tear in "old Boekman's" eye.

Meanwhile Gretel looked on in trembling silence, but when she saw the
doctor open a leather case and take out one sharp, gleaming instrument
after another, she sprang forward.

"Oh, Mother! The poor father meant no wrong. Are they going to MURDER
him?"

"I do not know, child," screamed Dame Brinker, looking fiercely at
Gretel. "I do not know."

"This will not do, jufvrouw," said Dr. Boekman sternly, and at the same
time he cast a quick, penetrating look at Hans. "You and the girl must
leave the room. The boy may stay."

Dame Brinker drew herself up in an instant. Her eyes flashed. Her whole
countenance was changed. She looked like one who had never wept, never
felt a moment's weakness. Her voice was low but decided. "I stay with my
husband, mynheer."

Dr. Boekman looked astonished. His orders were seldom disregarded in
this style. For an instant his eye met hers.

"You may remain, jufvrouw," he said in an altered voice.

Gretel had already disappeared.

In one corner of the cottage was a small closet where her rough, boxlike
bed was fastened against the wall. None would think of the trembling
little creature crouching there in the dark.

Dr. Boekman took off his heavy coat, filled an earthen basin with water,
and placed it near the bed. Then turning to Hans he asked, "Can I depend
upon you, boy?"

"You can, mynheer."

"I believe you. Stand at the head, here--your mother may sit at your
right--so." And he placed a chair near the cot.

"Remember, jufvrouw, there must be no cries, no fainting."

Dame Brinker answered him with a look.

He was satisfied.

"Now, Vollenhoven."

Oh, that case with the terrible instruments! The assistant lifted them.
Gretel, who had been peering with brimming eyes through the crack of the
closet door, could remain silent no longer.

She rushed frantically across the apartment, seized her hood, and ran
from the cottage.

Gretel and Hilda

It was recess hour. At the first stroke of the schoolhouse bell, the
canal seemed to give a tremendous shout and grow suddenly alive with
boys and girls.

Dozens of gaily clad children were skating in and out among each other,
and all their pent-up merriment of the morning was relieving itself
in song and shout and laughter. There was nothing to check the flow
of frolic. Not a thought of schoolbooks came out with them into the
sunshine. Latin, arithmetic, grammar--all were locked up for an ho