e went back to the room, sat down and, this time, was unable to
stifle her sigh. She sighed. The old man heard, but did not know how to
ask her why she was sighing. For years, for long years, there had been
so little said between them. Only now, this spring, when Henri's letter
came, they had spoken, but not much. A couple of days after receiving
the letter, the old man said:

"I will write to him."

And that was really the only thing that had been said. But they had not
lived so many years in silence, side by side, without learning to hear
each other speak though both were silent. They knew, without speaking,
what either said, silently in his heart. Only now, though the old man
himself was thinking of Henri that night, he did not know what his wife
was saying to him, silently, without words, in that one sigh; and this
was because he did not read that strange book and never heard the
strange voices. Therefore he sought for a word to say and found it very
difficult to find a word, but at last he did speak and said, simply:

"What is it?"

He did not look up, went on reading his book as he spoke.

Then the old woman's aching feet fidgeted still more nervously on their
stool; the bent shoulders shivered more nervously under their little
black shawl; and she began to cry, softly.

"Come, what is it?"

He pretended to go on reading his book, because talking and crying were
so difficult, and because it was easier to pretend to go on reading.

The old woman said, because his old voice had spoken gently:

"I should like to go to Henri, to-morrow."

Now they were both silent; and the old man went on reading; and the old
woman, waiting for his answer, ceased crying, ceased moving her feet,
her shoulders. And, after a silence, the old man said:

"Take Piet with you, then, to help you."

She nodded her head; and the tears flowed from her eyes, while she drew
her book to her, inwardly pleased that he had said so much and said it
so kindly. She sighed once more, this time with relief, and read on. But
her eyes did not see the words, because she was thinking that to-morrow
she would be going with Piet, the butler, in the train--in which she had
not been for years and years--to the Hague, to see Henri.

"Go!" the voice had said. "Go!" the voice had commanded.

And she was going. It had come at last, come so near that it would be
there to-morrow: not that Henri was coming to her, but that she was
going to Henri, to kiss