ry of whom the fairy tales spoke, and it often seemed as if she were
far too delicate, dainty and charming for her simple, unpretending home.
To see her smile rendered the boy happy, and when she looked sad--a thing
that often happened-it made his heart ache. Merciful Heavens! She
certainly could not receive him kindly when she saw his doublet, the
ruffles thrust into his pocket, and his unlucky stockings.

And then!

There were the bells ringing again!

The dinner hour had long since passed, and his father waited for no one.
Whoever came too late must go without, unless Aunt Barbara took
compassion on him in the kitchen.

But what was the use of pondering and hesitating? Adrian summoned up all
his courage, clenched his teeth, clasped his right hand still closer
around the torn ruffles in his pocket, and struck the knocker loudly on
the steel plate beneath.

Trautchen, the old maid-servant, opened the door, and in the spacious,
dusky entrance-hall, where the bales of leather were packed closely
together, did not notice the dilapidation of his outer man.

He hurried swiftly up the stairs.

The dining-room door was open, and--marvellous--the table was still
untouched, his father must have remained at the town-hall longer than
usual.

Adrian rushed with long leaps to his little attic room, dressed himself
neatly, and entered the presence of his family before the master of the
house had asked the blessing.

The doublet and stocking could be confided to the hands of Aunt Barbara
or Trautchen, at some opportune hour.

Adrian sturdily attacked the smoking dishes; but his heart soon grew
heavy, for his father did not utter a word, and gazed into vacancy as
gravely and anxiously as at the time when misery entered the beleaguered
city.

The boy's young step-mother sat opposite her husband, and often glanced
at Peter Van der Werff's grave face to win a loving glance from him.

Whenever she did so in vain, she pushed her soft, golden hair back from
her forehead, raised her beautiful head higher, or bit her lips and gazed
silently into her plate.

In reply to Aunt Barbara's questions: "What happened at the council? Has
the money for the new bell been collected? Will Jacob Van Sloten rent you
the meadow?" he made curt, evasive replies.

The steadfast man, who sat so silently with frowning brow among his
family, sometimes attacking the viands on his plate, then leaving them
untouched, did not look like one who yields