"I can watch, mother," urged Gretel, "and I'll wake you every time the father stirs. You are so pale, and your eyes are so red! Oh, mother, DO!"The child pleaded in vain. Dame Brinker would not leave her post.
Gretel looked at her in troubled silence, wondering whether it were very wicked to care more for one parent than for the other, and sure--yes, quite sure--that she dreaded her father while she clung to her mother with a love that was almost idolatry.
Hans loves the father so well, she thought, why cannot I? Yet Icould not help crying when I saw his hand bleed that day, last month, when he snatched the knife--and now, when he moans, how Iache, ache all over. Perhaps I love him, after all, and God will see that I am not such a bad, wicked girl as I thought. Yes, Ilove the poor father--almost as Hans does--not quite, for Hans is stronger and does not fear him. Oh, will that moaning go on forever and ever! Poor mother, how patient she is; SHE never pouts, as I do, about the money that went away so strangely. If he only could, for one instant, open his eyes and look at us, as Hans does, and tell us where mother's guilders went, I would not care for the rest. Yes, I would care; I don't want the poor father to die, to be all blue and cold like Annie Bouman's little sister. I KNOW I don't. Dear God, I don't want Father to die.
Her thoughts merged into a prayer. When it ended the poor child scarcely knew. Soon she found herself watching a little pulse of light at the side of the fire, beating faintly but steadily, showing that somewhere in the dark pile there was warmth and light that would overspread it at last. A large earthen cup filled with burning peat stood near the bedside; Gretel had placed it there to "stop the father's shivering," she said. She watched it as it sent a glow around the mother's form, tipping her faded skirt with light and shedding a sort of newness over the threadbare bodice. It was a relief to Gretel to see the lines in that weary face soften as the firelight flickered gently across it.
Next she counted the windowpanes, broken and patched as they were, and finally, after tracing every crack and seam in the walls, fixed her gaze upon a carved shelf made by Hans. The shelf hung as high as Gretel could reach. It held a large leather-covered Bible with brass clasps, a wedding present to Dame Brinker from the family at Heidelberg.
Ah, how handy Hans is! If he were here, he could turn the father some way so the moans would stop. Dear, dear! If this sickness lasts, we shall never skate anymore. I must send my new skates back to the beautiful lady. Hans and I will not see the race.
And Gretel's eyes, that had been dry before, grew full of tears.
"Never cry, child," said her mother soothingly. "This sickness may not be as bad as we think. The father has lain this way before."Gretel sobbed now.
"Oh, mother, it is not that alone--you do not know all. I am very, very bad and wicked!""YOU, Gretel! you so patient and good!" and a bright, puzzled look beamed for an instant upon the child. "Hush, lovey, you'll wake him."Gretel hid her face in her mother's lap and tried not to cry.
Her little hand, so thin and brown, lay in the coarse palm of her mother's, creased with many a hard day's work. Rychie would have shuddered to touch either, yet they pressed warmly upon each other. Soon Gretel looked up with that dull, homely look which, they say, poor children in shanties are apt to have, and said in a trembling voice, "The father tried to burn you--he did--I saw him, and he was LAUGHING!""Hush, child!"The mother's words came so suddenly and sharply that Raff Brinker, dead as he was to all that was passing around him, twitched slightly upon the bed.
Gretel said no more but plucked drearily at the jagged edge of a hole in her mother's holiday gown. It had been burned there.
Well for Dame Brinker that the gown was woolen.
Haarlem--The Boys Hear VoicesRefreshed and rested, our boys came forth from the coffeehouse just as the big clock in the square, after the manner of certain Holland timekeepers, was striking two with its half-hour bell for half-past two.
The captain was absorbed in thought, at first, for Hans Brinker's sad story still echoed in his ears. Not until Ludwig rebuked him with a laughing "Wake up, grandfather!" did he reassume his position as gallant boy-leader of his band.
"Ahem! this way, young gentlemen!"
They were walking through the city, not on a curbed sidewalk, for such a thing is rarely to be found in Holland, but on the brick pavement that lay on the borders of the cobblestone carriage-way without breaking its level expanse.
Haarlem, like Amsterdam, was gayer than usual, in honor of Saint Nicholas.
A strange figure was approaching them. It was a small man dressed in black, with a short cloak. He wore a wig and a cocked hat from which a long crepe streamer was flying.
"Who comes here?" cried Ben. "What a queer-looking object.""That's the aanspreeker," said Lambert. "Someone is dead.""Is that the way men dress in mourning in this country?""Oh, no! The aanspreeker attends funerals, and it is his business, when anyone dies, to notify all the friends and relatives.""What a strange custom.""Well," said Lambert, "we needn't feel very badly about this particular death, for I see another man has lately been born to the world to fill up the vacant place."Ben stared. "How do you know that?""Don't you see that pretty red pincushion hanging on yonder door?" asked Lambert in return.
"Yes."
"Well, that's a boy."
"A boy! What do you mean?"
