almost hear the sparks as they fell into the ashes on the hearth.
The mother's hand was very cold, but a burning spot glowed on her cheek,
and her eyes were like a deer's--so bright, so sad, so eager.

At last there was a movement upon the bed, very slight, but enough to
cause them all to start. Dr. Boekman leaned eagerly forward.

Another movement. The large hands, so white and soft for a poor man's
hand, twitched, then raised itself steadily toward the forehead.

It felt the bandage, not in a restless, crazy way but with a questioning
movement that caused even Dr. Boekman to hold his breath.

"Steady! Steady!" said a voice that sounded very strange to Gretel.
"Shift that mat higher, boys! Now throw on the clay. The waters are
rising fast; no time to--"

Dame Brinker sprang forward like a young panther.

She seized his hands and, leaning over him, cried, "Raff! Raff, boy,
speak to me!"

"Is it you, Meitje?" he asked faintly. "I have been asleep, hurt, I
think. Where is little Hans?"

"Here I am, Father!" shouted Hans, half mad with joy. But the doctor
held him back.

"He knows us!" screamed Dame Brinker. "Great God! He knows us! Gretel!
Gretel! Come, see your father!"

In vain Dr. Boekman commanded "Silence!" and tried to force them from
the bedside. He could not keep them off.

Hans and the mother laughed and cried together as they hung over the
newly awakened man. Gretel made no sound but gazed at them all with
glad, startled eyes. Her father was speaking in a faint voice.

"Is the baby asleep, Meitje?"

"The baby!" echoed Dame Brinker. "Oh, Gretel, that is you! And he calls
Hans 'little Hans.' Ten years asleep! Oh, mynheer, you have saved us
all. He has known nothing for ten years! Children, why don't you thank
the meester?"

The good woman was beside herself with joy. Dr. Boekman said nothing,
but as his eye met hers, he pointed upward. She understood. So did Hans
and Gretel.

With one accord they knelt by the cot, side by side. Dame Brinker felt
for her husband's hand even while she was praying. Dr. Boekman's head
was bowed; the assistant stood by the hearth with his back toward them.

"Why do you pray?" murmured the father, looking feebly from the bed as
they rose. "Is it God's day?"

It was not Sunday; but his vrouw bowed her head--she could not speak.

"Then we should have a chapter," said Raff Brinker, speaking slowly and
with difficulty. "I do not know how it is. I am very, very weak. Ma