owers love him."

"What?"

"You see, they grow for him as they don't grow for any one else. _Much_
better I am sure," he added a little bitterly, "than they will ever grow
for Frederik. I don't think flowers love Frederik."

"What queer ideas you have!" she laughed, embarrassed at his quiet
statement of facts that seemed to her absurd. "Are you Mr. Grimm's son?"

"No, ma'am. He is not married. I don't think he has any sons at all. I'm
Anne Marie's son."

"Anne Marie? Anne Marie--what?"

"Just Anne Marie. I'm Willem, you know."

"William?"

"No, ma'am. Willem."

"Willem Grimm?"

"No, ma'am. Anne Marie's Willem. I--Oh, Mr. Hartmann!" he broke off,
catching sight of the big young man who drew near, "Mynheer Peter said
you'd be on this train. Now I can have some one to walk back with."

Slipping his hand into Hartmann's, Willem turned his back on the
platformful of perspiring beneficiaries and, together, the two struck
off down the yellow, dusty road toward the double row of giant elms
that marked the beginning of the village street.

Willem shuffled in high contentment alongside his big companion. And as
he walked, he stole upward and sidelong glances of furtive hero worship
at the tall, plainly clad figure. Jim Hartmann was of a build and aspect
to rouse such worship in the frail little fellow. He had the shoulders,
the chest girth, the stride of an athlete, tempered by the slight
roundness of those same shoulders, the non-expansiveness of chest, and
the heavy tread of the large man whose strength and physique have been
acquired at manual labour instead of in athletics. A figure more common
east of the Atlantic than in America.

His dark suit was neat and fitted honestly well. But it was palpably not
the suit of a man whose father had worn custom-made clothes or whose own
earlier youth had been blessed with such garments. Yet there was a
breezy, staunch outdoorness about the whole man that reminded one of a
breath of mountain air in a close room and left half unnoticed the
details of costume and bearing.

"Weren't you glad to get away from New York City?" queried the boy as
they came into the elm shade of Grimm Manor's one real street. "A week
is an awful long time to be away from here."

"You bet it is. You're a lucky chap to be able to stay at Grimm Manor
all the time instead of being sent here, there, and everywhere on
business."

"I shouldn't like that," assented the boy; "I think people would be