with silver spangles at the interstices: in this her glossy auburn hair
was rolled in front into two solid waves, and supported behind in a
luxurious and shapely mass. His quick eye took in all this, and the old
man's pallor, and the tears in the young woman's eyes. So when he had
passed them a few yards, he reflected, and turned back, and came towards
them bashfully.

"Father, I fear you are tired."

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

Gerard's address did not appear so agreeable to the girl as to the old
man. She seemed ashamed, and with much reserve in her manner, said,
that it was her fault--she had underrated the distance, and imprudently
allowed her father to start too late in the day.

"No, no," said the old man; "it is not the distance, it is the want of
nourishment."

The girl put her arms round his neck with tender concern, but took that
opportunity of whispering, "Father, a stranger--a young man!"

But it was too late. Gerard, with simplicity, and quite as a matter of
course, fell to gathering sticks with great expedition. This done, he
took down his wallet, out with the manchet of bread and the iron flask
his careful mother had put up, and his everlasting tinder-box; lighted a
match, then a candle-end, then the sticks; and put his iron flask on it.
Then down he went on his stomach, and took a good blow: then looking up,
he saw the girl's face had thawed, and she was looking down at him and
his energy with a demure smile. He laughed back to her. "Mind the pot,"
said he, "and don't let it spill, for Heaven's sake: there's a cleft
stick to hold it safe with;" and with this he set off running towards a
corn-field at some distance.

Whilst he was gone, there came by, on a mule with rich purple housings,
an old man redolent of wealth. The purse at his girdle was plethoric,
the fur on his tippet was ermine, broad and new.

It was Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, the burgomaster of Tergou.

He was old, and his face furrowed. He was a notorious miser, and looked
one generally. But the idea of supping with the Duke raised him just now
into manifest complacency. Yet at the sight of the faded old man and his
bright daughter sitting by a fire of sticks, the smile died out of his
face, and he wore a strange look of pain and uneasiness. He reined in
his mule.

"Why, Peter,--Margaret," said he, almost fiercely, "what mummery is
this?" Peter was going to answer, but Margaret interp