course.

"Papa, you were going to tell us something about Olivier van Noort."

She arose, wiped off her little skirt and fetched Walter another
spoon from the buffet.

"Yes, papa, Olivier van Noort! You promised it, papa."

All urged him to tell the story. Even Mevrouw Holsma manifested great
interest in it. Walter was aware that this conversation was intended
to cover up his accident. He was moved; for he was not accustomed to
anything like this. As Sietske took her seat again she noticed a tear
creeping down across his cheek.

"Mamma, I got a silver spoon. That's just as good, isn't it? These
porcelain things are so heavy and awkward. They've fallen out of my
hand three times; and Hermann can't manage them, either."

The mother nodded to her.

"And how it is with Olivier van Noort?"

The door-bell rang, and almost immediately afterwards a gentleman
entered the room who was greeted by the children as Uncle Sybrand.

The host now invited all to the garden and sent Hermann to the study
for a book.

"You young rascal, don't you go now and maliciously break that
globe. It can't help it."

Then came the story of Admiral Olivier van Noort and the poor
Vice-Admiral Jan Claesz van Ilpendam, who was put ashore in the Strait
of Magellan for insubordination. It interested all, and called forth
a lively discussion, in which the entire family as well as the guests
took part.

CHAPTER XXI

To readers of a certain class of fiction it will no doubt seem strange
if I say that Walter's visit to the Holsma family influenced greatly
his spiritual development. Not immediately; but a seed had been planted
which was to grow later. He saw now that after all independent thought
was possible, even if he could not yet allow himself that luxury. The
mere knowledge that there were other opinions in the world than those
of his daily mentors was a long stride forward.

He was depressed on account of his lack of knowledge. Those children
knew so much more than he did; and this made him sad.

They had spoken of someone who was startled to find footprints. Who
was it? The child had never heard of Defoe's hermit. He asked Stoffel.

"Footprints? Footprints? Well, you must tell me what footprints you
mean--whose footprints. You must give names when you ask questions."

"That's right," said the mother, "when you want to know anything
you must mention names. And Mevrouw made the salad herself? Well,
that's strange. The girl mus