at Volendam. It was a fishing village, only three
miles across country from Monnickendam, but the route, by steam tram and
canal, was so circuitous, that, with luggage, it took one two hours to
get from place to place. He had walked over there with Valentia, and it
had almost tempted them to desert Monnickendam. Ferdinand took a room at
the hotel and walked out, trying to distract himself. The village
consisted of a couple of score of houses, built round a semi-circular
dyke against the sea, and in the semi-circle lay the fleet of fishing
boats. Men and women were sitting at their doors mending nets. He looked
at the fishermen, great, sturdy fellows, with rough, weather-beaten
faces, huge earrings dangling from their ears. He took note of their
quaint costume--black stockings and breeches, the latter more baggy than
a Turk's, and the crushed strawberry of their high jackets, cut close to
the body. He remembered how he had looked at them with Valentia, and the
group of boys and men that she had sketched. He remembered how they
walked along, peeping into the houses, where everything was spick and
span, as only a Dutch cottage can be, with old Delft plates hanging on
the walls, and pots and pans of polished brass. And he looked over the
sea to the island of Marken, with its masts crowded together, like a
forest without leaf or branch. Coming to the end of the little town he
saw the church of Monnickendam, the red steeple half-hidden by the
trees. He wondered where Valentia was--what she was doing.

But he turned back resolutely, and, going to his room, opened his books
and began reading. He rubbed his eyes and frowned, in order to fix his
attention, but the book said nothing but Valentia. At last he threw it
aside and took his Plato and his dictionary, commencing to translate a
difficult passage, word for word. But whenever he looked up a word he
could only see Valentia, and he could not make head or tail of the
Greek. He threw it aside also, and set out walking. He walked as hard as
he could--away from Monnickendam.

The second day was not quite so difficult, and he read till his mind was
dazed, and then he wrote letters home and told them he was enjoying
himself tremendously, and he walked till he felt his legs dropping off.

Next morning it occurred to him that Valentia might have written.
Trembling with excitement, he watched the postman coming down the
street--but he had no letter for Ferdinand. There would be no mor