l is within. The lasses are aye for gliding in
their bills under cover of another hand."

"True. Whose hand is this? sure I have seen it. I trow 'tis my dear
friend the demoiselle Van Eyck. Oh, then Margaret's bill will be
inside." He tore it open. "Nay, 'tis all in one writing. 'Gerard, my
well beloved son' (she never called me that before that I mind), 'this
letter brings thee heavy news from one would liever send thee joyful
tidings. Know that Margaret Brandt died in these arms on Thursday
sennight last.' (What does the doting old woman mean by that?) 'The last
word on her lips was "Gerard:" she said, "Tell him I prayed for him at
my last hour; and bid him pray for me." She died very comfortable, and
I saw her laid in the earth, for her father was useless, as you shall
know. So no more at present from her that is with sorrowing heart thy
loving friend and servant,

"MARGARET VAN EYCK.'"

"Ay, that is her signature sure enough. Now what d'ye think of that,
dame?" cried Gerard, with a grating laugh. "There is a pretty letter to
send to a poor fellow so far from home. But it is Reicht Heynes I blame
for humouring the old woman and letting her do it; as for the old woman
herself, she dotes, she has lost her head, she is fourscore. Oh, my
heart, I'm choking. For all that she ought to be locked up, or her hands
tied. Say this had come to a fool; say I was idiot enough to believe
this; know ye what I should do? run to the top of the highest church
tower in Rome and fling myself off it, cursing Heaven. Woman! woman!
what are you doing?" And he seized her rudely by the shoulder. "What are
ye weeping for?" he cried, in a voice all unlike his own, and loud and
hoarse as a raven. "Would ye scald me to death with your tears? She
believes it. She believes it. Ah! ah! ah! ah! ah! ah!--Then there is no
God."

The poor woman sighed and rocked herself.

"And must be the one to bring it thee all smiling and smirking? I could
kill myself for't. Death spares none," she sobbed. "Death spares none."

Gerard staggered against the window sill. "But He is master of death,"
he groaned. "Or they have taught me a lie. I begin to fear there is no
God, and the saints are but dead bones, and hell is master of the world.
My pretty Margaret; my sweet, my loving Margaret. The best daughter! the
truest lover! the pride of Holland! the darling of the world! It is a
lie. Where is this caitiff Hans? I'll hunt him round the town. I'll cram
his murde