rs in the Netherlands in those days
must walk from year to year through a valley of shadows so grim that our
imagination can scarcely picture them.

"Sixty hours and he is not back," Lysbeth was saying.

"Martin said we were not to trouble ourselves before they had been gone
for a hundred," answered Dirk consolingly.

Just then Foy, surveying them from the shadowed doorway, stepped
forward, saying in his jovial voice:

"Sixty hours to the very minute."

Lysbeth uttered a little scream of joy and ran forward. Elsa let the
book fall on to the floor and rose to do the same, then remembered and
stood still, while Dirk remained where he was till the women had done
their greetings, betraying his delight only by a quick rubbing of his
hands. Adrian alone did not look particularly pleased, not, however,
because he retained any special grudge against his brother for his share
in the fracas of a few nights before, since, when once his furious gusts
of temper had passed, he was no malevolently minded man. Indeed he was
glad that Foy had come back safe from his dangerous adventure, only
he wished that he would not blunder into the bedroom and interrupt his
delightful occupation of listening, while the beautiful Elsa read him
romance and poetry.

Since Foy was gone upon his mission, Adrian had been treated with the
consideration which he felt to be his due. Even his stepfather had taken
the opportunity to mumble some words of regret for what had happened,
and to express a hope that nothing more would be said about the matter,
while his mother was sympathetic and Elsa most charming and attentive.
Now, as he knew well, all this would be changed. Foy, the exuberant,
unrefined, plain-spoken, nerve-shaking Foy, would become the centre of
attention, and overwhelm them with long stories of very dull exploits,
while Martin, that brutal bull of a man who was only fit to draw a cart,
would stand behind and play the part of chorus, saying "Ja" and "Neen"
at proper intervals. Well, he supposed that he must put up with it, but
oh! what a weariness it was.

Another minute, and Foy was wringing him by the hand, saying in his loud
voice, "How are you, old fellow? You look as well as possible, what are
you lying in this bed for and being fed with pap by the women?"

"For the love of Heaven, Foy," interrupted Adrian, "stop crushing my
fingers and shaking me as though I were a rat. You mean it kindly, I
know, but--" and Adrian dropped back up