PART II

I

I have said that I might perhaps have something more to tell about Little Johannes. Surely you have not thought I would not keep my word! People are not so very trustful in these days, nor so patient, either.

But now I am going to put you to confusion, by telling you what else happened to Little Johannes. Listen! It is worth your while. And the best thing of all is that it will be rather like a fairy story—even more so than what I have already told you.

And yet it is all true. Yes, it all really truly happened. Perhaps you will again be inclined to doubt; but when you are older—much, much older—you will perceive how true it is. It will be so much more pleasant for you to have faith in it, that I wish from my heart you may be able to. If you cannot, I am sorry for you; but at least be truthful. Therefore skip nothing, but read it all.

And should you happen to meet Johannes, I give you leave to speak with him about these matters, and to give him my regards. He might not answer, but he will not be offended. He is still rather small, but he has grown a bit.

The fine weather did not continue far into the evening. The splendid clouds which Johannes had seen above the sea, and out of which strode that dark figure, now betokened a thunder-storm. Before he reached the middle of the dunes again, the sunset sky and the starry heavens were obscured, and a wild, exhausting wind, filled with fine, misty rain, swept him on. Behind him the lightning played above the sea, and the thunder rolled as if the heavens were being torn asunder, and the planks of its floor tossed one by one into a great garret.

Johannes was not alarmed, but very happy. He felt the close clasp of a warm, firm hand. It seemed as if he never yet had clung to a hand so perfect and so life-giving. Even the hand of Windekind seemed flimsy and feeble compared with this.

He thought that he now had reached the end of all his puzzles and difficulties. This may also have occurred to you. But how could that be possible when he was still such a mere stripling, and did not yet comprehend one half of all the marvelous things that had befallen him!

It may be that all has been plain to you. But it was not to him, although he may have thought so. He was yet only a little fellow without beard or moustache, and his voice was still that of a boy.

"My friend," said he to his Guide, "I know now that I have been bad—very bad. But now that you have come and I can cling to your hand, can I not redeem my faults? Is there still time?"

The dark figure kept silently and steadily on beside him in the storm and darkness. Johannes could see neither his eyes nor his features; he only heard the swishing and flapping of his garments—heavy with the rain. Then he asked again, somewhat anxiously, because the consolation he was yearning for was longer delayed than he expected:

"May I not sometime call myself a friend of yours? Am I not yet worthy of that? I have always so wanted to have a friend! That was the best thing in life, I thought—really the only thing I cared about. And now I have lost all my friends—my dog, Windekind, and my father. Am I too bad to deserve a true friend?"

Then there came an answer:

"When you can be a true friend, Johannes, then indeed you will find one."

There was consolation in the soft, low tones, and there was love and forgiveness; but the words were torturing.

"Bad, bad!" muttered Johannes, setting his teeth together. He wanted to cry, but he could not do that. That would have been to pity himself, and that was not in accordance with his Guide's reply. He had not been a good friend to his dog, nor to Windekind, nor to his father. He wished now that he could at once make amends for everything, but that could not be. It had been made clear.

It was desolate on the dunes, and dark as pitch. The wind was whistling through the reeds and the dwarf poplars, but there was nothing to be seen. How far away seemed the quiet sunlight now, the playful animals, and the flowers! Silently and swiftly the two strode on along a winding cart-track through the deep, wet sand, now and then stumbling over the ruts. It was the road that led to the town.

"I shall—" began Johannes again, resolutely lifting his head. But there he halted.

"Who says 'I shall'? Who knows what he will do? Can Johannes say, I am?"

"I am sorry and I am ashamed, and I wish to be better," said Johannes.

"That is well," said the soft low voice. And the tears started in Johannes' eyes. He clung close to his Guide, trembling slightly as they went.

"Teach me, my Father. I want to know how to be better."

"Not 'Father,' Johannes. We both have the same Father. You must call me Brother."

At that word Johannes looked timidly up at his Guide with startled face and wide-open eyes. In a flash of the steel-blue lightning, Johannes saw the pale brow, with the dark eyes turned kindly toward him. The hair of his Guide was matted and dripping with water, as were also his beard and his moustache. The locks clung to his white gleaming forehead, and his eyes glowed with an inner light. Johannes felt a boundless love and adoration, and at the same time an inexpressible compassion. "My brother!" thought he. "Oh, good, good man!"

And he said: "How wet you are! Put my jacket over your head. I do not need it."

But in the darkness his hand was gently restrained, and they hurried on while the sweat and the rain were commingled upon their faces.

After a while his Guide said to him:

"Johannes, pay attention to me, for I am going to say something to you that you must bear in mind. Your true life is only now beginning, and it is difficult to live a good life. If only you could remember what I am now telling you, you would never again be unhappy. Neither life nor people would be able to make you unhappy. And yet it will not prove thus—because you will forget."

There was silence for a while, broken only by the whistling of the wind, the flapping of their garments, and their rapid breathing—for they were walking very fast.

"Train your memory, therefore; for without an exact and retentive memory nothing good is attained. And mark this well; not the small and transient must you be mindful of, but the great and the eternal."

Then there was a flash of lightning, and it seemed as if the heavens were being consumed in the white fire, while a terrific peal of thunder immediately followed, directly over their heads.

But Johannes' thoughts were dwelling attentively upon the words he had heard, and he was neither frightened nor disquieted. He raised his head, proud and glad that he was not afraid, and looked, with wide-open eyes, into the high, dark dome of the heavens.

"This is the great and the eternal, is it not?" he asked. "This I will bear in mind."

But his Guide said:

"It is not the thunder and the lightning which you must bear in mind, for they are temporal and will often recur; but that you were unafraid, and bravely held up your countenance—that you must remember, and the reason why you did so. For it will thunder and lighten at other times, and you will be afraid. But even now—at this instant—it could strike you dead. Why do you not fear now?"

"Because you are with me," said Johannes.

"Well, then, Johannes, remember this; you always have me with you."

They were silent for a long while, and Johannes was thinking over these noble words. But he did not understand their import. If he were always to have his Leader with him, how could he forget? Then he asked, although he well knew what the reply would be:

"Are you, then, going to stay with me always?"

"Even as I always have been with you," was the unexpected answer.

"But I did not see you, then."

"And very soon again you will not see me; yet I shall be with you, just the same. Therefore, you must cultivate your memory, so that it will remind you when your eyes see not. Who that is forgetful can be relied on? You have never been faithful, Johannes, and you will forget me also. But I shall remain faithful, and you will bring me to mind. Then, when you have learned to bethink yourself, and are yourself a faithful friend, you shall have a brother and a friend."

The road was firmer now, and in the distance they saw the lights of the town. Close by, the orange-yellow window-squares were glimmering through the rain and darkness—the dwellings themselves being still invisible in the night. They saw the pools glisten, and they met a man. There was a hurried, heavy footstep—a glowing red cigar-tip. Johannes breathed the well-known, offensive, human atmosphere of wet garments and tobacco smoke. By the flashes of lightning he could see all around him little white and grey cottages. He saw the gleaming street, far out in front of him—haystacks and barns—a fence along the way; everything suddenly sharp and livid.

Then a change came over him. At once, he was conscious of everything, as one, being awakened, is aware of a voice already heard in his dream.

He clearly felt himself to be an ordinary human being, like every one else. And his exalted companion was also an ordinary man. He saw both, just as the passers-by would see them; a man and a boy, wet with the rain, walking hand in hand. Windekind did not get wet in the rain.

As they neared the suburbs, it became lighter and more noisy. It was not the great city where Johannes had lived with Pluizer, but the small one where he was born and where he had gone to school.

And as the two approached, they heard, through the rushing of the rain and the rolling of the thunder, a lighter, indistinct sound which reminded Johannes so well of former times. It was a confused intermingling of voices, singing, a continual din of organ-grinding, sharp little sounds of trumpets and flutes, the reports of fire-crackers and rifle-shots, and now and then a shrill, discordant whistle, or the sound of a bell. It was the Fair!

"Be careful now, Johannes. Here are people," said his companion.

Johannes gave a start. His task was to begin. He could no longer rail at human beings, nor disclaim his own human origin. He knew now that he had been erring, and he resolved to mend his ways. Had not good Death told him it was well worth while to be a good man? So now he would live with men, and try to become a good man himself; to relieve pain, to lighten grief, and to bring beauty and happiness into the lives of others. Was not that what He was teaching—He at whose blessed side he should henceforth go?

But he was greatly distressed. He already knew so well what men were. He shivered in his wet clothing.

"Are you afraid already? Think how brave you were just now. You must mind, not only the words, but the meaning of them."

"I will be strong and brave. I will be a man among men, a good man—doing good to men."

So saying, Johannes nerved himself, and with steadfast step entered the town.

Here things looked truly dismal. Water was spouting out of the gutters into the streets. Everything was glistening in the wet, and big streams of water were flowing down the tent canvases.

But the people were out on pleasure bent, and pleasure they would have. As the shop doors were opened one could see the red faces within, close to one another in the blue tobacco smoke, and could hear the uproar of loud singing and the stamping of feet.

Under the projecting canvas of the booths the crowds flocked together, slowly pushing one past the other into the bright light of the lamps. Johannes and his Guide pressed in among them to get out of the rain.

Johannes was fond of fairs. Always he was glad when the boats arrived in the canal with the timber for the various booths and play-tents; and he looked on eagerly while the flimsy structures—for that one week only—were being put together. This onlooking was an earnest of the strange and fantastic pleasures in store for him.

He liked the gay and merry pageantry, the foolish inscriptions on the merry-go-rounds, the mysterious places behind and between the tents, where the performers lodged; and above all, the tiny, out-of-the-way tents with their natural curiosities, and the strange animals, which seemed so sadly out of place in this Dutch world, in their tedious, unvarying captivity, with the reveling crowd around them.

And every summer he found it just as hard to see the breaking up of this variegated medley.

Not that he ever had longed for the Fair when with Windekind, but, of all that he had experienced while among human beings, the Fair seemed to him the most delightful.

And now he was rejoiced at the familiar scene of the booths with their toys; the cakes, layered with rose-colored sugar and inscribed with white lettering; all the shining brass-work of the toy-pistol bazaars; the small tents in lonely places, where brown, smoked eels lay between brass-headed iron bars; the shooting-galleries; the noisy and showy merry-go-rounds.

Nor did he, for old remembrance' sake, mind the various odors and mal-odors; the smell of cake, of frying fat, and of smoking lamps; nor the strange, mysterious, stable and wild-beast scents that came out of the large exhibition tents.

The children were running about, as usual, with their red balloons—tooting upon trumpets, and twirling their rattles. The mothers had their skirts over their heads to keep off the rain. Now and then a train of young men and maidens—their caps and hoods askew, or back side before—danced their way through the crowds, with shining, rollicking faces, shouting as they went: "hi! ha! hi! ha!" Then they would calm down, and step one side to look again at the cakes and the knick-knacks.

As Johannes dearly loved a laugh, he stopped again and again where there was anything funny; at the Punch-and-Judy show, or the antics in front of the circus, of which the peasants are foolishly fond.

Thus, beside his companion, he stood looking, in the midst of a group of people holding open umbrellas. On all sides he saw staring faces, reddened by the light of the sputtering oil-torch in front of the tent. The people looked stupid, he thought, standing there staring, now and then all bursting out together in a laugh when a clown cracked a joke. Painted on the canvas, in front of the tent, he saw ugly pictures of horrible battles between men and tigers—and everywhere, blood! From the balustrade, a monkey was watching the people very seriously. Ever and anon he darted a glance at a boy standing close by, to discover if he meant well or ill by his outstretched hand.

Behind the little table at the curtained entrance sat a buxom woman dressed in a black silk gown. Her face was round and broad, and her dark, glossy hair was smoothly plastered to her forehead. She was not ugly, but reminded Johannes of the wax dolls in front of the hair-dressers'.

Suddenly, Johannes heard the ring-master speaking to him; and the people turned their heads round and grinned at him.

"Come on, young gentleman," said the ring-master, "you must see the show, too! Ask your papa to let you see the show. There are pretty girls here, too—very nice for young gentlemen. Just look here, what pretty girls!"

Then he pointed to the buxom woman behind the table, who, laughing not a bit, but showing off her rings with their mock jewels, held up the curtain as an invitation to Johannes to enter. And then the ring-master pointed to a pale, slim girl, whose lank hair, light and silky, was combed straight down, and fell below her waist. She stood in front of the tent, dressed in a soiled white suit, spangled with silver. Her skirt was short, and her white tights did not fit well over her long, thin legs.

"Hello! Come on! Come on!" cried the girl, in a shrill, eager little voice, clapping her hands.

Ha! How suddenly Johannes' attention was riveted! He experienced a wonderfully strong feeling of tenderness and sympathy as he looked at that pale child. She wore a little silver crown on her hair, which was nearly ash-blonde, and her eyes, also, were light-grey or light-blue, he could not tell which.

"Would you like to go in?" asked his Guide.

Without looking up Johannes nodded his head. They pressed slowly through the people, and Johannes saw that the girl kept looking at him attentively, as if his coming mattered more to her than that of the others. What wonderful things entered his head in those few seconds, while pressing through the packed, ill-smelling crowd, on his way into the tent. He thought of his dead father—and about his own going, now, to an entertainment at a Fair. But, immediately, he thought, also, of the great change—his deliverance from Pluizer, and that he had not come to the Fair for his own pleasure, like an every-day schoolboy, but that he had now come among people in order to soothe their sorrows, and to make them good and happy. At the same time he felt a strong aversion to that rough, rude, and unsavory throng. And then he looked again at the pale girl who had called to him, and was waiting for him. She was a human being, too, and his whole heart went out to her. She looked so slight, so serious and intelligent. What a life she must have led! And what must she think and feel!

For an instant he forgot something; namely, whose hand it was he was holding. He had not yet let drop that dear hand, but was not thinking who it was that had been taken for his father, and was leading him into a circus.

"What is the price?" he heard his Guide ask the young woman, in his deep, serious voice.

But the pale little girl, who had continued all this time looking at him, cried out in an abrupt, decided tone: "It's Markus!"

The fat young woman just glanced in silence from the girl to the two visitors, and then struck the table with her plump, white, ring-covered hands, till the money-box jingled.

"Jerusalem! Is that you Vissie? Where did you swim from? And how did you find that kid? Nix to pay! Just step inside. Right here! First row. I'll see you again, presently, eh?"

Then she looked straight at Johannes with her black eyes. He shrank from that cold, hard, scrutiny. But she laughed in a friendly way and said:

"How d' do, youngster?"

Johannes felt the perspiration start, from fright and confusion. That exalted being, whom he had seen treading the glowing waters of the sea, whose hand he still retained, to be spoken to in such a manner, by this insignificant creature—as if he were an old acquaintance! Had he utterly lost his senses? Had he been dreaming, and had he been walking with one or other of the Fair-goers?

Not until he had sat awhile, and his heart had ceased to beat so fast, did he venture to lift his eyes—which had taken in nothing of their surroundings—and look up at his Guide.

The latter had evidently been regarding him for a considerable time. The first glance sufficed. Johannes saw the selfsame pale face, the selfsame somewhat weary, but clear and steady eyes full of earnest ardor, trustful and begetting trust; bestowing, through their regard alone, rest and solace indescribable.

But he was an ordinary man—the same as the others. He had on a brown cap with the ear-flaps tied together over the top, and he wore an old faded cloak out of which the rain-water was still trickling down upon the seat. His shoes, mud-covered and water-soaked, stood squarely against each other on the wooden floor. His trousers were frayed out, and had lost all definite color.

Johannes wanted to speak to him, but his lips trembled so he could not utter a word, and tears coursed down his cheeks.

All this time they still sat hand in hand. Nothing had been said, but Johannes felt his hand being pressed, while a superhuman assurance and encouragement, from out those kindly eyes, gradually penetrated to the depths of his being.

His Guide smiled, and indicated that he ought to give attention to the performance and to the spectators. Slowly, with a long-drawn breath, Johannes turned his eyes thither; but he looked on listlessly and without interest.

And now and then—whenever he dared—he looked at his Guide; at his wet, shabby clothes; at his hands—not coarse—but oddly rough, and with a blackened thumb and forefinger; at his pale, patient face, with the hair clinging to the temples.

The boy's lips began to tremble again, his throat contracted, and irrepressible sobs accompanied the tears.

When he looked into the sanded ring around which the spectators sat, he saw a large white horse coming in. Upon him stood the pale, fair little girl. She had more color now, and looked much prettier and more graceful. She sprang and knelt upon the big white horse while she enlivened him with her shrill cries.

It was not merely sympathy and tenderness that moved Johannes now, but something more of admiration and respect; for she seemed no older than himself, and yet she was not in the least timid, but understood her art well. The people clapped loudly, and then she put her slender, delicate hands one by one to her lips, waving them first to the left, then to the right, with self-possessed grace.

The clown made her a low bow with all kinds of foolish grimaces, and indicated the greatest respect; and she rewarded him with a studied smile, like a princess. Johannes could not take his eyes away from her.

"Who is that little girl?" he asked his Guide. "Is she really so lovely?"

"Her name is Marjon," said his Guide, "and she is a dear, good child, but too weak for her task."

"I wish I could do something for her," said Johannes.

"That is a good boy. We will go to her, presently."

Johannes did not pay much more attention to the exhibition. His mind was full of the prospective interview with the little actress. The world in which she lived was charming. And she herself seemed, at this moment, the one above all others he most wished to help and benefit.

After the spectators were gone he went with his Guide between the curtains from behind which the horses had come. In the dimly lighted space where a single lamp was burning, and close to where the breathing and stamping of the horses could be heard, Johannes saw her sitting. She was stooping down to a chest on the top of which were some plates of food, and she still had on her pretty costume. There was no one with her.

"Good day, Markus," said she, extending her hand to Johannes' Guide. "Who is the little boy?"

"This is Johannes. He wishes to make your acquaintance, and to do something good for you."

"Is that so?" laughed the girl. "Then he might just change my silver quarters into gold."

Johannes did not know what to say, and was more perplexed than he remembered ever in his life to have been before. But Marjon looked at him with her large, light, grey eyes, and nodded kindly.

"Come, little boy, don't be so bashful. Won't you have something to eat? Quick! Before my sister comes! But you ought to stay with us. We are going to Delft this week. Are you going with us, Markus?"

"It may be," said Markus. "Now, we are only going to try to find a place to sleep in. Johannes can hardly feel hungry. Do you, Johannes?"

Johannes shook his head.

"He has had a great sorrow, Marjon; his father has just died."

Marjon looked at him again, gently and good-naturedly, and then gave him her hand, with the very same, quick gesture of confidence a monkey employs when he recognizes his master.

"Good-by, till morning," she said, as the two passed out of the rear door of the tent.

Outside, the moon was shining, and, since the rain had stopped, the Fair-people had become still more jolly and noisy.

Well, well! How ugly they were! How clumsily they danced, and how badly they sang! The men and women were now standing in circles, their arms interlocked, with one another's hoods and caps on, ready to spring into the street, and to shriek out, in their harsh voices, songs without sense or tune. All their faces were wanton, vacant, or downright dissipated, and most of them were flushed with excitement or with drink.

Johannes saw mothers, too, with infants in their arms, and leading little children by the hand, coming out of the fritter-stalls, dragging themselves along through the crowds. The tavern doors flew open, and the rude Fair-goers bounced outside. Here and there, on the street corners, a fierce quarrel was in progress, with a close ring of on-lookers gathered around. Nothing more that was pretty, or nice, or pleasing, was in sight. Everywhere there was raving and ranting and bawling; with a thousand dissonant noises, and a wretched stench.

The only exception was a squad of six soldiers, passing calmly and quietly, with regulated step, through the throng, in single file. It was the patrol. Johannes knew it, and it gave him a feeling of rest and contentment, as if there was something else in human beings save rudeness and debauchery; that a little self-restraint and worthiness still remained.

Up above—beyond that petty tumult—beyond that ruddy flaming and flickering, the moon was shining, silver-white and stately. Johannes looked up longingly.

He found his task an awful one, and the people worse than he had expected. But of one little being he thought with tenderness; and in her case he would persevere.

"Let us go to sleep," he begged.

"Very well," said his Guide, opening a tavern door.

It was oppressive there, and reeking with the fumes of gin and tobacco. They pressed their way through the crowd and went up to the bar.

"Have you lodgings for us, Vrouw Schimmel?" asked Johannes' Guide.

"Lodgings? Well, seeing it's you, Markus. But otherwise not! See? Go now—the two of you!"

They crept up to a small dark garret, and there received a couple of mattresses which the maid had dragged upstairs; and then they could lie down.

Johannes lay awake through the clamor and jingling and the stamping of the Fair-goers downstairs until long after the morning light had broken. The day just passed—long as a year, and full of great and weighty matters—was thought over from beginning to end. Serene, open-eyed—quietly, not restlessly, he lay there meditating till morning dawned, and the sunlight, like a red-gold stain, touched the wall above him, and till the din downstairs had subsided and died away. Then he fell asleep, thinking of Marjon—her bright eyes and silver crown.

II

He was awakened by jovial sounds. There was something hopeful and powerful about and within him when he opened his eyes again, and looked around the close, dark little garret. A column of sunbeams stood slanting from the floor to the little dormer window, and motes were glistening in the light.

Both out-of-doors, and below him, Johannes heard the women singing, and busily, merrily talking—the way women do mornings as they hurry with their kitchen and door-yard tasks. The rubbish of the day before was thrust aside, and everything was in readiness for a new Fair day.

Beside him lay his Guide, still calmly sleeping. He had removed nothing but his coat with which he had covered himself, and his shoes which were standing beside the mattress. He was in a profound sleep—his head upon his rolled-up mantle. His curling hair was now dry, and looked dark and glossy, and his cheeks bore a little more color. Johannes gazed attentively at his right hand hanging down from under his coat, over the mattress to the floor. It was a slender, shapely hand, with short-cut nails, but the blackening which Johannes had seen the day before was still there. That stamp of toil could not be washed away.

Johannes slipped quietly downstairs and went to wash himself at the pump in the courtyard. About him all was cheerful activity—scrubbing and scouring, washing and rinsing. The summer morning was warm and yet fresh. It was a clear and sober world with nothing dreamy or fanciful about it.

The bar-woman poured him out a cup of coffee, and asked in a familiar way if his roommate was still sleeping, and how Johannes had met him.

"Oh, just by chance!" answered Johannes, blushing deeply; not only because he was fibbing, but because it was to himself such a delicate and obscure matter, and of such supreme importance.

"Who is he, really?" he asked, with a feeling of committing treason.

"Who is he!" re-echoed the mistress, in such a loud voice and with such emphasis that the other women stopped their work and looked up. "Did you hear him? He asks who Markus is!"

"Do you mean Markus Vis?" asked a slatternly work-girl.

"Yes, that's who he means!" said the bar-woman.

The women looked at one another, and then went on again with their splashing and scrubbing.

"I do not know anything yet," said Johannes, a little more boldly.

"Neither do we," said the slovenly girl. "Do you, Bet?"

"I know that he is a darn good fellow," answered Bet.

"They do say, though, that he is not good," said another work-woman.

"True, he may not be good—but good he is, I say," retorted Bet.

This sounded a bit obscure, but Johannes understood it perfectly well.

"He has more sense than all four of you put together," said the bar-woman, indignantly. "I have seen, with my own eyes, how the little daughter of Sannes, the Plumber, who had been given up by as many as four doctors because there was not a ghost of a chance for her,—how she was taken by Markus on his lap, when all the phlegm came loose; and only yesterday, I saw her with her mother, running in front of the booths."

"And the other day," said the slatternly girl, "when that tall Knelis at the vegetable market was drunk again—you know that common brawler with the white flap on his cap—well, he just took him gently by the wing, home to his old woman; and the fellow went along, as meek as a booby tied to his mother's apron-string."

In this way, one story suggested another, and Johannes soon learned how much his Guide was liked and esteemed among performers, showmen, workmen, day-laborers—yes, even by the shopkeepers and tavern-keepers, although he was a poor customer.

"What does he really do?" asked Johannes.

"Don't you know that?" replied the mistress, astonished. "And yet I thought you were going to be his apprentice. He is a scissors-grinder. His cart stands here, in the shed."

Johannes felt his heart thumping again, for he heard coming the very one of whom they were speaking. He scarcely dared to look at him. But the woman exclaimed: "Good morning, Markus! That's a sly-boots of yours—he doesn't even know what your work is!"

Quite in his accustomed way Markus said: "Good morning, all! Is there a bowl of coffee for me, too? Well, there is time enough yet to understand about that. One may learn fast enough, turning the wheel."

"Will he have to turn?" asked the woman. "Then have you no footboard?"

Markus set his coffee down among the clean drinking-glasses, on a little table, and sat down beside it, while the maid was cutting the slices of bread.

Then Johannes and he regarded each other with a look full of complete, mutual understanding. In his earnest, musical voice Markus had spoken lightly, and easily, without conveying to the others any particular meaning. But that they listened eagerly was apparent. Whenever his voice was heard, others usually stopped speaking; and the least thing he said, in jest or in earnest, was listened to with respectful attention.

"Yes, you see," said Markus, "I still have a cart with a footboard. But nowadays there are much finer ones with window-glass upon them, and a big wheel which another has to turn."

"Gracious!" said the bar-mistress, "so you're getting up in the world, Markus! Sure, you've had a legacy, or a lucky lottery ticket."

"No, Vrouw Schimmel, but I thought this; your standing is good, of late, and as you have to go to the banker's now, with your money, you might loan me, say, a hundred and fifty guldens, and I'll repay the loan at the rate of a gulden a week. How will that do?"

The woman stopped working and laughed. The mistress laughed, too, and cried: "You're a regular Jew!" and, after having sauntered back and forth a while, she said:

"All right—begin now and here! Sharpen these knives, and mind you make them sharp as razors!"

After Markus and Johannes had eaten their bread, the old cart was dragged out of the shed and dusted off, the axles oiled, the rope moistened, and the knives were sharpened. Johannes watched attentively, and saw how swiftly and skilfully Markus turned and directed the steel until it was sharp and bright, and how the golden fountain of sparks flew over the whizzing wheel.

Afterward they went together up the street, for it was necessary to earn some money.

Markus stepped slowly wheeling his cart through the sunny streets—alive with people. From time to time his "Scissors to Gri-i-i-nd!" rang out above the tramp of feet and the rattle of wagons, while he looked searchingly right and left to see if there was not some one who had something to be sharpened. Johannes ran ahead, to ring the bells of all the houses, and to bring the knives and scissors out to the cart.

Johannes did his very best. He felt that only now had life begun in real earnest. For one's bread one must work, and earn money. He had never yet thought about money and money-making; but the reality was stern and sobering. Every one around him talked about money and money-getting. Yet his noble Guide, he saw, was poor and shabby—forced to hard and constant labor to keep from starving. Life grew serious indeed.

They said but little to each other. They were too busy. Johannes enjoyed the work. He felt there was something heroic and important in the fact that he, the young gentleman who had been to a superior school here, was now going around as a scissors-grinder's boy. And when the housemaids, somewhat surprised, looked at his neat little suit, he carried it more jauntily. But the meeting with an old schoolmate was full of pain.

Toward twelve o'clock he grew tired and hungry. In passing by the bakeries he had a feeling now that he had never known before—almost peevishness—as if something had been taken away from him—as if that bread were his by very right.

Then they came to the circus, where Marjon was. And there she sat, with her dark-eyed sister. Her flaxen hair was now braided and wound around her head.

Johannes heard the sound of an iron kettle being shaken, and he knew that that meant potatoes. And there was bacon, also, and some boiled vegetables. At first, these things were of prime importance to him. He could think of nothing else until he had eaten—ravenously. Then, rather ashamed, he glanced up.

They were sitting out-of-doors, in the rear of the tents and the booths, with an awning stretched out over their heads to protect them from the sun, which was shining fiercely and brightly. Close by stood the circus-wagon—painted green, with variegated red and white trimmings. A canary's cage stood upon the platform, between flower-pots, and the yellow bird was singing merrily.

Johannes thought it fine and good now to be among people. There sat the bright little being with the pale face, the large grey eyes, and the ash-blonde hair—braided and wound like a diadem about her head. It seemed to Johannes as if a brilliant light streamed out from her; a light which tasted sweet, and smelled sweet also. And could she not ride a horse, and spring through hoops, and with those slender hands throw plates up high, and catch and balance them? And she looked often at Johannes, and seemed to find him a nice little boy.

Beside her, calm and serious, his head bent forward, his dark hair curling in his neck, sat Markus, eating. This made him seem to Johannes still more dear and intimate.

Next, sat Marjon's sister. Johannes felt a little uneasy in her presence. She sat close by him, and ate very audibly. She shoveled food upon Johannes' plate, and now and then patted him on the shoulder, to encourage him to eat. Then she looked at him, kindly enough, but with a cold penetration as if with some fixed purpose. Her eyes seemed almost black, and her glossy hair was as black as ebony. But her skin was waxy white. Whenever she stirred, something in her clothing always creaked, and there was a heavy odor of perfumery about her.

Beyond Marjon sat the little monkey, watching the movements of the steel forks with his sharp, earnest eyes. Occasionally Marjon spoke to him, and then he whined in eager expectation of something to eat.

That quarter of an hour was delightful! Johannes looked repeatedly at Marjon, trying to think who she looked like, and why it seemed as if he must have known her a long time. And he found it pleasant and adorable when she spoke to him, and was as confidential as if with a friend. Yes, he remembered something of that old sensation with Windekind—the feeling of friendship and intimacy. But he could well see that she did not resemble Windekind. He noticed that her nails were not very clean, and admitted that she did make use of coarse and profane language. Yet her speech was not flat, but musical—with a foreign accent; and her bearing was nearly always winsome, although she did things considered bad manners—things never permitted him.

The afternoon which now followed, filled with the same sort of work—continually running back and forth across the sunny streets—seemed hard indeed. At last he could not think any more, and his feet burned fiercely. Sad and perplexed he sat down on a stone stoop as the shadows grew deeper and cooler, and thought of the gloomy garret where he was again to sleep.

"Come, Johannes. The day's money is nearly earned, and then we go to Vrouw Schimmel's for our supper."

"How much have we earned?" asked Johannes; expecting to hear, to his consolation, of the riches which he had procured by his hard work.

"Two guldens, forty-seven cents," said Markus.

"Is that enough?"

"So long as we can sleep for nothing at Vrouw Schimmel's and can eat for nothing at the circus. But we cannot do that every day."

Johannes felt greatly discouraged. Already so tired, and so little accomplished! Not enough earned yet for one day's support! How would he ever have enough strength left over to help the people? With his head in his hands he sat staring vacantly at the pavement.

"Tired?" asked Markus, gently. Johannes nodded. Markus spoke again:

"But remember, my boy! This is your first day. It will be easier after you get used to it."

Johannes lifted his weary, disheartened eyes, and looked at his Guide who was patiently engaged in putting something about the cart-axle to rights.

"It is not your first day, though, Markus, is it? It can never be any easier for you. And that ought not to be so. It will never do."

A strange bitterness of thought took possession of Johannes—as if everything were full of fraud and foolishness—as if he himself were made a fool of. What sort of fellow was that, with the long hair, the silly old cap, and frayed-out trousers, who sat there, pottering?

Markus glanced round and looked at him. Immediately Johannes grew ashamed of his thoughts and felt a deep, over-mastering sorrow and sympathy, that He—He who was standing there before him, was obliged to toil so—in poverty and squalor.

This time he burst into unrestrained sobs, he was both so tired and so over-excited. Weeping, he could only utter, "Why is it? I cannot understand. It will never—never!—"

Markus did not attempt to console him; he merely said gently but firmly that he must wheel the cart and go home, for people were observing them.

Johannes went early to bed, and his Guide went with him. The din from below came up to them, as before, and the moon shone brightly into the little garret. The two friends lay upon their hard mattresses, hand in hand, talking together in an undertone. They did not use the careless common-places of every-day speech, but they spoke as Johannes had done with Windekind;—in the old, serious way.

"When I look at you, my brother, what is it makes me feel so sad?" asked Johannes. "When I see your shabby clothes and blackened hands; when I hear you addressed as comrade by those poor and filthy people; when I see you sharing their hard, unlovely life, then I cannot keep from crying. I am sorry I gave way to my feelings, and attracted attention, but then it is so dreadful!"

"It is dreadful, Johannes, not on my account, but because of the necessity for it."

"How can there be any need of your being so plain and sad? Is there anything good in plainness and sadness?"

"No, Johannes; plainness and sadness are evils. The beautiful and the joyful only are good, and it is they we must seek."

"But, dear brother, you may be both beautiful and joyful. Indeed, what is there you cannot be? I saw you walking upon the shining waters. That surely was no illusion?"

"No, that was no illusion."

"I saw only your face—not your clothing; only your face, and that was beautiful and noble. And if you can walk upon the sea, then you can, if you wish to, be beautiful and grand and joyful, even among those ugly people."

"Yes, I can do that also, Johannes, but I will not do it, because I love those plain and sorrowful people. I will do much more, just because so much power has been given me. I will be a brother to them, so that they may learn to know me.

"Must you, for that reason, be low in station and be sorrowful?"

"I am not of low degree, nor am I sorrowful. My spirits are high and my heart is glad: and because I am so strong I can stoop to those who are lowly and sad, in order that they may attain me, and with me, the Light."

In the dark—eyes shut close—Johannes nodded his satisfaction, and then fell asleep, his hand still in that of his friend.

III

At the end of the week, the bell rang from noon until one o'clock, to announce the closing of the Fair. The tent canvases remained fastened down, and the performances were hurriedly broken off. The stakes and boards were loaded upon the boats lying in the canal; and there the wooden lions of the merry-go-rounds made a sorry figure. They bore no resemblance whatever to the lively, furious lions of the day before; and one could hardly tell what had become of all that motley and magnificent array.

The real, living Hons, and the people, in their different vehicles, went up the street, in a long caravan, to the next town where the Fair was to begin anew; for the summer is one long Fair for the Fair-folk.

Days before, Johannes and Markus had passed through that same street; for with their heavy cart, they would have been unable to keep up with the more rapid, horse-drawn vehicles. The weather remained fine and clear. The walks along the road from village to village, with the excitement of finding work and earning money—the restings on the sunny, grassy wayside—the baths in retired spots—and now and then coffee in the kitchens of the farmhouses—all this was new, pleasant, and stimulating, and Johannes grew light-hearted and merry again.

Close by the next town the circus overtook them. It was only a mite of a company. The big white horse was drawing the green wagon, and two black-and-white spotted horses were drawing the second one. The ring-master walked beside it, swearing now, not joking, and wearing a very sour face. Then came a couple of men and some loose horses, in the rear.

Johannes lay in the grass on the lookout for Marjon. There she came, in her hand a big branch of alder leaves, with which she was brushing away the flies from the white horse.

She was walking on dreamily, with only an indifferent look at the staring peasant children along the way. But when she saw Johannes, her eyes grew big and bright, and she waved her branch at him.

He sprang up and ran to her, and she struck at him playfully with her alder branch. Then, with a sudden charming movement, she gave him a kiss. Johannes kissed her bashfully in return. The peasant children were astonished, but circus folk are always queer!

From between the muslin curtains of the little window in the green wagon, Johannes saw two jet-black eyes peeping at him. They were the eyes of Marjon's sister, and they wore a strange smile.

Johannes and Marjon walked on, hand in hand, chatting busily about the experiences of the past few days. And while Marjon told of her performances—how she had learned her tricks, and how often, too, she had fallen—he listened as deferentially as if he were being initiated into the mysteries of a princely court or of the national government.

Walking thus hand in hand beside the white horse, they approached the town. By the wayside, with projecting tea-arbors, and well-planned gardens, stood those low, wide country-seats which are still to be seen in the neighborhood of the towns of Holland. They bear such names as "Rust-oord,"[1] or "Nooit-gedacht,"[2] and make one think of ancient times when the burghers went out to walk, with their Gouda[3] pipes, and when the fragrant violets still grew upon the ramparts.

Between the windows of these houses, fastened to a curved iron rod, are little mirrors, in which the inmates, seated by the window, are able to see any one standing on the stoop, or approaching from a distance. They are called "spionnetjes." The passer-by sees in this glass only the face of the indweller.

In one of these little spyglasses Johannes suddenly saw a face that startled him. Yet it was not a frightful countenance. It was pale and spectacled, with two stiff "puffs" on each side. A lace cap crowned the whole, with lavender ribbons falling over the ears down to the shoulders. Two very clear, kindly, serious eyes were looking straight at him. Johannes was startled, because he knew the face so well. It was that of his aunt.

There was no doubt about it—it was Aunt Seréna. She had often been to visit at his home, and now Johannes remembered the house where she lived. He had even spent the night there. He cast a shy glance toward it. Yes, to be sure! That was the one-story, white stucco house, with the low windows, and the glass doors opening on the garden. He remembered the garden, with the splendid beech-trees. Between the house and the road was a green ditch, and on the fancy iron railing was the name "Vrede-best." He recalled it all very well now, and it made him uneasy and anxious.

"What makes you so white, Jo?" asked Marjon. "Aren't you well?"

"An aunt of mine lives there," said Johannes, blushing deeply now.

"Did she see you?" asked Marjon, quickly perceiving the significance of the event.

"She surely did."

"Don't look round," said Marjon. "Cut around the corner! Can she do anything to you?"

Johannes had not thought about that, at all. He owned to himself, that while his Aunt Seréna was looking at him, he felt ashamed of being seen with the circus-wagon, but he said nothing, and grasped Marjon's hand again, for he had let it drop.

Fortunately Markus did not tell him to ask if there was anything at "Vrede-best" to be sharpened.

But that pale face, with the puffs, the spectacles, the clear eyes, as seen in the little mirror, continued to follow Johannes in a very disconcerting way. The reflector was double, and Johannes felt certain that his aunt now sat before the other side, and that the fixed eyes were watching him.

"Have you any aunts, Marjon?"

"How do I know? Maybe," laughed Marjon.

"Your father, then?—Is he dead?"

Marjon lowered her voice a little, and, in a more serious manner, began a confidential explanation of an important matter: "I do not know, Jo. My mother is dead. She was a lion-tamer, and met with an accident. She is buried in Keulen; but my father was rich, and he may be living still. So you see I may have aunts—a lot of them—rich ones, perhaps."

"Have you never seen your father?" asked Johannes, speaking softly himself, now.

"No, never! But Lorum says" (Lorum was the ring-master) "that he was a count and had a castle."

"I can well believe that," said Johannes, looking at her admiringly.

"Yes, but Lorum tells lies."

That cast a shadow over Johannes' beautiful imaginings. Later, he often had occasion to experience the untruthfulness of Lorum.

It was a hot noon-time when they entered the town. Those afoot were tired and irritable, and the customary visit to the municipal authorities concerning positions was attended with no little quarreling and swearing. The empty, darkened parlors of the stately houses looked cool and alluringly tranquil. Bright housemaids came to the doors to see the circus-troup go by, and they chatted and giggled with one another.

Outside the town a large, grass-grown place was pointed out, where the dwelling-wagons might stand. So they were all in a circle—twenty or more of them—from the big, two-horsed leading wagons, freshly painted, with dainty curtains, flower-pots, gilded decorations, bird-cages and carvings, to the rickety, home-made wagons, constructed of old boards, patched up with bits of canvas and sheet-iron, and drawn by a man and a dog.

And now the steaming dust-covered horses were unharnessed, the hay and straw—which had been pilfered or begged—spread out, fires were started, and preparations made for a hasty meal. It was a lively, bustling camp. Markus was there, too. His new scissors-cart with its window-glass stood beside Marjon's wagon glittering in the sunshine. He was thoughtfully walking around among the people with Johannes, exchanging greetings with everybody, and carrying on brief conversations. His raincoat and cap were packed away, but his coat and trousers were the same, for he had no others. He had on now a very broad-brimmed straw hat, such as can be purchased at the Fairs for two stuivers. Johannes much preferred to see him in this, and was pleased to note how the hat became his long, dark hair.

Wherever Markus came, things went better. Disputes filled the air, and shocking language was to be heard on every side, even from the lips of the children. But when Markus appeared they calmed down, and threats and quarrels were soon exorcised. Not having been seen in a long while, he was greeted with hearty exclamations of surprise, and with all sorts of questions which he answered jestingly.

"Hello, Vis! What have you been doing with yourself? Have you been under water?"

"At court, Dirk Volders. See what a fine present I have brought away." And he pointed out the new cart.

"Surely, you've been sharpening the coupon-scissors again, haven't you?"

"No, the nail-scissors, Dirk, and it's time to do it here."

Wherever Markus went, a troop of children followed him Without apparent reason, or any expectation of delicacies, always several children tagged untiringly after him, an hour at a time, clinging fast, with their dirty little hands, to a shred of his coat or a fold of his trousers. With earnest faces they listened to his words and watched his movements, quietly managing the while to usurp one another's place at the front. Whoever could catch hold of his coat held on. Wherever he went, the ragged, unwashed little ones, from under wagons and behind boxes, put in an appearance—trotting after, so as to be on hand. There was always a chance of his suddenly throwing himself down and telling a story to a dozen dirty little listeners. Their small mouths, all smeared and stained, were wide open with interest, and their hands, furnished with a bread-crust or an old doll, hung down motionless, as they listened in suspense. And no one had ever surprised Markus in a peevish or impatient word to his troublesome little admirers. Not one of the surly, scolding parents had ever been able to admit to a child that it was naughty enough for Markus, even, to send it away.

Johannes observed this with great admiration. At first it seemed to him wonderful—supernatural. A whimpering, naughty child became submissive, a troublesome one tractable, and rude, unmannerly, and passionate children went away composed and quiet. And how could any one remain patient under such a continual din, and tagged after by the dirtiest and the worst-behaved children in the world? But, listening and keenly scrutinizing, Johannes gradually came to understand the apparently incomprehensible. It was the power of the interest in them which performed the miracle. There was nothing concerning those neglected little waifs in which Markus did not evidence the keenest interest, and he gave it his fullest attention—sparing no trouble nor exertion. Thus the roving mind of the child was at the same time pacified and restrained, and reduced to a state favorable for guidance. But, however he himself might explain it, the parents who were unable to control their children maintained that Markus had something in his eyes, or in his fingers—a "magic," they called it—by which he ruled the children. And these convictions grew still more settled through the knowledge of the willing and blessed help he gave to the sick.

There prevailed among these people a great distrust of physicians, and the one grievance they had against Markus was that he too often (according to their views) referred the sick to the doctor and the hospital. "He can do it better himself," they thought. "He surely is afraid of getting into jail." Yet they begrudged the police the satisfaction of seeing him there. But they tried to induce Markus to help them in every illness—even that of a broken bone—without their having recourse to doctor or hospital. In cases where the sick body could do without the relief of costly attendance and technical apparatus, Markus did not refuse to help with his simple expedients. It was said that he was a healer, yet no one had ever seen or heard him pray beside a sick person. He sometimes sat for a long time, deep in thought, by the side of a sufferer who was restless, or in pain. He would lay his hand upon the head, or the affected part, or take the hand of the patient. This he would sometimes do hour after hour, and he seldom left without having reduced the pain and restlessness.

Johannes had already heard this related by Marjon, and now he also saw mothers bringing their crying infants to him for advice, and he gave eager attention to what Markus would say.

A baby screamed and wriggled like a worm, resisting vehemently, for it dreaded the light, and wanted to hide its affected eyes in the mother's arms. But Markus insisted on examining the poor little eyes. They were all stuck together with foulness, and were red and swollen.

Johannes expected nothing else than that Markus would anoint them and command them to open. But Markus said:

"That's a loathsome lot of stuff, mother. There is a good eye-clinic in Leyden. But there is also a good one here. Go to it soon—now—to-day."

The mother, a strong, bony woman, looked at him through her straggling hair, in an irresolute, dissatisfied way.

"Curse 'em—those quacks! You do it instead. You can do it just as well."

"I'll not do it, mother, positively. And think of it! If you do not go quickly, your child will surely be stark blind. Go! It is your duty to."

"How is it, Markus? Can't you do it, or don't you dare to, that you send me off to those murderers?"

Markus regarded her several moments, and then said, gently: "Mother, it is your own fault—you know it very well. I may not give you help, but it is not on account of the police. There in the town they will give you good advice. But go now, quickly, or the blindness of your child will be upon your conscience."

With a sullen look the woman turned away, and Johannes asked in a whisper: "Are these doctors more clever than Markus?"

"They know enough for this," said Markus, abruptly.

IV

In the heat of the afternoon the Fair-folk went to sleep. They lay snoring everywhere—on straw or heaps of rags, in ugly, ungainly postures. But the children continued in motion, and often here and there the sound of their teasing and crying could be heard.

Johannes strolled around dejectedly. To go and lie calmly down, to sleep between those vile men, as Markus did, was impossible. Rank odors pervaded everything, and he was afraid, too, of vermin. Should he go walk in the town park, or between the sunny polders? Although he was ashamed to run away, he could not remain in peace. Again that frightful feeling arose, of unfitness for his great task. He was too weak—too sensitive.

He thought, with a painful longing, of the cool, stately, and peaceful parlors in the houses of the town, with furniture neatly dusted by tidy maids. He thought, too, of Aunt Seréna and her pretty, old-fashioned house, and of her large, shady garden, where surely the raspberries were now ripe.

Strolling moodily along, he came upon the green wagon, and behold, there was Marjon, lying in peaceful sleep. She lay on a shaggy, red-and-yellow horse-blanket, and her lean arms and scrawny neck were bare. She was so still—her knees drawn up and her cheek in her hand—that one could not tell whether she was really sleeping, or lying awake with closed eyes.

The monkey sat close beside her in the hot sun, contentedly playing with a cocoanut.

Johannes felt touched, and went to sit down against the wheel of the wagon. Looking intently at the dear little girl, he thought over her troubled, wandering life.

In thinking of that he forgot his own grief; and from the depths of his discontent he passed over to a mood of tender melancholy full of compassion. And then there awakened in him words which he was careful to remember. He thought of a butterfly that he had once seen flying seaward over the strand; and thinking of Marjon he said to himself:

"Out to the sea a white butterfly passed—It looked at the sunshine, not at the shore; Now it must flutter in every blast, And may rest never more."

As he repeated those last words he was greatly moved, and tears coursed down his cheeks. He repeated the lines, over and over, adding new ones to them, and ended by losing himself wholly in this sweet play.

Thus the summer afternoon sped quickly, and Johannes went to the wagon for pencil and paper, to write down the thoughts which had come into his head. He was afraid they might escape.

"What are you doing?" asked Marjon, waking up. "Are you sketching me?"

"I am making verses," said Johannes.

Marjon had to see the verses, and when she had read them she wanted to sing them. Taking from the wagon a zither, she began to hum softly, while trying to find the chords. Johannes waited in suspense.

At last Marjon found a sad yet fervent melody, that sounded to Johannes like one well known to him of old; and together they sang the song:

"Out to the sea a white butterfly passed— It looked at the sun, but at the shore, never; Now it must flutter in every blast, Nor may rest, ever. "Oh, butterfly, little butterfly, Seeking everywhere for your valley fair, Never, ah, never again will you spy The shady dell, where sweet flow'rs dwell. "By wild winds driven out to sea, Floating on sunshine far from the shore, Evermore she a-wing now must be, And can rest, never. "Oh, butterfly, lovely butterfly! Through sunny blue, or shadowy grey, Never again shall you descry That leafy dell where the roses dwell."

The children sang it once, twice, three times through; for those who had been awakened listened and asked for a repetition. Like a sudden illumination of sense and soul there came to Johannes the consciousness of having done something good. The poor, vile, neglected people—adults and children—had listened. He had made it, and it had given him happiness; now it seemed also to afford these sorrowful people some pleasure. This made him glad. It was not much, but then he could do something.

Night came; the air grew cooler, a fresh wind blew in from the sea over the grassy polders, and a rosy mist hung over the dunes. The broad canal along which the camp lay was sparkling in the sunset light. Everywhere noises awoke, and from the town came the twilight sounds of hand-organs and the rattling of carts.

The Fair-people formed a ring, and, eager for more music, besought Markus to play for them.

Markus took a harmonica, and played all kinds of tunes. Men and women, squatting down, or prone upon the ground, chin in hand, listened with great earnestness; and when the children, talking or loitering, and paying no attention to the music, came up to their parents, they were impatiently sent off.

When Markus stopped, a man cried out in a husky voice: "Come, boys, let's sing something—The Song of the Poor Customers."

Instantly, they all fell in obediently—Markus striking the key-note—and sang the following song:

"We coatless wand'rers without land,— We are poor customers. He who more dollars has than wits,— 'Tis he may loll around. Tho' high we jump, or low we jump We're bound to lose the game. With empty stomachs we must dance,— Our Ruler is the dollar. "In olden times the King was boss, To rack us for our sins; But now he's only a figure-head, And has his own boss found. Whoever crown, or scepter bears, And gorgeous raiment wears,— Tho' he jump high, or jump less high, He's ruled by the dollar. "Before his men the General stands And tells 'em how to kill. The dapper heroes—one and all— Make haste to do his will. Yet, in his 'broidered uniform, The dickens! what commands he? Tho' he jump high or jump less high Th' Commander is—The Dollar. "Where lies our land? where spreads our roof? We live by favor, only. To them who have but pelf in pocket We show our arts and tricks. But if at last we come to grief There yet is something for us,— The fill of our mouths, a tasteful cover, And a nook that's all our own."

When the last word of the song had died away, the husky voice cried: "You might as well say, while you are about it, that the churchyards are emptied out every tenth year."

"Every twentieth!" cried another.

"Children," said Markus, setting his instrument upon the ground between his feet, "children, now listen to me. We have been singing of money, and of those who had more money than sense; but have you more sense than money? What is it you have that is better than either?"

"Only give me the money," cried the husky voice.

"And me!" cried the other.

"I would sooner give money to the monkey, who would throw it into the water, and not get tipsy with it," said Markus.

"Children," he continued, and gradually Johannes heard that deep ring in his voice, which riveted attention and caused an inner thrill, "where there is gold without sense, there will be misery; and where there is sense, there will be prosperity. For wisdom will not lack for gold.

"You truly are poor wretches—ill-treated and deceived.

"But nobody receives what is not his due. So do not rage and curse about it.

"He who is wise is strong, and cannot be ill-treated. The wise one cannot be deceived. The wise one is good, and neither steals nor lets himself be stolen from.

"You are weak and foolish; therefore you are deceived.

"But you cannot help it, poor children. I know it well; for the children suffer because of what parents and grandparents have done.

"But yet nobody receives what he does not deserve.

"We suffer for our parents and grandparents. Do not call that unjust. The wise ones love their parents, and will redeem their wrong-doing.

"And we can all make amends for what our parents did amiss. Yes, we can make amends to our parents—even now that they are dead.

"The grave is not a snare, children, for catching soul-birds. Father and mother are living still, and are benefited through our efforts.

"Make your little ones good, then, for you will have need of them. Yes, those who die like the dumb beasts—like the harlots and drunkards—even they will find good children most needful.

"And no one can complain who fails of the expiation of the good children, nor is there any one who with their help cannot grow wiser.

"If two travelers, wandering at night in the cold—the one having wood, the other matches—do not understand each other, both will suffer and be lost in the dark.

"And if two shipwrecked people have between them a single cocoanut, and one takes the milk and the other the meat, then they both will perish—one from hunger, the other from thirst.

"So, also, with wisdom; and no one lives upon the earth who can be wise alone."

Markus' voice rang loud and clear, and it was as still as death in the sultry field, among those ragged people. For a time he was silent, and Johannes was so moved he was softly weeping; although he by no means accurately understood the meaning of the discourse.

Finally, the husky voice sounded again, but now more gently:

"I'll be darned if I can make head or tail of it; but I take it for truth."

"Children," said Markus, "you are not bound to understand, and you are not bound to believe me; but will you, for my sake, remember it, word for word, and teach it to your children? Then I will be grateful to you."

Softly rang the voices here and there: "Yes—yes, indeed!"

"Will you not play some more?" asked a young girl with large, dark eyes.

"Yes, I will play, and then you can dance," said Markus, nodding kindly.

Then he took a violin from one of the musicians and began to play for the dancing—such fine music that the promenaders upon the street along the canal stood still, and remained to listen. A magistrate, who often played piano and violin duets with his friend the notary, remarked that there must be a veritable Zigeuner among the Fair-folk, since he only could play in such a manner.

Then, forming a large circle, the people began to dance. The men, holding the maidens with stiff right arms under the armpits, whirled them around in an awkward, woodeny way. They kept it up until the perspiration streamed from their red, earnest faces. The children and their parents sat around. Occasionally, also, songs were sung. There was a good deal of laughing, and they all enjoyed themselves greatly.

In the midst of their jollity, two breathless children came running in. The larger was a little girl of eight years, with a dirty little cherub-face, haloed with flaxen ringlets. She had on an old pair of boy's trousers, held up by suspenders, and falling quite down to her little bare feet, so that in running so fast she nearly tripped in them. "The cops!" cried the child, panting, and the little one cried after her: "The cops!"

Johannes scarcely comprehended the full import of this word; but it had the effect upon the group which the appearance of a hawk in the upper air has upon a flock of tomtits, or of sparrows.

The presence of one or two watchmen, or policemen, on the road in front of the camp was nothing unusual; but now they were coming in greater numbers, and conducted by a dignified official in a black coat, and with a walking-stick and eye-glasses—the mayor, perchance! With that heroic tread which indicates an exalted sense of duty he led his men upon the scene. The music and noisy demonstrations were struck dumb, the dancing stopped, and everybody looked toward the road whence the common danger menaced. Each asked himself who most probably would be the victim; or considered the possibility of a harmless retreat from the neighborhood. Johannes alone thought nothing specially about it, not comprehending the extraordinary concern of the others.

But, behold! After the policemen and the presumptive mayor had stood a while at the entrance to the camp, asking information, they came straight up to Marjon's wagon. They soon had their eyes on Marjon and Johannes, and Johannes at once felt that the affair concerned himself. He felt wretchedly ashamed, and, although he could not remember any evil deed, he felt as if he certainly must have done something very wrong, and that now the law—the Law, had come to get him, and to punish him.

"Jimminy, Johnnie! Now you're in a pickle!" said Marjon. "She's got you in a hole."

"Who?" asked Johannes, all at sea, and turning pale.

"Well, that furious aunt of yours, of course."

Johannes heard his name called, and he was requested to go with them. While he was hesitating, in miserable silence, Marjon's sister began scolding, in a sharp voice.

But the policemen acted as if they did not hear her, and the chief began, in a kindly, admonitory tone: "Young man, you are a minor—you must obey the orders of your family. Here you are not in your own station. Your aunt is a very nice and excellent lady. You will be much better off with her than you are here. Your aunt is influential, and you must do what she says. That is the wisest way."

In his uncertainty, Johannes looked round at Markus and asked:

"What shall I do?"

Gravely, without any consolation in the look he gave him, Markus said: "Do you think, Johannes, that I shall tell you every time what you ought to do? That would not make you any wiser. Do what seems to you best, and do not be afraid."

"Come, boy, this isn't a matter of choice," said the gentleman with the cane. "You can't stay, and that's the end of it."

And when Johannes started to follow, Marjon threw herself upon his shoulder, and began to cry. The Fair-people drew together in groups, muttering.

But Johannes did not cry. He was thinking of his Aunt Seréna's tidy house, and of the fresh, spacious chamber with its large bed curtained with green serge, and of the big bed-tassel.

"Cheer up, Marjon," said he. "I'll not forget you. Good-by till we meet again."

And with the three officials he went his way to Vrede-best, often turning round to look at the camp, and to wave his hand at the weeping Marjon.

V

"Well, well, Master Johannes!" said Daatje, the old servant, as she thrust the heated bed-pan between the fresh linen sheets. "Truly, that was a blessed escape for you; like getting out of purgatory into paradise—away from those vile people to be with our mistress. That was fortunate, indeed. My! My!"

Damp sheets are dangerous, even in midsummer, and Daatje had been drilled very strictly by her mistress in caring for the comfort of guests.

Daatje wore a snow-white cap and a purple cotton gown. Her face was wrinkled, and her hands and arms were still more so. She had been an astonishingly long time in Aunt Seréna's service—perhaps forty years—and lost no opportunity clearly to prove to Johannes what an excellent being his aunt was: always polite and kind, always ready to assist, a blessing to the poor, a refuge for every one in the neighborhood, adored by all who knew her, and pure as an angel.

"She is converted," said Daatje, "yes, truly converted. Ask whoever you please; like her there are not many living."

Johannes perceived that "converted" meant "very good." According to Daatje, the natural man was not good, and it was necessary for every one to be converted before he was fit for anything. For a long time before falling asleep, while looking around the big, quiet bedroom, Johannes lay thinking over these things. A night-light was spluttering in a glass filled with equal parts of water and oil. As soon as the flame was lighted, behind the milk-white, translucent shade appeared strange, dreamy landscapes—formed by the unequal thicknesses.

The chamber had an ancient, musty odor, and all the furniture bore an old-fashioned stateliness. There was a queer pattern upon the green bed-curtains, distressing to see; like half-opened eyes, alternately squinting. The big bed-tassel hung down from above in dogged dignity, like the tail of a lion keeping watch up above, on the canopy of the four-poster.

Johannes felt very comfortable, yet there was something uncanny around him that he did not quite relish. Once, it really seemed to be the ponderous linen-chest of dark wood, with its big, brass-handled drawers, upon which stood, under a bell-glass, a basket filled with wax fruit. What the pictures represented could not be seen in the dim light, but they were in the secret too, as was also the night-stand with its crocheted cover, and the fearfully big four-poster.

Every half-hour "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" rang through the house, as if those out in the hall and in the vestibule were also in the secret; the only one left out being the little fellow in clean underclothes and a night-gown much too big for him, who lay there, wide awake, looking around him. In the midst of all these solid, important, and dignified things, he was a very odd and out-of-place phenomenon. He felt that, in a polite way, he was being made sport of. Besides, it remained to be seen whether, after his more or less unmannerly adventures, he could ever be taken into confidence. Evidently the entire house was, if not precisely hostile, yet in a very unfriendly attitude. He kept his eye upon the bed-tassel, all ready to see the lion wag his tail. In order to do that, however, he must surely first become "converted," just like Aunt Seréna.

When the day dawned, this new life became more pleasant than he had anticipated. Aunt Seréna presided at the breakfast, which consisted of tea, fresh rolls, currant buns, sweet, dark rye-bread, and pulverized aniseed. Upon the pier-tables, bright with sunshine, stood jars of Japanese blue-ware, filled with great, round bouquets of roses, mignonette, and variegated, ornamental grasses. The long glass doors stood open, and the odor of new-mown grass streamed in from the garden to the room, which was already deliciously fragrant with the roses and mignonette, and the fine tea.

Aunt Seréna made no allusion to the foregoing day, nor to the death of Johannes' father. She was full of kindly attentions, and interrogated him affably, yet in a very resolute manner, concerning what he had learned at school, and asked who had given him religious instruction. It was now vacation time, and he might rest a little longer, and enjoy himself; but then would come the school again and the catechism.

Until now Johannes had had small satisfaction out of his solemn resolution to value men more highly in order to live with them in a well-disposed way. But this time he was more at ease. The nice, cool house, the sunshine, the sweet smells, the flowers, the fresh rolls, everything put him in good humor; and when Aunt Seréna herself was so in harmony with her surroundings, he was soon prepared to see her in the light of Daatje's glorification. He gazed confidingly into the gleaming glasses of her spectacles, and he also helped her carry the big, standing work-basket, out of which she drew the bright-colored worsteds for her embroidery—a very extensive and everlasting piece of work.

But the garden! It was a wonder—the joy of his new life. After being released by his aunt until the hour for coffee, he raced into it like a young, unleashed hound—hunting out all the little lanes, paths, flower-plots, arbors, knolls, and the small pool; and then he felt almost as if in Windekind's realm again. A shady avenue was there which made two turns, thus seeming to be very long. There were paths between thick lilac-bushes already in bloom; and there were mock-oranges, still entirely covered with exceedingly fragrant white flowers. There was a small, artificial hill in that garden, with a view toward the west, over the adjacent nursery. Aunt Seréna was fond of viewing a fine sunset, and often came to the seat on the hilltop. There was a plot of roses, very fragrant, and as big as a plate. There were vivid, fiery red poppies with woolly stems, deep blue larkspurs, purple columbines, tall hollyhocks, like wrinkled paper, with their strange, strong odor. There were long rows of saxifrage, a pair of dark brown beeches; and everywhere, as exquisite surprises, fruit trees—apples, pears, plums, medlars, dogberries, and hazel-nuts—scattered among the trees which bore no fruit.

Indeed, the world did not now seem so bad, after all. A human being—a creature admirably and gloriously perfect—a human dwelling filled with attractive objects, and, close beside, a charming imitation of Windekind's realm, in which to repose. And all in the line of duty, with no departure from the prescribed path. Assuredly, Johannes had looked only on the dark side of life. To confess this was truly mortifying.

Towards twelve o'clock Daatje was heard in the cool kitchen, noisily grinding coffee, and Johannes ventured just a step into her domain, where, on all sides, the copper utensils were shining. In a little courtyard, some bird-cages were hanging against the ivy-covered walls. One large cage contained a skylark. He sat, with upraised beak and fixed gaze, on a little heap of grass. Above him, at the top of the cage, was stretched a white cloth.

"That's for his head," said Daatje, "if he should happen to forget he was in a cage, and try to fly into the air."

Next to this, in tiny cages, were finches. They hopped back and forth, back and forth, from one perch to another. That was all the room they had; and there they cried, "Pink! Pink!" Now and then one of them would sing a full strain. Thus it went the whole day long.

"They are blind," said Daatje. "They sing finer so."

"Why?" asked Johannes.

"Well, boy, they can't see, then, whether it is morning or evening, and so they keep on singing."

"Are you converted, too, Daatje?" asked Johannes.

"Yes, Master Johannes, that grace is mine. I know where I'm going to. Not many can say that after me."

"Who besides you?"

"Well, I, and our mistress, and Dominie Kraalboom."

"Does a converted person keep on doing wrong?"

"Wrong? Now I've got you! No, indeed! I can do no more wrong. It's more wrong even if you stand on your head to save your feet. But don't run through the kitchen now with those muddy shoes. The foot-scraper is in the yard. This is not a runway, if you please."

The luncheon was not less delicious: fresh, white bread, smoked beef, cake and cheese, and very fragrant coffee, whose aroma filled the entire house. Aunt Seréna talked about church-going, about the choosing of a profession, and about pure and honest living. Johannes, being in a kindly mood, and inclined to acquiescence, avoided argument.

In the afternoon, as he sat dreaming in the shady avenue of lindens, Aunt Seréna came bringing a tray, bearing a cooky and a glass of cherry-brandy.

At half-past five came dinner. Daatje was an excellent cook, and dishes which were continually recurring on stated days were particularly well prepared. Vermicelli soup, with forced-meat balls, minced veal and cabbage, middlings pudding with currant juice: that was the first meal, later often recalled. Aunt Seréna asked a blessing and returned thanks, and Johannes, with lowered eyes and head a little forward, appeared, from the movement of his lips, to be doing a little of the same thing.

Through the long twilight, Aunt Seréna and Johannes sat opposite each other, each one in front of a reflector. Aunt Seréna was thrifty, and, since the street lantern threw its light into the room, she was not in a hurry to burn her own oil. Only the unpretending little light for the making of the tea was glimmering behind the panes of milk-white glass—with landscapes not unlike those upon the night-light.

In complete composure, with folded hands, sat Aunt Seréna in the dusk, making occasional remarks, until Daatje came to inquire "if the mistress did not wish to make ready for the evening." Then Daatje wound up the patent lamp, causing it to give out a sound as if it were being strangled. A quarter of an hour later it was regulated, and, as soon as the cozy, round ring of light shone over the red table-cover, Aunt Seréna said, in the most contented way: "Now we have the dear little lamp again!"

At half-past ten there was a sandwich and a glass of milk for Johannes. Daatje stood ready with the candle, and, upstairs, the night-light, the chest of drawers with the wax fruit, the green bed-curtains, and the impressive bed-tassel were waiting for him. Johannes also descried something new—a big Bible—upon his night-table. There was no appearance yet of any attempt at a reconciliation on the part of the furniture. The cuckoo continued to address himself exclusively to the stilly darkness, in absolute disregard of Johannes; but the latter did not trouble himself so very much about it, and soon fell fast asleep.

The morning differed but little from the foregoing one. Some Bibles were lying ready upon the breakfast-table. Daatje came in, took her place majestically, folded her half-bare wrinkled arms—and Aunt Seréna read aloud. The day before, Aunt Seréna had made a departure from this, her custom, uncertain how Johannes would take it; but, having found the boy agreeable and polite, she intended now to resume the readings. She read a chapter of Isaiah, full of harsh denunciations which seemed to please Daatje immensely. The latter wore a serious look, her lips pressed close together, occasionally nodding her head in approval, while she sniffed resolutely. Johannes found it very disconcerting, and could not, with his best endeavors, keep his attention fixed. He was listening to the twittering of the starlings on the roof, and the cooing of a wood-dove in the beech tree.

In front of him he saw a steel engraving, representing a young woman, clad in a long garment, clinging with outstretched arms to a big stone cross that stuck up out of a restless waste of waters. Rays of light were streaming down from above, and the young person was looking trustfully up into them. The inscription below the engraving read, "The Rock of Ages," and Johannes was deep in speculation as to how the young lady had gotten there, and especially how she was to get away from there. It was not to be expected that she could long maintain herself in that uncomfortable position—surely not for ages. That refuge looked like a peculiarly precarious one; unless, indeed, something better might be done with those rays of light.

Upon the same wall hung a motto, drawn in colored letters, amid a superfluity of flowers and butterflies, saying: "The Lord is my Shepherd. I shall not want."

This awakened irreverent thoughts in Johannes' mind. When the Bible-reading was over, he was suddenly moved to make a remark.

"Aunt Seréna," said he, conscious of a rising color, and feeling rather giddy on account of his boldness, "is it only because the Lord is your Shepherd that you do not lack for anything?"

But he had made a bad break.

Aunt Seréna's face took on a severe expression, and adjusting her spectacles somewhat nervously, she said: "I willingly admit, dear Johannes, that in many respects I have been blessed beyond my deserts; but ought not you to know—you who had such a good and well-informed father—that it is very unbecoming in young people to pass judgment, thoughtlessly, upon the lives of older ones, when they know nothing either of their trials or of their blessings?"

Johannes sat there, deeply abashed, suddenly finding himself to be a silly, saucy boy.

But Daatje stood up, and in a manner peculiarly her own—bending a little, arms akimbo—said, with great emphasis: "I'll tell you what, mistress! you're too good. He ought to have a spanking—on the bare spanking place, too!" And forthwith she went to the kitchen.

VI

There were regularly recurring changes in Aunt Seréna's life. In the first place, the going to church. That was the great event of the week; and the weekly list of services and of the officiating clergymen was devoutly discussed. Then the lace cap, with its silk strings, was exchanged for a bonnet with a gauze veil; and Daatje was careful to have the church books, mantle, and gloves ready, in good reason. Nearly always Daatje went also; if not, then the sermon was repeated to her in detail.

Johannes accompanied his aunt with docility, and tried, not without a measure of success, to appreciate the discourse.

The visits of Minister Kraalboom were not less important. Johannes saw, with amazement, that his aunt, at other times so stately and estimable, now almost humbled herself in reverent and submissive admiration. She treated this man, in whom Johannes could see no more than a common, kindly gentleman, with a head of curling grey hair, and with round, smoothly shaven cheeks, as if he belonged to a higher order of beings; and the adored one accepted her homage with candid readiness. The most delicious things the aunt had, in fine wines, cakes, and liqueurs, were set before him; and, as the minister was a great smoker, Daatje had a severe struggle with herself after every visit, between her respect for the servant of the Lord and her detestation of scattered ashes, stumps of cigars, and tobacco-smelling curtains.

Once a week there was a "Krans," or sewing circle, and then came Aunt Seréna's lady friends. They were more or less advanced in years, but all of them very unprepossessing women, among whom Aunt Seréna, with her erect figure and fine, pale face, made a very good appearance; and she was clearly regarded as a leader. Puff-cakes were offered, and warm wine or "milk-tea" was poured. The aim of the gatherings was charitable. Talking busily, the friends made a great many utterly useless, and, for the most part, tasteless, articles: patchwork quilts, anti-macassars, pin-cushions, flower-pot covers, picture frames of dried grasses, and all that sort of thing. Then a lottery, or "tombola,"[1] as it was called, was planned for. Every one had to dispose of tickets, and the proceeds were given, sometimes to a poor widow, sometimes to a hospital, but more often, however, to the cause of missions.

On such evenings Johannes sat, silent, in his corner, with one of the illustrated periodicals of which his aunt had a large chestful. He listened to the conversation, endeavoring to think it noble and amiable; and he looked, also, at the trifling fingers. No one interfered with him, and he drank his warm wine and ate his cake, content to be left in peace; for he felt attracted toward none of the flowers composing this human wreath.

But Aunt Seréna did not consider her duty accomplished in these ways alone. She went out from them to busy herself in parish calls on various households—rich as well as poor—wherever she thought she could do any good. It was a great satisfaction to Johannes when, at his request that he be allowed to go with her, she replied: "Certainly, dear boy; why not?"

Johannes accompanied her this first time under great excitement. Now he was going to be initiated into ways of doing and being good. This was a fine chance.

So they set out together, Johannes carrying a large satchel containing bags of rice, barley, sugar, and split peas. For the sick there were jars of smoked beef and a flask of wine.

They first went to see Vrouw Stok, who lived not far away, in French Lane. Vrouw Stok evidently counted upon such a visit, and she was extremely voluble. According to her statements, one would say that no nobler being dwelt upon earth than Aunt Seréna, and no nicer, more grateful, and contented creature than Vrouw Stok. And Dominie Kraalboom also was lavishly praised.

After that, they went to visit the sick, in reeking little rooms in dreary back streets. And everywhere they met with reiterations of gratitude and pleasure from the recipients, together with unanimous praising of Aunt Seréna, until Johannes several times felt the tears gather in his eyes. The barley and the split peas were left where they would be of use, as were also the wine and the jars of smoked beef.

Johannes and his aunt returned home very well pleased. Aunt Seréna was rejoiced over her willing and appreciative votary, and Johannes over this well-conducted experiment in philanthropy. If this were to be the way, all would be well. In a high state of enthusiasm he sped to the garden to dream away the quiet afternoon amid the richly laden raspberry-bushes.

"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."