nd cellar, and
she--she only stood in the way of her husband's fulfilling his duties to
the city and state.

Such were her thoughts, when the knocker again struck the door. She
approached the window. It was the doctor. Bessie had grown worse and she,
her mother, had not even inquired for the little one.

"The children, the children!" she murmured; her sorrowful features
brightened, and her heart grew lighter as she said to herself:

"I promised Peter to treat them as if they were my own, and I will fulfil
the duties I have undertaken." Full of joyous excitement, she entered the
sick-room, hastily closing the door behind her. Doctor Bontius looked at
her with a reproving glance, and Barbara said:

"Gently, gently! Bessie is just sleeping a little." Maria approached the
bed, but the physician waved her back, saying:

"Have you had the purple-fever?"

"No."

"Then you ought not to enter this room again. No other help is needed
where Frau Barbara nurses."

The burgomaster's wife made no reply, and returned to the entry. Her
heart was so heavy, so unutterably heavy. She felt like a stranger in her
husband's house. Some impulse urged her to go out of doors, and as she
wrapped her mantle around her and went downstairs, the smell of leather
rising from the bales piled in layers on the lower story, which she had
scarcely noticed before, seemed unendurable. She longed for her mother,
her friends in Delft, and her quiet, cheerful home. For the first time
she ventured to call herself unhappy and, while walking through the
streets with downcast eyes against the wind, struggled vainly to resist
some mysterious, gloomy power, that compelled her to minutely recall
everything that had resulted differently from her expectations.

CHAPTER VIII.

After the musician had left the burgomaster's house, he went to young
Herr Matanesse Van Wibisma's aunt to get his cloak, which had not been
returned to him. He did not usually give much heed to his dress, yet he
was glad that the rain kept people in the house, for the outgrown wrap on
his shoulders was by no means pleasing in appearance. Wilhelm must
certainly have looked anything but well-clad, for as he stood in old
Fraulein Van Hoogstraten's spacious, stately hall, the steward Belotti
received him as patronizingly as if he were a beggar.

But the Neopolitan, in whose mouth the vigorous Dutch sounded like the
rattling in the throat of a chilled singer, speedily took a differe