separate from the dress, and were fastened
into it when put on, according to the fancy of the wearer.

Note 2. Apparently the plaited border worn under the French cap.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

THEKLA COMES TO THE RESCUE.

"It were a well-spent journey,
Though seven deaths lay between."

_A.R. Cousins_.

"Lysken, didst thou ever love any one very much?"

Blanche spoke dreamily, as she stood leaning against the side of the
window in the parsonage parlour, and with busy idleness tied knots in
her gold chain, which at once untied themselves by their own weight.

"Most truly," said Lysken, looking up with an expression of surprise.
"I love all here--very much."

"Ah! but--not here?"

"Certes. I loved Mayken Floriszoon, who died at Leyden, the day after
help came. And I loved Aunt Jacobine; and Vrouw Van Vliet, who took
care of me before I came hither. And I loved--O Blanche, how dearly!--
my father and my mother."

Blanche's ideas were running in one grove, and Lysken's in quite a
different one.

"Ay, but I mean, Lysken--another sort of love."

"Another sort!" said Lysken, looking up again from the stocking which
she was darning. "Is there any sort but one?"

"Oh ay!" responded Blanche, feeling her experience immeasurably past
that of Lysken.

"Thou art out of my depth, Blanche, methinks," said Lysken, re-threading
her needle in a practical unromantic way. "Love is love, for me. It
differeth, of course, in degree; we love not all alike. But, methinks,
even a man's love for God, though it be needs deeper and higher far,
must yet be the same manner of love that he hath for his father, or his
childre, or his friends. I see not how it can be otherwise."

Blanche was shocked at the business-like style in which Lysken darned
while she talked. Had such a question been asked of herself, the
stocking would have stood still till it was settled. She doubted
whether to pursue the subject. What was the use of talking upon
thrilling topics to a girl who could darn stockings while she calmly
analysed love? Still, she wanted somebody's opinion; and she had an
instinctive suspicion that Clare would be no improvement upon her
cousin.

"Well, but," she said hesitatingly, "there is another fashion of love,
Lysken. The sort that a woman hath toward her husband."

"That is deeper, I guess, than she hath for her father and mother, else
would she not leave them to go with him," said Lysken quietly; "but I
s