ially in the case
of sonnets, rhymes, which are stubborn and remorseless things, must be
found and arranged. The pivot and object of this particular poem was a
certain notable Spanish beauty, Isabella d'Ovanda by name. She was the
wife of a decrepit but exceedingly noble Spaniard, who might almost
have been her grandfather, and who had been sent as one of a commission
appointed by King Philip II. to inquire into certain financial matters
connected with the Netherlands.

This grandee, who, as it happened, was a very industrious and
conscientious person, among other cities, had visited Leyden in order to
assess the value of the Imperial dues and taxes. The task did not take
him long, because the burghers rudely and vehemently declared that under
their ancient charter they were free from any Imperial dues or taxes
whatsoever, nor could the noble marquis's arguments move them to a more
rational view. Still, he argued for a week, and during that time his
wife, the lovely Isabella, dazzled the women of the town with her
costumes and the men with her exceedingly attractive person.

Especially did she dazzle the romantic Adrian; hence the poetry. On the
whole the rhymes went pretty well, though there were difficulties, but
with industry he got round them. Finally the sonnet, a high-flown and
very absurd composition, was completed.

By now it was time to eat; indeed, there are few things that make a man
hungrier than long-continued poetical exercise, so Adrian ate. In the
midst of the meal his mother returned, pale and anxious-faced, for the
poor woman had been engaged in making arrangements for the safety of the
beggared widow of the martyred Jansen, a pathetic and even a dangerous
task. In his own way Adrian was fond of his mother, but being a selfish
puppy he took but little note of her cares or moods. Therefore, seizing
the opportunity of an audience he insisted upon reading to her his
sonnet, not once but several times.

"Very pretty, my son, very pretty," murmured Lysbeth, through whose
bewildered brain the stilted and meaningless words buzzed like bees in
an empty hive, "though I am sure I cannot guess how you find the heart
in such times as these to write poetry to fine ladies whom you do not
know."

"Poetry, mother," said Adrian sententiously, "is a great consoler; it
lifts the mind from the contemplation of petty and sordid cares."

"Petty and sordid cares!" repeated Lysbeth wonderingly, then she added
with a ki