This little envious fret of his neighbour lost itself outside Joris Van

Heemskirk's home. Within it, all was love and content. He quickly divested

himself of his fine coat and ruffles, and in a long scarlet vest, and a

little skull-cap made of orange silk, sat down to smoke. He had talked a

good deal in the City Hall, and he was now chewing deliberately the cud of

his wisdom over again. Madam Van Heemskirk understood that, and she let

the good man reconsider himself in peace. Besides, this was her busy hour.

She was giving out the food for the morning's breakfast, and locking up

the cupboards, and listening to complaints from the kitchen, and making a

plaster for black Tom's bealing finger. In some measure, she prepared all

day for this hour, and yet there was always something unforeseen to be

done in it.

She was a little woman, with clear-cut features, and brown hair drawn

backward under a cap of lace very stiffly starched. Her tight fitting

dress of blue taffeta was open in front, and looped up behind in order

to show an elaborately quilted petticoat of light-blue camblet. Her

white wool stockings were clocked with blue, her high-heeled shoes cut

very low, and clasped with small silver buckles. From her trim cap to

her trig shoes, she was a pleasant and comfortable picture of a happy,

domestic woman; smiling, peaceful, and easy to live with.

When the last duty was finished, she let her bunch of keys fall with a

satisfactory "all done" jingle, that made her Joris look at her with a

smile. "That is so," she said in answer to it. "A woman is glad when she

gets all under lock and key for a few hours. Servants are not made

without fingers; and, I can tell thee, all the thieves are not yet

hung."

"That needs no proving, Lysbet. But where, then, is Joanna and the

little one? And Bram should be home ere this. He has stayed out late

more than once lately, and it vexes me. Thou art his mother, speak to

him."

"Bram is good; do not make his bridle too short. Katherine troubles me

more than Bram. She is quiet and thinks much; and when I say, 'What art

thou thinking of?' she answers always, 'Nothing, mother.' That is not

right. When a girl says, 'Nothing, mother,' there is something--perhaps,

indeed, somebody--on her mind."

"Katherine is nothing but a child. Who would talk love to a girl who has

not yet taken her first communion? What you think is nonsense, Lysbet;"

but he looked annoyed, and the comfort of his pipe was gone. He put it

down, and walked to a side-door, where he stood a little while, watching

the road with a fretful anxiety.




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