t have been out somewhere."

As to other "strange" things, which were not likely to meet the
approbation of his family, Walter was silent. Not a word about
that Saturnalia, or the omission of grace at a "warm meal"! Nor
did he mention the liberties that were allowed the children, or the
freedom with which they joined in the conversation. Perhaps it was
a superfluous precaution. That bearskin would have been excused for
many shortcomings.

Juffrouw Pieterse asked repeatedly if he had been "respectable." Walter
said he had, but without knowing exactly what she meant. That affair
with the spoon--had it been respectable? He didn't care to have this
question decided--at least by his mother. But it was nice of Sietske;
and wouldn't he have done the same?

He learned that the day was approaching when he must return to
school. More than ever he felt that this source of knowledge was
insufficient for him; but opposition was not to be thought of. He
was dissatisfied with himself, with everything.

"I shall never amount to anything," he sighed.

His Lady Macbeth seemed uglier to him than ever. He tore her up. And
Ophelia?

Goodness! He hadn't thought of Femke the whole day. Was it because
she was only a wash-girl, while the doctor's children were so
aristocratic? Walter censured himself.

He took advantage of the first opportunity to pay his debt in that
quarter. For he felt that it was a debt; and this consciousness gave
him courage. Picture in hand, he passed the familiar fence this time
and knocked boldly on the door. His heart was thumping terribly;
but he must do it! In a moment he stood before Femke. The lady of
his heart was quietly darning stockings. It is hard on the writer;
but this little detail was a matter of indifference to Walter.

"Oh!" she cried, extending her hand. "Mother, this is the young
gentleman we saw that time--the little boy who was so sick. And how
are you now? You look pale."

"Take a seat, little boy," said the mother. "Yes, you do look
pale. Worms, of course."

"No, no, mother. The child has had nervous fever."

"All right--fever, then; but it could be from worms. Give him a cup,
Femke. It won't hurt you to drink coffee; but if it were worms----"

Mrs. Claus's worms were more in Walter's way than the stockings.

"Where does your mother have her washing done?" she asked. "Not that
I want to pump you--not at all. But if she isn't satisfied with her
wash-woman--it sometimes happens, you