rgon in
Holland. He traded, wholesale and retail, in cloth and curried leather,
and the couple were well to do. Nine children were born to them; four of
these were set up in trade, one, Giles, was a dwarf, another, little
Catherine, was a cripple. Cornelis, the eldest, and Sybrandt, the
youngest, lived at home, too lazy to work, waiting for dead men's shoes.

There remained young Gerard, a son apart and distinct, destined for the
Church. The monks taught him penmanship, and continued to teach him,
until one day, in the middle of a lesson, they discovered he was
teaching them. Then Gerard took to illuminating on vellum, and in this
he was helped by an old lady, Margaret Van Eyck, sister of the famous
brothers Van Eyck, who had come to end her days near Tergon. When Philip
the Good, Count of Flanders, for the encouragement of the arts, offered
prizes for the best specimens of painting on glass and illumination on
vellum, Gerard decided to compete. He sent in his specimens, and his
mother furnished him with a crown to go to Rotterdam and see the work of
his competitors and the prize distribution. Gerard would soon be a
priest, she argued; it seemed hard if he might not enjoy the world a
little before separating himself from it for life.

It was on the road to Rotterdam, within a league of the city, that
Gerard found an old man sitting by the roadside quite worn out, and a
comely young woman holding his hand. The old man wore a gown, and a fur
tippet, and a velvet cap--sure signs of dignity; but the gown was rusty,
and the fur old--sure signs of poverty. The young woman was dressed in
plain russet cloth, yet snow-white lawn covered her neck.

"Father, I fear you are tired," said Gerard bashfully.

"Indeed, my son, I am," replied the old man; "and faint for lack of
food."

The girl whispered, "Father, a stranger--a young man!" But Gerard, with
simplicity, and as a matter of course, was already gathering sticks for
a fire. This done, he took down his wallet, and brought his tinder-box
and an iron flask his careful mother had put in.

Ghysbrecht Van Swikten, the burgomaster of Tergon, an old man redolent
of wealth, came riding by while Gerard was preparing a meal of soup and
bread by the roadside. He reined in his steed and spoke uneasily: "Why,
Peter--Margaret--what mummery is this?" Then, seeing Gerard, he cast a
look of suspicion on Margaret, and rode on. The wayfarers did not know
that more than half the wealth of th