house, I think. First, thou wert like to die, and ever
since thy mother hath been ill; that also is Jan Vedder's doing, since
thou must needs fret thyself into a fever for him." Then he took his
candle and went to his sick wife, for he thought it best not to weaken
his commands by any discussion concerning them.

Margaret did what most mothers would have done, she lifted her child
for consolation. It was a beautiful child, and she loved it with an
idolatrous affection. It had already taught her some lessons strange
enough to Margaret Vedder. For its sake she had become conciliating,
humble, patient; had repressed her feelings of mother-pride, and for
the future good of her boy, kept him in a corner as it were. She had
never suffered him to be troublesome, never intruded him upon the
notice of the grandfather whom some day doubtless he would completely
conquer. Ah, if she had only been half as unselfish with Jan! Only
half as prudent for Jan's welfare!

She lifted the boy and held him to her breast. As she watched him, her
face grew lovely. "My child!" she whispered, "for thee I can thole
every thing. For thy sake, I will be patient. Nothing shall tempt me
to spoil thy life. Thou shalt be rich, little one, and some day thee
and I will be happy together. Thy father robbed thee, but I will not
injure thee; no, indeed, I will not!"

So, after all, Jan's child was to be the barrier between him and his
wife. If Jan had chosen to go back to the class from which she had
taken him, she would at least save her child from the suffering and
contempt of poverty. What she would have done for his father, she
would do for him. Yes, that night she fully determined to stand by her
son. It might be a pleasure for her to see Jan, and even to be
reconciled to him, but she would not sacrifice her child's inheritance
for her own gratification. She really thought she was consummating a
grand act of self-denial, and wept a few pitiful tears over her own
hard lot.

In the morning Peter was unusually kind to her. He noticed the baby,
and even allowed her to lay it in his arms while she brought him his
seal-skin cloak and woolen mufflers. It was a dangerous advance for
Peter; he felt his heart strangely moved by the sleeping child, and he
could not avoid kissing him as he gave him back to his mother.
Margaret smiled at her father in her deep joy, and said softly to him,
"Now thou hast kissed me twice." Nothing that Peter could have done
woul