o we
must have him home as fast as may be."

"Ah, madam! you see my very thoughts." And the young woman hung her head
a moment and blushed. "But how to let him know, madam? That passes my
skill. He is gone to Italy; but what part I know not. Stay! he named the
cities he should visit. Florence was one, and Rome." But then--Finally,
being a sensible girl, she divined that a letter, addressed, "My
Gerard--Italy," might chance to miscarry, and she looked imploringly at
her friend for counsel.

"You are come to the right place, and at the right time," said the old
lady. "Here was this Hans Memling with me to-day; he is going to Italy,
girl, no later than next week, 'to improve his hand,' he says. Not
before 'twas needed, I do assure you."

"But how is he to find my Gerard?"

"Why, he knows your Gerard, child. They have supped here more than
once, and were like hand and glove. Now, as his business is the same as
Gerard's, he will visit the same places as Gerard, and soon or late he
must fall in with him. Wherefore, get you a long letter written, and
copy out this pardon into it, and I'll answer for the messenger. In six
months at farthest Gerard shall get it; and when he shall get it, then
will he kiss it, and put it in his bosom, and come flying home. What are
you smiling at? And now what makes your cheeks so red? And what you
are smothering me for, I cannot think. Yes! happy days are coming to my
little pearl."

Meantime, Martin sat in the kitchen, with the black-jack before him and
Reicht Heynes spinning beside him: and, wow! but she pumped him that
night.

This Hans Memling was an old pupil of Jan Van Eyck and his sister. He
was a painter notwithstanding Margaret's sneer, and a good soul enough,
with one fault. He loved the "nipperkin, canakin, and the brown bowl"
more than they deserve. This singular penchant kept him from amassing
fortune, and was the cause that he often came to Margaret Van Eyck for
a meal, and sometimes for a groat. But this gave her a claim on him, and
she knew he would not trifle with any commission she should entrust to
him.

The letter was duly written and left with Margaret Van Eyck; and the
following week, sure enough, Hans Memling returned from Flanders,
Margaret Van Eyck gave him the letter, and a piece of gold towards his
travelling expenses. He seemed in a hurry to be off.

"All the better," said the old artist; "he will be the sooner in Italy."

But as there are horses who bur