that precious book.

"No, no, I don't want the book at all. I only want to know where the
boy lives who read it. I will pay you gladly," and she pointed to
her money.

"That isn't necessary," he said. "I don't mind accommodating you when
you ask me politely."

He looked in the register and found the name Femke had mentioned, with
the address. He showed it to her, and was even going to explain to her
the best way to get there; but Femke was already out the door. The
fellow had difficulty in overtaking her to return the money she had
forgotten on the counter.

When she reached the address given, Femke learned that the Pieterses
had moved to a "sweller neighborhood." It was quite a distance away;
but Femke was not deterred by that.

Once at the Pieterses', she was received by the young ladies with a
rough, "What do you want?"

"Oh, Juffrouw, I wanted to ask about Walter."

"Who are you?"

"I am Femke, Juffrouw, and my mother is a wash-woman. I would like
to know if Walter is all right."

"What have you got to do with Walter?" asked Juffrouw Pieterse,
who had heard the commotion and came down.

"Ah, Juffrouw, don't be angry--I wanted to know; and my mother knows
that I've come to ask. Walter told me about Telasco, and the girl
that was to die--oh, Juffrouw, tell me if he's sick! I cannot sleep
till I know."

"That's none of your business. Go, I tell you! I don't want strange
people standing around the door."

"For mercy's sake, Juffrouw!" cried the girl, wringing her hands.

"The girl's crazy. Put her out, Trudie, and slam the door!"

Trudie began to execute the order. Myntje and Pietje got ready to
help her; but the child clung to the balustrade and held her ground.

"Throw her out! The impudent thing!"

"Oh, Juffrouw, I'm not impudent. I will go. Just tell me whether
Walter is sick. Tell me, and I will go right now. Just tell me if
he's sick--if, if he's going--to die."

The poor child began to weep. Anybody else but those Pieterse women
would have been touched at the sight. They were too far up the ladder.

Plainer people, or nobler people would have understood Femke. Feeling,
sympathy, is like the money in a gambling-place. It doesn't come
to everybody. There wenches and countesses sit side by side; merely
respectable people, who sell shoes made in Paris, are not there.

"I won't go!" cried Femke. "Oh, God! I won't go! I will know whether
that child is sick!"

A door was heard opening above; a