ed.

The next cottage proved to be more inviting. Its low roof of bright
red tiles extended over the cow stable that, clean as could be, nestled
close to the main building. A neat, peaceful-looking old woman sat
at one window, knitting. At the other could be discerned part of the
profile of a fat figure that, pipe in mouth, sat behind the shining
little panes and snowy curtain. In answer to Peter's subdued knock, a
fair-haired, rosy-cheeked lass in holiday attire opened the upper half
of the green door (which was divided across the middle) and inquired
their errand.

"May we enter and warm ourselves, jufvrouw?" asked the captain
respectfully.

"Yes, and welcome" was the reply as the lower half of the door swung
softly toward its mate. Every boy, before entering, rubbed long and
faithfully upon the rough mat, and each made his best bow to the old
lady and gentleman at the window. Ben was half inclined to think that
these personages were automata like the moving figures in the garden at
Broek; for they both nodded their heads slowly, in precisely the same
way, and both went on with their employment as steadily and stiffly as
though they worked by machinery. The old man puffed, puffed, and his
vrouw clicked her knitting needles, as if regulated by internal cog
wheels. Even the real smoke issuing from the motionless pipe gave no
convincing proof that they were human.

But the rosy-cheeked maiden. Ah, how she bustled about. How she gave
the boys polished high-backed chairs to sit upon, how she made the fire
blaze as if it were inspired, how she made Jacob Poot almost weep for
joy by bringing forth a great square of gingerbread and a stone jug of
sour wine! How she laughed and nodded as the boys ate like wild animals
on good behavior, and how blank she looked when Ben politely but firmly
refused to take any black bread and sauerkraut! How she pulled off
Jacob's mitten, which was torn at the thumb, and mended it before his
eyes, biting off the thread with her whit teeth, and saying "Now it will
be warmer" as she bit; and finally, how she shook hands with every boy
in turn and, throwing a deprecating glance at the female automaton,
insisted upon filling their pockets with gingerbread!

All this time the knitting needles clicked on, and the pipe never missed
a puff.

When the boys were fairly on their way again, they came in sight of the
Zwanenburg Castle with its massive stone front, and its gateway towers,
each surmoun