not help noticing the cheerful, comfortable aspect of the place. An
atmosphere of happiness breathed upon him as he opened the door. Dame
Brinker sat complacently knitting beside the bed, her husband was
enjoying a tranquil slumber, and Gretel was noiselessly kneading rye
bread on the table in the corner.

The doctor did not remain long. He asked a few simple questions,
appeared satisfied with the answers, and after feeling his patient's
pulse, said, "Ah, very weak yet, jufvrouw. Very weak, indeed. He must
have nourishment. You may begin to feed the patient. Ahem! Not too much,
but what you do give him let it be strong and of the best."

"Black bread, we have, mynheer, and porridge," replied Dame Brinker
cheerily. "They have always agreed with him well."

"Tut, tut!" said the doctor, frowning. "Nothing of the kind. He must
have the juice of fresh meat, white bread, dried and toasted, good
Malaga wine, and--ahem! The man looks cold. Give him more covering,
something light and warm. Where is the boy?"

"Hans, mynheer, has gone into Broek to look for work. He will be back
soon. Will the meester please be seated?"

Whether the hard polished stool offered by Dame Brinker did not look
particularly tempting, or whether the dame herself frightened him,
partly because she was a woman, and partly because an anxious,
distressed look had suddenly appeared in her face, I cannot say. Certain
it is that our eccentric doctor looked hurriedly about him, muttered
something about "an extraordinary case," bowed, and disappeared before
Dame Brinker had time to say another word.

Strange that the visit of their good benefactor should have left a
cloud, yet so it was. Gretel frowned, an anxious, childish frown, and
kneaded the bread dough violently without looking up. Dame Brinker
hurried to her husband's bedside, leaned over him, and fell into silent
but passionate weeping.

In a moment Hans entered.

"Why, Mother," he whispered in alarm, "what ails thee? Is the father
worse?"

She turned her quivering face toward him, making no attempt to conceal
her distress.

"Yes. He is starving--perishing. A meester said it."

Hans turned pale.

"What does this mean, Mother? We must feed him at once. Here, Gretel,
give me the porridge."

"Nay!" cried his mother, distractedly, yet without raising her voice.
"It may kill him. Our poor fare is too heavy for him. Oh, Hans, he will
die--the father will DIE, if we use him this way. He must h