day! It makes it
seem a pilgrimage."

"I don't find it strange," said Cousin Robert. "Many people come every
day of the year."

Having thus poured the cold water of common sense on my sentiment, he
dragged us into the dining-hall museum to see relics of William, and I
should have been resentful, had not my eyes suddenly met other eyes
looking down from the wall. They were the eyes of William the Silent
himself when he was young--painted eyes, yet they spoke to me.

I don't know how fine that portrait may be as a work of art, but it is
marvelously real. I understood in a moment why little, half-deformed
Anna of Saxony had been so mad to marry him; I knew that, in her place,
I should have overcome just as many obstacles to make that dark,
haunting face the face of my husband.

Of course I've often read that William of Orange was a handsome man, as
well as a dashing and extravagant gallant in his young days, but never
till now had I realized how singularly attractive he must have been. The
face in the portrait was sad, and as thoughtful as if he had sat to the
artist on the day he heard the dreadful secret of the fate which Philip
of Spain and Francis of France were plotting for the Netherlands, the
day that decided his future, and gave him his name of "William the
Silent." Yet in spite of its melancholy, almost sternness, it won me as
no pictured face of a man ever did before.

"This is a great day for me," I said to Phil, who was close behind; "not
only am I seeing Holland for the first time, but I've fallen in love
with William the Silent."

I laughed as I made this announcement, though I was half in earnest; and
turning to see whether I had shocked Cousin Robert, I found him in
conversation with a tall, black-haired young man, near the door.

The man--he wore a gray suit, and carried a straw hat in his hand--had
his back to me, and I remembered having seen the same back in the museum
before we came in. Now he was going out, and evidently he and Cousin
Robert had recognized each other as acquaintances. As I looked, he
turned, and I saw his face. It was so like the face of the portrait that
I felt myself grow red. How I did hope he hadn't overheard that silly
speech!

For a moment his eyes and mine met as mine had met the eyes of the
portrait. Then he shook hands with Robert and was gone.

"Very odd," said my cousin the giant, strolling toward us again, "that
was Rudolph Brederode. And," he glanced at me, "his