassy,

flower-covered spot. In the centre stood a single, extraordinarily large

chestnut tree. About its foot, bordered with white narcissi, a little

stream of purest water was winding. On every side tall rhododendrons

stood out in all their beauty of dark foliage, and hundreds of

hemispherical clusters of purple flowers.

At the foot of the tree, in the shade of its leaves, a strange figure,

dark and shaggy, was sitting in a circle of exquisite, fair-skinned

beings. Johannes did not know what to think of them, they were so light

and so delicate. And they lay in all sorts of graceful attitudes amid

the tall grass and the narcissus flowers. They seemed to be human

beings, but they were so small; and they were as white as the foam of

the brook. Their long hair was so feathery light, it seemed to float

about their heads in the motionless air.

In the centre sat the dark, shaggy figure, with his arms upon his knees,

and his hands extended. He had a long, grey beard, an old, wrinkled,

friendly face, large gold earrings, a wreath of leaves upon his head, a

red flower-festoon adorned with living yellow butterflies about his

shoulders, bare, brown arms, a deep, broad, hairy chest, and legs

entirely covered with a growth of red-brown fleece. On each hand rested

a bird--a finch--and each bird sang, in turn, his longest strain. Then

the old figure laughed, and nodded his approval, and the fair little

beings joined in the laugh. On his shoulder sat a squirrel, shucking

chestnuts so that the shells fell upon his beard.

"Oh, Wistik!" cried Johannes, half laughing, half crying, with rapture,

"I know who that is--I know him. That is Pan--Father Pan!"

"Very likely!" said Wistik, with a knowing look. "Now _he_ will listen

to us. Let's try!"

Diffidently, Johannes went nearer. At the first step he took in the open

space, the little white nymphs sped apart in a trice--as swiftly and

softly as if they had been turned into newts--and there was nothing to

be heard save their light, mocking laughter, and a slight rustling in

the dark shadow of the rhododendrons. The two finches flew away and the

yellow butterflies, also, from their flower-festoon; and the squirrel

shot into the tree--his little nails clattering as he went. But Pan

remained sitting, with head bent forward, down-dropping hands, and

peering, friendly eyes.

"I know you all right!" came from the wide mouth of Pan, while he nodded

to Johannes, and looked at him with his large head a little to one side.

"Oh, Father Pan!" exclaimed Johannes, quivering with awe and suspense,

"do you know me? Will you answer me? Tell me where we are, then!"

Continuing to nod in a quieting, affable manner, Pan replied: "Phrygia!

Golden Era--to be sure!"

"And do you know Wistik, too? And Windekind? And do you know about the

little key, and the book?"

"Wistik? Certainly! Would that I knew all, though!--You know how to ask

questions, Vraagal. Know-all and Ask-all! A pretty pair you are!"

And Pan laughed heartily, showing his great white teeth in an

astonishingly large mouth.

"But tell me, Father Pan! Who is Windekind?"

"My dearest dear! My darling, clever little son! That is who he is. We

are two yolks of one egg, although I am old, rough, and shaggy, and he

is sleek, and fine, and beautiful."

"Shall I ever see him again?"

"Why not? He comes here often; and you also like it here, do you not?"

"But Wistik said I could not stay."

"You cannot do so--now; but why could you not come back again sometime?"

"Could I?"

Pan's face took on a most amused, astonished look, and he puffed out his

cheeks.

"You dear little Vraagal! Give me your hand." Johannes laid his small

hand trustfully in the broad open palm. The large hand was dark and

shaggy on the outside, but white, and smooth, and firm on the inside.

"Do you not know that yet? Then let Father Pan make you happy with a

word. Do not forget it, mind! _Vraagal can do whatever he wills to

do--everything_--if he will only be patient! But tell me now,--how did

you know me?"

"I have seen statues and engravings of you."

"Do I look like them?"

"No!" said Johannes. "I think you are much nicer. In the prints you look

like the Devil."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Pan, raising his heavy hands above his head, and

clapping them together. "That is who I am, Vraagal. They have made a

devil of me, so as to drive people away. But do you believe, now, that I

am bad? Give me your paddy again! And now the other one!"

This time Johannes laid both his own in Pan's two giant hands, and said:

"I know who you are. You are good. You are Nature!"

"Hold your tongue, little hypocrite, with your conceited platitudes! Are

you not ashamed of yourself?"

Johannes blushed deeply; tears fell from his eyes, and he wished he

could sink out of sight. But Pan drew him up closer and stroked his

cheek.

"Now, do not cry! It is not so bad. You have come, too, out of a dreary

nest. I am not evil--neither is Wistik. Only trust us."

"I have told him that, too," said Wistik, earnestly and emphatically.

"Little Vraagal," continued Pan, looking very serious, "there is,

indeed, an evil Devil, but he is far more ugly than I am. Is it not so,

Wistik? You know him. Is he not much uglier? Tell us!"

Johannes never forgot the look on Wistik's face as Father Pan asked him

this in a loud voice, with a keen, serious regard. The little fellow

grew as pale as death, his mouth dropped open, he pressed both hands

upon his stomach, and from his trembling lips came the almost inaudible

word: "Horrible!"

"Oh, indeed!" said Pan. "Well, I am not that. Sometime Wistik must point

him out to you. He looks much more like those foolish people you have

just come from than like me."

"Aunt Seréna?" asked Johannes, astounded. "Is _she_, then, not good and

first-rate? Is _she_ a foolish person?"

"Now, now, you dear little Vraagal!" said Pan, in palliation.

"Everything is relative. But it is a fact that she looks more like the

Devil than I do."

"How can that be?" asked Johannes, in amazement.

Pan grew a little impatient. "Does that puzzle you? Then ask her to show

you the little tree she has in her safe, with the golden apples growing

on it. Do not forget!"

"Good, good!" shouted Wistik, clapping his hands with delight.

* * * * *

At this moment there came suddenly from the distance an alarming

sound--a short, hoarse, resounding roar that echoed through the forest.

"The lion!" cried Wistik; and away he went, as fast as he could run.

Johannes also was greatly frightened. He knew it was time to leave, but

he would not go quite yet. He asked, imploringly:

"Father Pan, shall I find the book?"

"Remember what I said to you," replied Pan. "Vraagal can do what Vraagal

wills to do. To will is to do. But it must be the right sort of will."

Again that frightful roar resounded, this time much nearer. Johannes

stretched out his hand, hesitating between his mounting fears, and his

desire to make use of an instant more.

"One more question!" he cried. "Who is Markus?"

At that, he saw Pan's eyes distend, and stare at him with a look full of

intense emotion. He seemed as fiercely sorrowful as a wounded animal;

and, until now, Johannes had not observed what beautiful great eyes he

had. He lifted up his outspread hands--then covered his face with them,

and began to weep and wail, loudly. The air grew dense and dark, and a

heavy shower descended.

Then, for the third time, the lion roared....

VIII

"It's a downright shame!" said Daatje, snappishly, while unfastening the

third shutter, which opened with a shriek and a rumble. "Half

past-nine--on Saturday, at that--and the room to be tidied up! You'll

catch it from Aunt Seréna. Half-past nine! It's a downright shame!"

Johannes was not pleased with this familiarity, as if he were still a

mere child; and, in a rebellious spirit, without quite understanding his

own object, he muttered: "This thing's got to end."

With Aunt Seréna, disapproval was expressed in a manner very different

from that in a kermis-wagon. There was no swearing, nor scolding, nor

any din; and no cooking utensils flew out of the window.

But Aunt Seréna would grow a little paler, her fine face become cold and

severe like marble, and the very few words that fell from her lips would

be short and spoken in a soft, low voice. She knew how, though, to make

one so uncomfortable in this way, that he would rather she had thrown a

piece of the tea-set at his head.

Johannes, however, neither felt, nor evinced, any remorse. On the

contrary, he assumed an independent bearing. He was not saucy, but

wonderfully indifferent; neither was he morose, but cheerful and

obliging; for his thoughts were full of that beautiful land and its

noble people, and of his good Father Pan. Aunt Seréna, herself, felt a

little disconcerted.

That evening the circle of lady friends came in full force. There was

Juffrouw Frederike--called Free--tall and bowed, with her grey hair in a

net. There was Pietekoo, who was always laughing, and saying flattering

things, but who could, also, show a tart side upon occasion. There was

Suze, who had the name of being so musical, and who, pluming herself on

that score, kept on taking piano lessons far on in her sixties though

she was. There was the saintly Koos, who had once leaped into the water,

in a religious frenzy, and who could repeat the sermons, word for word.

There was the quiet Neeltje, a bit round-shouldered, and very negligent

in her dress, who never said anything, and was always being teased about

suitors. There was the widow Slot, who, in her deep voice, uttered

short, sarcastic comments, mostly at the expense of poor Neeltje. There

was Miebet, the beauty of the company, toward whom Johannes felt a

special aversion. They all brought their hand-work, and were speedily

deep in conversation. Johannes was greeted in a friendly way as "dear

boy" and "good boy," but, after that, as always, was left in peace.

It did seem, listening to their conversation, as if love and meekness

reigned undisturbed in their hearts. It was an uninterrupted competition

in generosity, each striving to be foremost in helping the others to the

footstools, the cozy places, and the various delicacies. Miebet said

that she had only one defect--this one, that she always thought of

others first, and herself last. From this single defect one could

perceive, by comparison, the nature and number of her virtues. To the

saintliness of Koos, according to her own testimony, even Daatje and

Aunt Seréna would have to yield precedence. She could repeat, word for

word, the long, closing prayer of the previous Sunday, and stood alone

in this proficiency. Johannes noticed that she could neither read nor

write, nor even tell the time, but cunningly contrived to hide her

ignorance. Juffrouw Frederike, who was wont to enumerate the

excruciating pains that her poor health inflicted upon her, was not

silent concerning the heavenly patience with which she endured these

trials, and the indifference of the world toward her sufferings.

At seven o'clock came the dominie. He was greeted respectfully, and with

a tender solicitude, while he made interested and condescending

inquiries after health and circumstances. Also, he admired and praised

the products of womanly industry, deducing therefrom weighty and

forceful morals that were listened to in thoughtful silence.

Johannes had received a cold, limp hand-shake. He felt that he had been

a long time in disfavor. Neither had Aunt Seréna's stiffness relaxed,

and she looked at him now and then, restlessly, as if wishing and

expecting that he would show signs of repentance or submissiveness. And

it seemed as if the entire circle concerned themselves less about him

than ever.

He sat still in his corner, turning the leaves of his penny magazine,

his little heart brave and not at all disquieted. But he did not see

much of the engravings, and felt more than at other times constrained to

listen to the talking.

Then, while all gave quiet attention, Aunt Seréna began an enumeration

of all the petty trifles and knick-knacks which had been brought

together this time for the "tombola": "three napkin-rings, two

corner-brackets, one waste-paper basket worked with worsted, seven

anti-macassars, a knitting-needle holder, two sofa-pillows, one

lamp-shade, the beautiful fire-screen made by Free, two picture-frames,

four pin-cushions, one needle-book, one patchwork quilt, one pair of

slippers, by Miebet, one reticule, one painted teacup, two flower-pieces

made of bread, one cabinet of shells, one straw thread-winder, seventeen

book-marks, eight pen-wipers, one small postage-stamp picture, two

decorated cigar-cases, one ash-holder. That is all, I believe."

"Aunt Seréna," said Johannes, over the top of his penny magazine, "do

you know what else you ought to count in?"

A moment of suspense followed. All eyes were turned upon him. Aunt

Seréna looked surprised, but kindly inquisitive. The dominie suspected

something, and his brows contracted.

"What, my dear boy!" asked Aunt Seréna.

"A couple of gold apples, from your little tree."

There followed a moment of subdued silence. Then Aunt Seréna, with a

self-restrained but severe manner, asked:

"What tree do you mean, Johannes?"

"The little tree you have in your chest, with the gold apples growing on

it."

Again silence, but all understood; that was clear. Pietekoo even

tittered. The others exchanged significant glances. Aunt Seréna's pale

face flushed perceptibly, and she shot a glance at the dominie over her

spectacles. The dominie took the affair very calmly, gave Johannes a

cold, disdainful look, as much as to say that he had all along had his

measure, and then, while his eyes narrowed in a smile, he signified to

Aunt Seréna, by a quieting motion of the hand, that she ought not to

bestow any thought upon such a matter. Thereupon, with assumed

unprejudice, and in a sprightly tone, he said:

"This is, indeed, a fine 'tombola'!"

But Aunt Seréna was not to be appeased in this way. She threw back her

rustling, purple silk cap-strings with a nervous, trembling gesture (in

her the betrayal of vehement emotion), and, standing up, motioned to

Johannes to follow her into the vestibule.

Closing the door of the room behind her: "Johannes!" said she, in a

voice not quite within control, "Johannes, I will not suffer this! To

think of you making me appear ridiculous to others! For shame! And after

all the good I thought to have done you! Ought you to have grieved your

old aunt so? For shame, Johannes! It is mean and ungrateful of you!"

With a face almost as pale as that of his aunt, Johannes looked straight

up into her glistening glasses. There were tears in her voice, and

Johannes saw them appear from under the spectacles, and slowly trickle

down along the delicate lines of her cheeks.

It was Johannes' turn, now, to feel badly. He was utterly confounded.

Who was right--Father Pan or Aunt Seréna? In such straits was he that he

would rather be running the streets at such a pace as never to get back

again.

The street door stood ajar, the autumn day was drawing to its close in a

melancholy twilight, and a drizzling rain was falling. Daatje was

standing outside, talking with some one.

"Aunt Seréna," said Johannes, trying hard to control himself, "I know

that I am wicked, but I really will be good--_really_--if only I

knew...."

Just then there came from outside a sound which made him quiver with

agitation. It thrilled through marrow and bone, and he felt his knees

giving way. It was the sharp, rasping sound of steel being held against

the whetstone; and through the door-crack he saw the glitter of that

beautiful fountain of golden sparks.

It sounded to him like a blessed tidings--like the utterance of mercy to

one condemned.

"That is Markus!" he cried, with heightened color and shining eyes.

Aunt Seréna went to the door and opened it. There, bowed over his work,

stood Markus. Again, he was treading the wheel of the old cart, the one

with the footboard. As before, the water was dripping from his old cap,

down upon his faded raincoat. His face was sad, and there were deep

lines about his mouth.

"Markus!" cried Johannes; and, springing forward, he threw his arms

around him, and pressed his head caressingly against the wet clothing.

"For the love of Christ, Boy! What are you doing?" said Daatje. "What

Romish freak is this?"

"Oh, Aunt Seréna!" cried Johannes. "May he not come indoors? He is so

wet, and so tired! He is a good man--my best friend."

Daatje placed her arms akimbo, and stepped angrily in front of Aunt

Seréna and the doorway.

"Now, I'll attend to that. The dear Lord preserve us! Such a dirty lout

of a gypsy come into my clean marble hall! That's altogether too much!"

But Aunt Seréna, in that earnest tone which had always been a command

for Daatje--admitting no oppositions--said: "Daatje, go back to the

kitchen. I will settle this matter myself."

And turning toward Markus she asked: "Will you not come in and rest?"

Slowly straightening himself up, Markus replied: "I will, Madam." And he

laid down his scissors, took off his cap, and walked in.

This time Daatje was disobedient, for she did not return to the kitchen,

but remained, arms still akimbo, repeatedly shaking her head, surveying

the intruder with horror--especially his feet, and the old coat which he

hung upon the hat-rack. And, when Aunt Seréna actually let him out of

the vestibule into the room itself, she tarried behind the unclosed

door, anxiously listening.

Within the room a dead stillness ensued. The dominie's face took on an

expression of utter amazement, while he lifted his eyebrows very high,

and thrust out his pursed-up lips. Pietekoo tittered in her

embarrassment, and then hid her face in her hands. The others looked,

now with a puzzled mien at Markus, then in doubtful expectation at Aunt

Seréna, with distrust at Johannes, with very expressive glances at one

another, and finally, with pretended absorption in their hand-work. The

silence was still unbroken.

"Will you take something?" asked Aunt Seréna.

"Yes, Madam, a bit of bread," said Markus, in his calm, gentle voice.

"Would you not rather have a glass of wine, and some cake?"

"No, Madam, if you will excuse me; I prefer common bread."

The dominie thought it time to intervene. He was stung by the censure

conveyed in Markus' refusal.

"The Scripture teaches, my friend, that we should eat what is set before

us, when we are guests."

"Do you take me for a theologian--or for an apostle?" asked Markus.

"He has the gift of gab," said Mevrouw Slot, in her coarse voice.

In those pure accents which held Johannes breathlessly attentive, Markus

continued: "I will even sit at table with witches, but not necessarily

eat of their food."

"Dear me! Dear me!" said the dominie, and the ladies cried: "Good

gracious!" and other exclamations of disapproval and indignation. "Be a

little less uncivil, friend; you are not with your own kind here."

Markus continued, in a calm, friendly tone: "Theologians, however, thank

God for many a rude truth, and know, also, how to take parables. Even

when with cannibals, an apostle need not eat human flesh."

Widow Slot, who alone of all in the circle seemed to have retained her

coolness, here interposed: "We have not improved, yet."

Markus turned toward her and said with great earnestness:

"Who are they who have their portion? Are not the poorest ones they who

drink wine and eat cake, and yet produce not even bread? Every day they

sink deeper into debt. I prefer to eat honest food."

"You mistake, my man! I have no debts!" cried Aunt Seréna, with

trembling lips.

"But, Aunt Seréna, he does not mean that," said Johannes, as much moved

as herself.

"Children must be silent, here!" cried the dominie, angrily.

"If the children are silent here, who is there to speak sense?"

continued Markus. And then, with a gentle, penetrating voice, he

addressed Aunt Seréna. "Whoever will not listen to children, the Father

will not understand. I spoke in metaphor--in a simple way, for simple

people. The whole world is a metaphor, and not a simple one. If we do

not yet understand such a simple metaphor, then the world must indeed

remain a sad riddle."

The dominie held his peace, and smoked fiercely; but Aunt Seréna thought

it over, looking in front of her, and said; "All understanding comes

through the light of grace."

Markus nodded, kindly. "Yes," said he, "for those who unbolt the

shutters and throw open the windows. And the sun will shine even through

little windows."

Then he ceased speaking and ate his bread. No one said anything more,

unless in a whisper to his next neighbor.

When Markus had eaten he stood up and said: "Thank you. Good night!"

Johannes also stood up, and said anxiously: "Markus, You are not going

away?"

"Yes, Johannes. Good-by till we meet again!"

Then he passed silently out of the door, took his cap and coat, and was

let out by Daatje. Johannes heard her ask: "How much did you get?" And

when Markus said simply: "Twopence," he felt a twinge at his heart.

Indoors, no one spoke so long as the creaking of the cart-wheel could be

heard. Then the dominie, in a loud tone, and with assumed lightness,

said:

"That was a venturesome deed, dear Madam. You ought to be more cautious

in future with that altogether too-largely developed philanthropy of

yours. That man is known as a very dangerous individual."

Exclamations of astonishment and alarm followed this, and different

ladies cried: "Goodness!" "It's a sin!" "Do you know him?"

"Alas, indeed I do!" averred the dominie, with a contemptuous shrug of

the shoulders. "He is a well-known person--one of those fanatics who

incite the people and poison their natures: a nihilist."

"A nihilist!" echoed the ladies, frightened and horrified. Poor Johannes

sat listening to Dominie Kraalboom with painful interest. The name

"nihilist" did not make him afraid, but such notoriety was a bitter

disappointment. It was as if thereby all the mysterious superiority of

his beloved friend had been leveled. Had it, then, all been a fraud?

When the circle had taken their leave, and Aunt Seréna was going to bed,

he saw Daatje very carefully counting the silver spoons!

IX

"Listen, Juffrouw," said Daatje, the following morning, when all was

ready for going to church, "for forty years I have served you faithfully

and well; but I just want to say to you, that if you bring any more

heathen or Hottentots into the house--into the parlor, rather--in the

future, _I_ will leave in a jiffy, as sure as fate!"

"Will you, Daatje?" said Aunt Seréna, drily, asking for her prayer-book.

Johannes sat stiffly in his Sunday collar, struggling to draw his thread

gloves smoothly over his finger-tips. Then, under two umbrellas, the

three set out for church.

Already Dominie Kraalboom was sitting in the chancel, busily stroking

his freshly shaven cheeks, and thoughtfully watching the coming in of

his flock. Not one of the circle was missing. The clothing of the

congregation, wet with rain, gave out a peculiar odor; chairs were

noisily shoved about over the flat, blue tombstones, while above the

sound of shuffling feet and of slamming doors the deep throbbing of the

organ was heard.

The dominie soon caught sight of Johannes; and the little man had cause

to feel conceited by reason of all the attention paid him. Johannes said

to himself that it certainly must be his own imagining (for what could

such a great man have to do with a little boy?) but it appeared as if

the entire sermon was written for, and especially aimed at, Johannes.

The text was: "Who shall understand his errors? Cleanse thou me from

secret faults."

The dominie dwelt upon the sin of arrogance, and the numbers of young

people who were wrecked through it ere they rightly understood what it

was, and said that they ought to desire to be cleansed from it.

Young people, said the dominie, were conceited and presumptuous, and

full of evil; but they were themselves unconscious of it. They thought

they knew more than their elders, and they listened, far too willingly,

to pernicious dogmas that would make all men equal--that would reason

away royal and divine authority, and that made people rebellious, and

discontented with the sphere in which God had placed them.

"The true Christian," said the dominie, "cares for neither gold nor

goods. He has higher aspirations. If he be blessed with them, let him

manage them well, for they are only lent to him. If he be poor, then let

him not repine nor complain, knowing that everything is ordered for the

best, and that true riches are not of this world."

It was a fine sermon. Johannes and his aunt both listened attentively.

The precentor looked pleased, and the saintly Koos nodded repeatedly.

Neeltje, alone, slept; but, as everybody knew, that was because of her

nervous trouble.

The entire congregation joined spiritedly in the singing, and the

dominie sat down visibly self-satisfied.

Once, Johannes looked around, and, close by the door, athwart the

chancel in the shadow, beheld, supported by a slender hand, a bowed head

with dark hair!

He knew the hand well, and recognized instantly that dark-haired man.

Again and again he felt constrained to look in that direction. The

figure remained sitting, motionless, and in a bowed posture.

But when the singing came to an end, and the dominie deliberately made

ready to continue his sermon.... Surely, the dark head was lifted up!

Markus regarded the faces about him for an instant, with a sorrowful

look, and then he stood erect.

Johannes' heart began to thump. "Was he going away? What was he going to

do? Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"

But Markus, taking advantage of that pause wherein the people in a

congregation are wont to cough, to make use of their handkerchiefs, and

to compose themselves again for listening, began speaking in his gentle,

musical voice:

"My friends, excuse me for addressing you unbidden, but you know that it

is always permitted to bear witness of the Father, if one can do so

truthfully."

In perplexity, the congregation looked from the speaker to Dominie

Kraalboom. The precentor, also, directed his frightened eyes to the

chancel up behind him, as if expecting from that quarter deliverance

from this extraordinary difficulty.

Dominie Kraalboom grew very red, and, speaking in his most impressive

tones--rolling his r's, for he was really angry--he said: "I beseech you

not to disturb the order of this church."

Markus, however, paid not the slightest attention to these words. His

voice rang clearer than ever through the chill, lofty spaces. The people

listened, and the dominie had no alternative but to be silent or to

shout the louder, which latter expedient he renounced from a sense of

dignity.

"My poor friends," said Markus, "does it not alarm you that there are

wrong-doings of which you are not conscious? Is it not sad to be guilty

and not to know it?"

"If we, poor souls, forgive those who unconsciously wrong us, will not

our Father forgive us?

"But to wander is to wander, and not to follow the straight course: and

he who errs, though he may know it not, does not do right, although he

may intend a thousand times to do the right.

"And he who continues to wander gets lost; for the Father's justice is

inalterable and unfailing.

"And yet, my poor friends, the Father's forgiveness is for every one,

even the poorest wanderer. His mercy is for all.

"And His forgiveness is called knowledge, and the name of His mercy is

insight.

"These are bestowed upon every one who does not reject them; and no one

will be lost who makes use of them.

"Therefore, the Psalmist begged to be cleansed from secret faults. He

knew that we know not ourselves how very guilty we are. And He knew

that the enlightening and purifying fire of confession is of the

Father's mercy.

"Has ever a thirsty one continued to wander away from the water, after

recognizing his mistake?

"Who of us does not long for forgiveness and blessedness? Or who would

continue to err after confession?

"Confess, then, and will to look within. It is never too late to do so.

"We are guilty, my poor friends: confess it and there will be

forgiveness, but not without knowledge thereof. The least among you can

understand this, if only he will.

"It was not the Father who willed that you should be poor, and rich--the

poor laboring, the rich idling. It would be abominable blasphemy to say

that. Believe it not. Shun as defiling those who would thus delude you.

"Not by divine ordering, but through human mismanagement, wickedness,

and foolishness, and the wandering away from the Father's will, have

poverty and riches come into this human world.

"Acknowledge it; for, truly, there will be no forgiveness for those who

reject the Father's mercy."

Here Dominie Kraalboom beckoned to the sexton and the precentor, who

were standing together whispering with considerable vehemence, casting

furious looks at the speaker. The sexton coughed and mounted the pulpit.

The dominie exchanged a few words with him, and, with a resigned air,

half-closed eyes, and a face as severe as possible, went to resume his

seat. The sexton strode resolutely through the church, and left the

building, all eyes following him in suspense.

Imperturbably, Markus proceeded:

"My poor friends, did ever an artist create a grand masterpiece, and

desire that no one should admire it?

"Would the Father, then, have made the mountains, seas, and flowers,

gold and jewels, and have desired that we should despise and reject them

all?

"No; the highest good belongs not to this world, and neither does the

beauty of the universe belong to this world. Yet even here--upon this

earth--we may learn to know and to admire; for why else were we placed

in this world?

"Let us admire not the mere wood and strings, but the music of them; not

paint and canvas, but the eternal beauty to which they do homage.

"So we shall love the world, and admire it only as that by means of

which the Father speaks to us; and whoever despises the world despises

the voice of the Father.

"Will not he who receives a letter from his distant love kiss the dry

paper, and wet the black ink with his tears?

"Shall we, then, hate the world, through which alone, in our alienation,

the Father reveals to us his beauty?"

Markus' voice was so deep-toned, and so sweet to hear, that many

listeners were moved, even although they only half understood. Tears

were streaming freely from Johannes' shining, wide-open eyes. Aunt

Seréna, too, looked agitated, and Neeltje, even, had waked up. The

dominie scowled blackly, with closed eyes, like one about to lose his

forbearance. The precentor looked nervously toward the door.

Again Markus began:

"My friends, how shall the poor, who compulsorily toil, and the rich,

who compel them, comprehend the sacred message of the Father?

"Must they always remain both deaf and blind to what is best and most

beautiful? Must they see and hear nothing of this?

"Sooner can the sunlight penetrate dungeon-doors of threefold thickness,

than can the light of the Father's loving kindness and the radiance of

His beauty enter the soul of the stupefied drudge.

"Upon the sands of the sea grow neither grapes nor roses. In the heart

of the overworked, needy sufferer grows neither beauty nor wisdom.

"And the rich--who purloin the good things which the Father has given

to others--who are served, without rendering service--who eat, without

working, and found their houses upon the misery of others--how can these

comprehend the justice of the Father?

"Exceeding sweetness shall turn to gall in the rich man's stomach;

illicit pleasure shall waste him away like sorrow; wisdom, unrighteously

acquired, shall turn in him to despair and madness.

"The rich man is like one who takes away the fire of many others, that

he may always keep himself warm; but the heat consumes him. He will have

all the water, that he may never again thirst; but he is drowned. Yet

unto all the Father has given light and water in equal measure.

"No one escapes the Father's justice. The rich have their reward as they

go; and in want shall they envy those whom they robbed while they were

still upon earth.

"Admit, then, my poor friends, that it is not the Father's will that

there should be poverty and riches, but that your own wickedness and

maliciousness have created them--your unbrotherliness and ignorance,

your thirst for power and your servility.

"Confess, and there shall be forgiveness for the most guilty. Submit and

humble yourselves, and you shall be exalted. Lift up your hearts, fear

not, and you shall be saved. Throw open the windows and the light will

stream in."

* * * * *

At last, there was a creaking of the heavy, outside door, which was held

shut by a rope, weighted with lead. Then followed several more

long-drawn creakings of the pulley, ere the door closed with a dull

thud. All heads were again turned in that direction. The dominie, too,

looked up, visibly relieved.

And Johannes, stiff with terror, saw, in the rear of the sexton, two

officers--two common, insignificant policemen--step up to Markus with

an air of professional sternness, albeit with a rather slouching mien.

Yes, it was going to happen! The congregation looked on in breathless

suspense. The sexton bristled, and the officers hesitatingly prepared

themselves for a struggle.

But before the outstretched hand of the helmeted chief had descended

upon his shoulder, Markus looked round and nodded in a friendly way as

if he was expecting them. After that, he looked about the congregation

once again, and bade them farewell with a cordial, comforting gesture

which seemed to come to all as a surprise. He had the appearance,

indeed, of one who was being conducted by two lackeys to a feast,

instead of by policemen to the station.

When he went away, the officers grasped him by his arms, as firmly as if

they were resolutely determined not to let him escape. They did this so

awkwardly, and Markus was so cheerfully docile, that the effect was very

comical, and several people smiled.

The dominie spoke a few more words, and made a long closing prayer

which, however, was not listened to attentively. The congregation were

too anxious to talk over what had happened. And they made a busy

beginning even before they were out of the church.

But Aunt Seréna and Johannes went home with averted eyes, and in anxious

silence, without exchanging a word or a look.

X

Johannes had one peculiarity which he could not excuse in himself. His

good intentions and heroic resolves always came, according to his own

opinion, a trifle too late. He might be a good boy yet, he thought, if

only things did not happen so suddenly that he had not due time to think

them over before he needed to act. Thus, sitting on the opposite side of

the breakfast table from his Aunt Seréna, deliberating whether it would

still be proper, after the agitating events of the morning, to spread

his first roll, as usual, with sweet-milk cheese, and his second with

Deventer cake, it suddenly dawned upon him what a mean, cowardly,

perfidious boy he had been. He felt that any other brisk, faithful

person in his place would have risen up instantly, and resisted with all

his power of word and deed that shameful outrage against his beloved

brother.

Of course, there had been something for him to do! He ought to have

intervened, instead of walking home again with Aunt Seréna, as calmly

and serenely as if he were not in the least concerned. How was it

possible--how _could_ it be possible, that he only now perceived this?

He might not, perhaps, have accomplished anything; but that was not the

question. Was it not his dearest friend who was concerned; and had he

not, like a coward, left him alone? Was not that friend now sitting

among thieves in a musty pen, enduring the insolence of policemen, while

he himself was here in Aunt Seréna's fine house, calmly drinking his

coffee?

That must not be. He felt very sure of it, now. And since Johannes, as I

have already remarked, was never afraid to do a thing if he was only

first sure about it, not only the cake and cheese, but even the rolls

and coffee, remained untouched. He suddenly stood up and said:

"Aunt Seréna!"

"What is it, my boy?"

"I want to go!"

Aunt Seréna threw back her head, that she might give him a good look

through her spectacles. Her face took on a very grieved expression.

At last, after a long pause, she asked, in her gentle voice, "What do

you mean?"

"I want to go away. I cannot stand it. I want to be with my friend."

"Do you think he will take better care of you than I do, Johannes?"

"I do not believe that, Aunt Seréna, but he is being treated unfairly.

He is in the right."

"I will not take it upon myself...." said Aunt Seréna, hesitating, "to

say that he is wrong. I am not clever enough for that. I am only an old

woman, and have not studied much, although I have thought and

experienced a great deal. I will readily admit that perhaps I was at

fault without knowing it. I did my best, to the best of my belief. But

how many there are, better than I am, Johannes, who think your friend in

the wrong!"

"Are they also better than he is?" asked Johannes.

"Who can say? How long have you known this friend--and whom of the

people have you known besides? But although your friend were right, how

would it help me, and what would it matter to me? Must I, in my

sixty-fourth year, give away all that I have, and go out house-cleaning?

Do you mean that I ought to do that, Johannes?"

Johannes was perplexed. "I do not say that, dear Aunt Seréna."

"But, what do you say, then? And what do you want of me?"

Johannes was silent.

"You see, Johannes...." continued Aunt Seréna, with a break in her

voice--not looking at him now, but staring hard at her coffee-tray--"I

never have had any children, and all the people whom I have been very

fond of are either dead or gone away. My friends do, indeed, show me

much cordiality. On my birthday I had forty-four calls, two hundred and

eleven cards and notes, and about fifty presents; but that, however, is

not for me true life. The life of the old is so barren if no young are

growing near. I have not complained about it, and have submitted to

God's will. But since ... for a few months ... you ... I thought it a

blessing--a dispensation from God...."

Aunt Seréna's voice grew so broken and hoarse that she stopped speaking,

and began to rummage in her work-basket.

Johannes felt very tenderly toward her, but it seemed to him as if, in

two seconds, he had become much older and wiser; yes, as if he had even

grown, visibly, and was taller than a moment before. Never yet had he

spoken with such dignity.

"My dear Aunt, I really am not ungrateful. I think you are good. More

than almost any other you have been kind to me. But yet I must go. My

conscience tells me so. I would be willing to stay, you see; but still I

am going because it is best. If you say, 'You must not,' then I cannot

help it; I think, though, that I will quietly run away. I am truly sorry

to cause you sadness, but you will soon hear of an--another boy, or a

girl, who will make you happier. I must find my friend--my conscience

tells me so. Are you going to say, Aunt Seréna, that I must not?"

Aunt Seréna had taken out her worsted work, and appeared to be comparing

colors. Then, very slowly, she replied:

"No, I shall not say that, my dear boy; at least, if you have thought it

all over well."

"I have, Aunt Seréna," said Johannes.

* * * * *

Being deeply anxious, he wished to go instantly to learn where Markus

had been taken. After that he would return to "Vrede-best."

He mounted the stone steps of the police station with dread and

distaste. The officers, who were sitting outside on chairs, received

him, according to their wont, with scant courtesy. The chief eyed

Johannes, after the latter's bashful inquiry, with a scornful

expression, which seemed to say: "What business is it of yours, and

where have I seen you before?"

Johannes learned, however, that "the prisoner" had been set free. What

use he had made of his freedom Johannes must find out for himself.

As he could give no other reason for his interest in the prisoner than

that he was his friend, and as this reason was not enough to exalt him

in the esteem of police authority, none of the functionaries felt called

upon to put him on the track. They supposed that the scissors-grinder

had very likely gone back to the Fair. That was all the help they gave.

Johannes returned to his aunt's baffled and in dismay. There, happily,

he found relief; for the good aunt had already discovered that Markus

had been led out of the town, and that, with his cart, he had taken the

road to Utrecht. Already, lying in plain sight, he saw a large,

old-fashioned satchel of hairy leather (a sort of bag which could be

hung about one), full of neatly packed sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs.

And in the inside of a waistcoat Aunt Seréna had sewed a small pocket.

Within that pocket was a purse containing five little gold-pieces.

"I do not give you more, Johannes, for by the time this is gone you will

surely know if you really wish to stay away for good or to come back

again. Do not be ashamed to return. I will not say anything to you about

it."

"I will be honest, and give it back to you when I have earned it," said

Johannes. He spoke in sober earnest; but he had, no more than had his

aunt, any clear expectation that it would be possible.

Johannes took just a run into the garden to say good-by to his favorite

places--his paths and his flowers. Swiftly and shyly, so as not to be

seen, he ran past the kitchen where Daatje, loudly singing hymns the

while, stood chopping spinach. After that, he embraced Aunt Seréna in

the vestibule for the first and for the last time. "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!"

came insultingly and triumphantly from the little trap-door, as the

clock struck two. Then the stately green front door closed between him

and Aunt Seréna.

That was a painful moment; yet there quickly followed in Johannes' heart

a delightful glow--a feeling of freedom such as he had never yet known.

He almost felt himself a man. He had extricated himself from soft and

perilous ways; he was going out into the wide world; he would find his

beloved brother again; he had a bagful of rolls, and in his waistcoat

were five gold-pieces. These last were only lent to him; he would earn

as much, and give them back again.

* * * * *

It was a still, humid, August day, and Johannes, full of gladness, saw

his beautiful native land lying in white light under a canopy of

delicate grey. He saw thickly wooded dikes, black and white cattle, and

brown boats in water without a ripple. He walked briskly, inquiring

everywhere for Markus the scissors-grinder. In front of an inn, not far

from the city, sat three little gentlemen. They were apparently

government or post-office clerks, who had taken their midday stroll and

their glass of bitters.

Johannes asked information of the waiter who brought drinks, but

received no answer.

One of the little dandies, who had heard his question, said to his

companions:

"Jerusalem! but did you chaps hear that kicker? The fellow went into the

new church yesterday morning, and talked back at the dominie."

"What fellow?" asked the others.

"Good Lord! Don't you know him? That half-luny fellow with the black

curly-pate? He does that now and then."

"Gee! That's rich. And what did the dominie say?"

"Well, he found it no joke, for the fellow knew all about it--as darned

well as he did himself. But the gypsy had his trouble for his pains; for

that time the dominie wouldn't have anything to do with such a dirty

competitor!"

And the three friends laughed at the top of their voices.

"How did it end?"

"He had him walked clean out of the church, by the sexton and two cops."

"That's confounded silly. 'Twould have been better to see who could crow

the loudest. It's the loudest cock that wins."

"The idea! You'd have me believe you mean it? Suppose they gave the

prize to the wrong fellow?"

"Whether you are cheated by a fool of a preacher, or by a

scissors-grinder, what's the difference?"

Johannes reflected a moment and wondered if it would not be commendable

to do what he ached to do--fly at these people and rain blows upon their

heads. But he controlled himself and passed on, convinced that in doing

so he was escaping some hard work.

For five hours he walked on without being much the wiser for his

inquiries. Some people thought they had seen Markus; others knew

positively nothing about him.

Johannes began to fear he had passed him; for by this time he ought to

have overtaken him.

It began to grow dark, and before him lay a wide river which he must

cross by means of a ferry-boat. On the farther side were hills covered

with an underwood of oak, and tall, purple-flowered heather.

The ferryman was positive that he had not that day taken over a

scissors-grinder; but in yonder town, an hour's distance from the river,

a Fair was to begin in the morning. Very likely Markus also would be

there.

Johannes sat down by the roadside in the midst of the dark broom, with

its millions of small purple flowers. The setting sun cast a glorious

coloring over land and mist, and over the lustrous, flowing water. He

was tired but not depressed, and he ate his bread contentedly, certain

that he should find Markus. The road had become quiet and lonely. It

was fun to be so free--so alone and independent--at home in the open

country. Rather than anywhere else he should like to sleep

out-of-doors--in the underwood.

But just as he was about to lay himself down, he saw the figure of a man

with his hands in his pockets, and his cap pushed back. Johannes sat up,

and waited until he came closer. Then he recognized him.

"Good evening, Director!" said Johannes.

"Good evening to you, my friend!" returned the other. "What are you

doing here? Are you lost?"

"No; I am looking for friends. Is Markus with you?"

The man was the director of a Flea-Theatre; a little fellow, with a

husky voice, and eyes inflamed by his fine work.

"Markus? I'm not sure. But come along--there's no knowing but he might

be there."

"Are you looking for new apprentices?" asked Johannes.

"Do you happen to have any? They're worth a pretty penny, you know!"

* * * * *

They walked together to the camp of gypsy wagons, near the town.

Johannes found there all the old acquaintances. There was the fat lady,

who could rest a plate upon her bosom and thus eat out of it. Now,

however, she was eating simply from a box, like the others, because

there were no spectators. There were the mother and daughter who

represented the living mermaid, taking turns because one could not hold

out very long. There was the exhibitor of the collection of curiosities

--a poor, humpbacked knave whose entire possessions consisted of a

stuffed alligator, a walrus-tooth, and a seven-months baby preserved in

alcohol. There were the two wild men, who, growling horribly, could eat

grass and live rabbits, and who might come out of the wagon only at

night, when the street boys were away; but who, far from savage now,

were sitting in the light of a flickering lantern, "shaving" one another

with exceedingly dirty cards.

The flea-tamer brought Johannes at last to Marjon's wagon.

"Bless me!" cried Lorum, who seemed to be in a good humor as he sat by

the road smoking his pipe. "Here is our runaway young gentleman again!

Now the girls will be glad!"

From behind the wagon came the soft tones of a voice, singing to a

zither accompaniment. Johannes could hear the song distinctly, in the

dreamlike stillness of the hour. It was sung in a whining, melancholy,

street-organ style, but with unusual emotion:

"They have broken my heart--

Ah, the tears I have shed!

They have torn us apart--

His dear voice is now dead.

Alas! Alas!

How could you forsake me?

Alas! Alas!

How you have deceived me!"

It was a ditty that Johannes thought he had often heard the nurse-maids

sing. But, because he recognized that dear voice, and perhaps even

because he was worried over the applicability to himself, he was greatly

touched by it.

"Hey, there!" cried Lorum to one behind him. "The kid has come back!

Stop your squalling!"

Then Marjon appeared from behind the wagon, and ran up to Johannes.

Also, the door of the wagon flew back, and Johannes saw Marjon's sister

standing in the bright opening. Her fat arms were bare, and she was in

her night-gown.

XI

Since that first night in the dunes with Windekind, Johannes had slept

many a time in the open air, and he did not see why he should not now do

so. He would lie down under the wagon, upon some hay. He was tired, and

so would sleep well.

But sleep did not come to him very promptly. Adventures in the world of

people proved to be even more exciting than those in Windekind's land of

elves. He was full of the important and unusual situation in which he

was placed; the strange human life that surrounded him claimed his

attention. Above him, feet were shuffling over the wagon floor, and he

could see the people crawling around one another inside the warm, dirty

wagons. He was obliged to listen to the talking, singing, laughing and

quarreling that frequently broke out here and there. A solitary ocarina

continued to whistle awhile; then all was still.

It grew cold. He had with him only a thin cloak of Aunt Seréna's; and,

as a horse-blanket could not be spared, he found a couple of empty

oat-bags; but they were too short.

When all were asleep, and he was still lying awake, shivering, his

spirits already inclined to droop, he heard the door of the wagon open.

A voice called him, in a whisper. Johannes scrambled out into sight, and

recognized Marjon's dark sister.

"Why don't you come in here, Kiddie?" she asked.

The truth was that Johannes, above all else, feared the closeness and

the fleas. But he would not offer these insulting reasons, so he

replied--intending to be very courteous and praiseworthy: "But that

would not do for me--to be with you!"

Now, formality is not a very strong point in a house-wagon. In the very

stateliest, a curtain does indeed sometimes define two sleeping-rooms

at night, thus denoting regard for the proprieties. But in most cases

the custom is to do as do the birds which change their suits but once a

year, and not too much, at that; and as do the mice which also have no

separate bedrooms.

"Aw! Come, Boy! You're silly. Just come on! It's all right."

And when Johannes, perplexed and very bashful, hesitated, he felt a fat,

heavy arm around his neck, and a soft, broad, cold mouth upon his cheek.

"Come on, Youngster! Don't be afraid. Surely you are not so green! Hey?

It's time for me to make you wiser."

Now there was nothing Johannes had learned more to value than wisdom,

and he never willingly neglected a chance of becoming wiser. But this

time there came to him a very clear idea of the existence of an

undesirable wisdom.

He had no time to deliberate over this wonderful discovery; for,

happily, there came to the help of his immature thoughts a very strong

feeling of aversion, so that for once he knew betimes what he ought to

do.

He said loudly, and firmly: "I will not! I rest better here." And he

crept back under the wagon. The swarthy jade appeared not to like that,

for she uttered an oath as she turned away, and said: "Clear out, then!"

Johannes did not take it greatly to heart, although it did appear to him

unfair. He slept, however, no more than before; and the sensation of the

recent touches, and the wretched odor of poor perfumery which the woman

had brought with her, remained with him, to his distress.

As soon as it began to grow light, the door of the wagon was again

opened. Johannes, surprised, looked up. Marjon came softly out in her

bare feet, with an old purple shawl thrown over her thin little

shoulders. She went up to Johannes and sat down on the ground beside

him.

"What did she do?" she asked, in a whisper.

"Who?" asked Johannes, in return. But that was from embarrassment, for

he well knew whom she meant.

"Now, you know well enough. Did you think I was sleeping? Did she give

you a kiss?"

Johannes nodded.

"Where? On your mouth?"

"No. On my cheek."

"Thank God!" said Marjon. "You will not let her do it again? She is a

common thing!"

"I could not help it," said Johannes.

Marjon looked at him thoughtfully a few moments, with her clear, light

grey eyes.

"Do you dare steal?" she asked then, abruptly.

"No," said Johannes. "I dare to, but it's wrong."

"Indeed it isn't!" said Marjon, very emphatically. "Indeed, it is not!

It's only a question of who from. Stealing from one another is mean, but

from the public is allowable. I must not steal from that woman any more

than from Lorum. But _you_ may steal from the huzzy, if you only dared."

"Then can you steal from me, too?" asked Johannes. Marjon looked at him

in sudden surprise, and gave a pretty laugh, showing her white, even

teeth.

"A while ago I could, but not now. Now you belong to me. But that woman

has a lot of money and you have not."

"I have some money, too--fifty guldens. Aunt Seréna gave it to me."

Marjon drew in the air with her lips as if sipping something delicious.

Her pale face shone with pleasure.

"Five little golden Teners! Is it truly so? But, Johannes, then we are

well off! We'll have a good time with them. Shan't we?"

"To be sure," assented Johannes, recovering himself. "But I want to find

Markus."

"That's good," said Marjon. "That's the best thing to do. We'll both go

looking for him."

"Right away?" asked Johannes.

"No, you stupid! We should be nabbed in no time. We'll start in the

evening. Then, during the night, we can get a good way off. I'll give

you the signal."

* * * * *

It was morning--clear and cool, yet growing warmer with the early August

sunshine. Everywhere over the dark heather the dew-covered cobwebs were

shining like clusters of sparkling stars. The fires of the foregoing

evening were still smouldering in the camp; and there was a smell of

wood coals and of honey.

Johannes was well pleased. There was a glowing little flame also within

himself. He felt that it was good to be alive, and a joy to strive. It

was a long, strange day, but he was patient and happy in the thought of

fleeing with Marjon. The dark woman was friendly toward him again. He

was helping her in the circus the entire day, and had no chance to speak

with Marjon. But now and then they gave each other a look full of

complete understanding. That was delightful! Never before in his

every-day life had Johannes experienced anything so delightful.

That evening there was an exhibition, and Marjon performed her tricks.

Johannes felt very proud and important because he belonged to the

troupe, and was looked upon by the public as an athlete or an

equestrian. He might stand, in topboots and with a whip, at the entrance

to the stall, but he must not perform a single trick, nor once crack his

whip.

When it was good and dark, and everybody was asleep again, Marjon came

to summon him. He could scarcely distinguish her figure; but he knew by

a soft, grunting sound, that she carried Kees, her monkey, on her arm.

She thrust her guitar into Johannes' hand, and said in a low tone: "Move

on, now!"

They set out hastily and in silence, Marjon taking the lead. First they

went by the highway; then they took a footpath along the river; and

then, at a ferry, they softly unfastened a small boat, and pushed out

into the current.

"Keep your wits about you, Jo, and be on the lookout!"

"We shall be overtaken," said Johannes, not quite at his ease.

"Are you afraid?"

"No, not afraid," said Johannes, although the truth was that he was

trying not to be; "but where are we going to bring up? And how can we

keep out of the way if a boat should come along? We have no oars!"

"I wish a boat _would_ come. Then we'd go on with it."

"Where do you want to go, Marjon?"

"Well, over the frontier, of course. Otherwise they'll catch us.

"But Markus!"

"We'll find him, by and by--only come on now."

In silence the two children drifted out over the still, black water,

which here and there bubbled past a floating log, or a barrel.

Everything was mysterious. It was pitch dark, and there was no wind. The

reeds, even, scarcely sighed. Keesje whined, complainingly, not liking

the cold.

"But who is Markus, Marjon? Do you know?"

"You must not ask that, Jo. You must trust him. I do."

Then they heard a dull, fitfully throbbing sound that slowly drew nearer

from the distance, and Johannes saw red and white lanterns ahead of

them.

"A steamboat!" he cried. "What are we going to do now?"

"Sing!" said Marjon, without a moment's hesitation.

The boat came very gradually, and Johannes saw in the rear of her a long

file of little lights, like a train of twinkling stars. It was a

steam-tug with a heavy draught of Rhine-boats. It seemed to be panting

and toiling with its burden, against the powerful current.

They stayed a boat's length away from the tug, but its long, unwieldy

train--swinging out in a great curve at the rear--came nearer and

nearer.

Marjon took her guitar and began to sing, and suddenly, with the sound

of lapping water and throbbing engines, the music was ringing out in the

still night--exquisite and clear. She sang a well-known German air, but

with the following words:

"Tho' on dark depths of waters

I fear not and am strong,

For I know who will guard me

And guide me all life long."

"Are you tipsy, there, or tired of life? What do you put yourself across

the channel for--and without a light?" rang out over the water from one

of the vessels.

"Help! Throw a line!" cried Marjon.

"Help! help!" cried Johannes, after her.

Then a rope came wabbling across their oarless craft. By good luck

Johannes caught it, and pulled himself, hand over hand, up to the

vessel. The helmsman, standing beside the great, high-arched rudder,

looked overboard, with a lantern in his hand.

"What wedding do you hail from?"

Johannes and Marjon climbed into the boat and Marjon pushed off their

own little shallop.

"Two boys!" exclaimed the helmsman.

"And a monkey!" subjoined Marjon.

Johannes looked round at her. By the light of the lantern he saw a

little figure that he hardly recognized--a slip of a boy wearing a cap

on his closely cropped head. She had sacrificed for the flight her silky

blonde hair. Keesje's head was sticking up out of her jacket, and he was

blinking briskly in the glare of the lantern.

"Oh, that's it! Fair-folk!" grumbled the skipper. "What's to become of

that boat?"

"It knows the way home!" said Marjon.

XII

I will simply tell you, without delay, in order that you may be able to

read what follows in peace of mind, that Johannes and Marjon became

husband and wife ere the ending of the story. But at the time the old

skipper pointed out to them a comfortable sleeping-corner in the

deck-house of the long Rhine-boat, they had not the least idea of it.

Being very tired, they were soon lying, like two brothers, in deep

sleep, with Keesje, now warm and contented, between them.

When it grew light, the whole world seemed to have vanished. Johannes

had been wakened by the rattling of the anchor-chains, and when he

looked out, he saw on all sides nothing but white, foggy light; no sky,

no shore--only, just under the little windows, the yellow river current.

But he heard the striking of the town clocks, and even the crowing of

cocks. Therefore the world was still there, as fine as ever, only hidden

away under a thick white veil.

The boats lay still, for they could not be navigated. So long as the

waters of the Rhine could not be seen frothing about the anchor-chains,

so long must they wait for a chance to know the points of the compass.

Thus they remained for hours in the still, thick white light, listening

to the muffled sounds of the town coming from the shore.

The two children ran back and forth over the long, long vessel, and had

a fine time. They had already become good friends of the skipper,

especially since he had learned that they could pay for their passage.

They ate their bread and sausage, peering into the fog in suspense, for

fear that Lorum and the dark woman might be coming in a boat to overtake

them. They knew that they could not yet be very far away from their last

camping-place.

At last the mists grew thinner and thinner, and fled from before the

shining face of the sun; and, although the earth still remained hidden

beneath swirling white, up above began to appear the glorious blue.

And this was the beginning of a fine day for Johannes.

Sighing and groaning, as if with great reluctance, the tugboat began

again its toilful course up the stream. The still, summer day was warm,

the wide expanse of water sparkled in the sun, and on both sides the

shores were gliding gently by--their grey-green reeds, and willows and

poplars, all fresh and dewy, peeping through the fog.

Johannes lay on the deck, gazing at land and water, while Marjon sat

beside him. Keesje amused himself with the tackle rope, chuckling with

satisfaction every now and then, as he sprang back and forth, with a

serious look, after a flitting bird or insect.

"Marjon," said Johannes, "how did you know so certainly yesterday that

there was nothing to be afraid of?"

"Some one watches over me," said Marjon.

"Who?" asked Johannes.

"Father."

Johannes looked at her, and asked, softly:

"Do you mean your own father?"

But Marjon made a slight movement of her head toward the green earth,

the flowing water, the blue sky and the sunshine, and said, with

peculiar significance, as if now it was quite clear to her:

"No! I mean The Father."

"The Father Markus speaks about?"

"Yes. Of course," said Marjon.

Johannes was silent a while, gazing at the rapid flow of the water, and

the slower and slower course of things according to their distance in

the rear. His head was full of ideas, each one eager for utterance. But

it is delightful to lie thus and view a passing country spread out under

the clear light--letting the thoughts come very calmly, and selecting

carefully those worthy of being clad in speech. Many are too tender and

sensitive to be accorded that honor, but yet they may not be meanest

ones.