roken away from the nursery stories.

There is some silk for my Chinaman's pigtail. Some will say it is
only flax.

CHAPTER II

Walter thought neither of the heroic age nor of Chinese cues. Without
any feeling for the beauty of the landscape, he hurried along till
he came to a bridge that spanned a marshy ditch. After looking about
carefully to assure himself that he was alone, he selected this
bridge for his reading-room, and proceeded at once to devour his
robber undisturbed.

For a moment I felt tempted to make the reader a participant of
Walter's pleasure by giving a sketch of the immortal work that chained
the boy's attention. But aside from the fact that I am not very well
versed in Glorioso--which fact of itself, though, would not prevent me
from speaking about him--I have many other things of a more urgent
nature to relate, and am compelled therefore to take the reader
directly to the Hartenstraat, hoping that he will be able to find
his way just as well as if he had crossed the Ouwebrug--the old bridge.

Suffice it to say that Walter found the book "very nice." The virtuous
Amalia, in the glare of flaring torches, at the death-bed of her
revered mother, in the dismal cypress valley, swearing that her ardent
love for the noble robber--through the horrible trapdoor, the rusty
chains, her briny tears--in a word, it was stirring! And there was
more morality in it, too, than in all the insipid imitations. All the
members of the band were married and wore gloves. In the cave was
an altar, with wax tapers; and those chapters in which girls were
abducted always ended with a row of most decorous periods, or with
mysterious dashes--which Walter vainly held up to the light in his
effort to learn more about it.

He read to: "Die, betrayer!" Then it was dark, and he knew that it
was time to go home. He was supposed to be taking a walk with the
Halleman boys,--who were "such respectable children." With regret he
closed the precious volume and hurried away as fast as he could, for
he was afraid he was going to get a whipping for staying away so long.

"You will never get permission again"--thus he was always threatened
on such occasions. But he understood, of course, that they didn't mean
it. He knew too well that people like to get rid of the children for
a while when they are a little short of space at home. And then the
little Hallemans were "such extraordinarily respectable children;
they lived next to a