"Perhaps but go now for thy brother."

She went; and, returning presently with Adrian, found the door open and the guest departed. In vain did she look up and down the street; her visitor was nowhere to be found, and no one seemed to have seen her. Nor did either of the maidens own to having heard her go.

In Adrian's opinion, her disappearance tended to discredit her story, but Marie would not admit a doubt of it; it was too good not to be true. Katje and Neeltje had one of their frequent quarrels on the subject; Neeltje maintaining that the old woman was a witch, who had either ridden off on a broomstick, or been spirited away by her master the devil, " For," said she, "the fox may lose his hair, but not his cunning,' and the Pope and his monks and nuns are not done with us yet."

What Kätje answered to Neeltje was less important than what she kept for the private ear of Mejuffrouw Marie.

"Mejuffrouw, do you know who that was that spoke with you?" she asked in a mysterious whisper, as she spread the table for supper with the fair white damask, the pride of Dutch housewives.

"She was an Englishwoman- -an English lady," Marie answered.

"She may be, Mejuffrouw, but I know what she is -one of the Béguines of Amsterdam."

"And who are the Béguines of Amsterdam?" asked Marie, not at all as much impressed as her handmaid expected.

Mejuffrouw surely knows the Béguines. Holy women who do good works-feed the poor, tend the sick, all the seven works of mercy in fact. They have taken the vow of chastity, but they are not shut up in cloisters like nuns. They have a whole Square belonging to them in Amsterdam, with their houses all about it. I ought to know, for I come from Amsterdam myself. My grandmother went to serve the Béguines as a lay sister, and we often used to go and see her when we were children. The ladies were very kind to us, and gave us fruit and sweetmeats-oh, they were good ladies, very! And I know some of them came from far away lands, so I don't wonder if there was one of them from England. She would be glad enough, being a Catholic, to get away from the people there, and to find herself once more in a Catholic town." For the future capital of Holland, strange to say, had not yet cast off the Spanish yoke.

"I am sure, Kätje, you and yours are not so ill off here, though this be no Catholic town," said Marie. "You must confess we treat you better than you treated us, when you had the power." "I don't know," grumbled Kätje "Neeltje makes my life a burden with her proverbs: and yesterday Mynheer Geritzoon's lad cried after me in the street, Paapen uit !'—and then, as if that was not bad enough,

be greatly moved, even by this harrowing story of religious persecution. "It was

Katje lingered to say one word more. no miracle, Mejuffrouw, that the holy Béguine went away like that, and you never found her. A boat was waiting on the canal, at the corner, and she went, as she had come, in it."

The heart can live upon a little hope, and upon a little joy it can thrive and flourish. To know of a surety that Edward lived that he was safe— that he was not suffering, was more than enough, after the suspense she had undergone, to make Marie's step light and her cheek rosy.

Adrian, to a certain extent, shared her relief; but he felt, what she did not seem to realise, that even if the Béguine's story were true, Wallingford was in the hands of zealous Catholics; immured probably in some monastery, where the most persevering and insidious efforts would be made to undermine his faith, perhaps even his apostasy would be the condition of his release. At times, indeed, a still more dreadful suspicion crossed bis mind. What if he were in the fangs of the terrible Inquisition? The visit of the Béguine might have been only a blind, to throw his friends off the scent, lest a scandal should be caused by such an outrage upon the rights of a prisoner of war, and reprisals should be made. Still he did not see that under the circumstances anything could be done; and a natural unwillingness to give pain to his sister made him keep his fears to himself. So Marie went about her daily tasks with a glad and hopeful heart.

There was now a little breathing space, in which the men and women, who had faced so many perils and borne so many sufferings, might begin to thank God and take courage.

The soldiers of the Estates could now go on furlough, and visit their friends and relatives. So it happened one day, that as Roskě was sitting --as she often did in her father's study, she heard a voice which made her rush like a small whirlwind down the stairs and to the outer door. But surely the tall young man who stood there speaking to Neeltje was not Dirk Willemzoonher Dirk ?

Was it Dirk Willemzoon who kissed her hand so respectfully, instead of folding her in the old embrace? A shock, a sense of something new and strange, came over the child; but it soon passed away. The warm welcome of her father and her aunt, and their quiet talk, reassured her as to the personality of the manly young soldier.

Dirk, now nearly eighteen, had shot up into a tall, slight stripling. His face had the old look of strength and decision, yet something of boyish innocence and candour lingered in it still, and perhaps was even more perceptible than in earlier days. His eyes were dark and soft-especially when he looked at Roskě.

and

When they had supped together (in spite of his modest protestation that he would rather go to the "Toelast " just round the corner), Roskě came to him as he sat in the deep window, began to ask a hundred questions about his exploits and adventures. But he did not seem to have much to say of them; though he told many

interesting stories of the gallantry of his officers and his comrades, to which Adrian and Marie listened with as much interest as did Roskě. At last, however, Adrian withdrew to his books, and Marie to her household concerns.

Then Dirk drew forth a little packet. Having opened it, he showed Roskě the dear old holiday cap, which she and her mother had made for him. "See," he said, "I have kept it-I will keep it always."

"You can't wear it now. Your head is too big,"

DIRK HAD SHOT UP INTO A TALL, SLIGHT STRIPLING.

"True, Freule; but it goes with me everywhere. It helps me to fight."

Roskě took it, and looked at it critically. "I think I could make it big enough," she said, " by letting it out, and putting a new band-so. Tant' Marie will help me."

Dirk went on with a sort of shy eagerness.

"This time, Freule, I have a present for you. Will you keep it, think you, as long as I have kept yours?" He gave into her hand a little box of sandal wood, which had been in the packet with the cap. "Will it please you to open it, Freule?"

She did so; and absolutely shrieked with amazement and delight as she drew out a long and massive chain of gold, such as knights and nobles were wont to wear. The cry brought Marie to her side. "Oh, Dirk," said Marie, "you ought not to give such a costly gift to a child like

Roskě. It is not meet or fitting. A new poppet would suit her better."

"Tant' Marie!" Roskě exclaimed with indignation. "When you know I have not even looked at my poppets since ever so long ago!"

"All the same, I say it is not right that Dirk should give thee a gold chain fit for a baron's daughter or a burgomaster's lady."

"It is quite right, Mejuffrouw Marie," interposed Dirk with a beaming face. "The Colonel said it belonged to me, as my fair and lawful prize of war, when I slew the Spanish Don who wore it, at Zirickzee. I came up just in time, for the Colonel was hard pressed. He thought perhaps I would not care for it, so he offered me more than its worth in gold doubloons; but I thanked him, and said I would rather keep the chain. I wanted it for Freule Roskě." The smile in his eye and on his lip was good to see.

"What a splendid, gallant youth our Dirk has grown," said Adrian afterwards to his sister. "Truly-but I like not all this adoration that he pours out at the feet of Roskě. He was a boy in Leyden. He is a man now."

Adrian gazed at her in mild, uncomprehending surprise. "What can you mean?" he said, "Roskě is a babe."

"In four or five years she will be a young maiden, and Dirk still only a young man. Every year brings them nearer in age. And-after all

-the son of an Anabaptist carpenter!"

Adrian did what he was wont to do scarcely once a year he laughed outright. Roskě, his pride and treasure-Roskě, about whose future he dreamed such lofty dreams - for whom he thought a knight or baron scarce good enough, a prince scarce too good! "Put such folly out of thy head, sister mine," he said. "When the babe grows up to woman's estate we will take order with her very different from that, I promise thee."

IN

CHAPTER XXIV. DIRK'S LITTLE LADY.

N spite of the hospitable entreaties of Adrian, Dirk persisted in lodging at the "Toelast" during his stay in Utrecht. Now that he had grown older, he could not help seeing between him and his friends, even though they saw it not, "the pale spectrum of the salt." He hoped one day to remove it, for was not the soldier's calling the road to rank, as well as to fortune? He meant to do it, if he lived; but in the meantime the little lady of his dreams was ever to him "the Freule.'

However, the next morning, which was Sunday, he went early to see his friends, and accompanied them to the church of Pastor Duifhuis. They happened to hear a political sermon; in those days "preaching to the times" was very usual, and very useful too, when "done unto edification." It was perhaps even necessary, in the absence of newspapers and other modern agencies for the spread of information and the education of opinion, and at a crisis when the lives and liberties of the hearers were at stake.

Duifhuis took his text from what he called the Second Book of Kings, though we call it the

Second Book of Samuel. "Now, therefore, why speak ye not a word of bringing the King back?" It soon became evident that the king he meant was the Prince of Orange.

During this breathing time from sanguinary and disastrous war, so precious and possibly so brief, the Prince proposed to make a circuit through the towns and districts which had submitted to his sway. If the men of Utrecht were men of understanding, men who "knew the times, and what Israel ought to do," now would they hasten to sink all minor differences, all mere party questions, and send an ambassage to him, imploring him to bless them also with his presence, and to take them also under his strong, just, and beneficent rule. Then, rising to a height of eloquence, inspired and ennobled by passionate patriotism, he urged upon them this one path of life and safety; as a man might well do who felt that the choice lay between the Prince of Orange and the King of Spain, and that behind the Spanish tyrant there loomed in dark shadow the stake, the rack, and the gibbet, for his hearers and for himself.

But at last as if recalled suddenly to recollections of the time, the place, and the solemn duty still awaiting him-he pulled up abruptly, and concluded with a general exhortation to trust in God and righteousness of life, inviting all who fulfilled these conditions to approach His Holy Table in humility and faith.

Tant' Marie and Dirk remained, but Adrian withdrew, leading Roskě by the hand. "That was an excellent sermon," he said to the child as they walked home slowly through the quiet street. He often talked to her as to an older person.

"Oh yes, father," said she, drawing a long breath of satisfaction. "We want the Prince. And he will come to us, I know."

"How knowest thou that, ma mie? The burgomaster and the town council would be glad enough to know it. But they have treated him hitherto with so much coldness and suspicion, I wot they are afraid he will scarce listen to them now, however humbly and earnestly they ask him."

"I know he will come. I have been asking God to send him all the time. Ever since we came here."

"And it seems to thee that the God of all the earth will listen to the voice of one little girl in Utrecht, and do what she asks Him? Is it so, Roskě?"

"It does not seem, it is. He listens to me always."

"Poor child!" said Adrian unawares. He said no more; not for worlds would he have disturbed the simple faith of the little one.

"He is so good, father. He thinks of everything. He sent Tant' Marie news of Mynheer Wallingford; and now He has sent Dirk back to us, and made him not to be an Anabaptist any more."

"True enough. He would not have remained with the rest if he had not joined the Reformed Church," Adrian observed. "Wert praying for that too?"

Roskě nodded. "Because," she explained, "they say the Anabaptists did dreadful things long ago in Munster, and Dirk would not like to be joined with people who do dreadful things."

"Roskě, my child, look up at me, and tell me true-Didst ever ask for something thou didst not get?"

Roskě looked up; then looked quickly down again, a deep flush over-spreading her face. She would rather have been silent, but she was nothing if not truthful, so she said slowly, "I think-only one thing. And that-will come."

"What is that one thing?"

"Must I tell, father?" her voice was very low. "I should like my Roskě to tell me."

"That you," she whispered, "that you-would stay-where Dirk and Tant' Marie are. But I think," she added more confidently, "He is only waiting till I am old enough to go, because He thinks we would like to go together."

"My little girl wants 'father' to have every good thing in the world! But why dost think that such a good thing, Roskě?"

When they next met, Adrian questioned Dirk, with some interest, about his change of faith.

"I have not changed my faith, Mynheer," he answered, "only my name. It went hard with me to do that, because of my father. But, save for the name, I did not see that there was much difference. I have nought to do with the baptising of infants, nor learning enough to understand about it. Still I think, even if they who do it do wrong, He will not be very angry who said, 'Suffer the little children to come unto Me.' And it troubled me sore, when I was with the Army, for such a doubtful thing as that to keep apart from my brethen, not to hear the preaching of the Word, nor to sing hymns with them, nor to go to the Holy Supper. Still, it cost a struggle-for my father's sake. I doubt I would have given in -but for the Prince."

"What had he to do with it? Does he forbid Anabaptists to fight for him?"

"Anabaptists do not fight, Mynheer. My doing so was in itself a kind of forsaking of them, though I was too young and ignorant to know it. But the thing the Prince did was, not to forbid, but to protect them. Wherever he has power, there may no man injure them, nor deny them the rights of citizens, if only they are quiet and law abiding."

66 'So you have left the Sect, because the Sect is no longer persecuted. An odd reason, is it not?"

"A good reason, I think, Mynheer. Never would I have disowned the name my father bore, while it was a name proscribed, and cursed of all men. While there was a risk of martyrdommartyrdom like his (Dirk's voice dropped low, and a tender, reverent look crossed his face) that risk would I not refuse. But now that other Chris

tians stretch out to us the hand of kindness, may we not take it, and be one with them? The Chaplain of our Regiment is a good man, loved by all. I spoke to him, and he let me join the rest.” "You did a good thing, Dirk," Adrian said. "If we Protestants could only unite, we might conquer the world. But our dissensions, I often

fear, will be our ruin." "If we cared less, we would contend less. But then also, we could not have endured so much," Dirk answered.

Roskě coming in presently, and Adrian leaving them together, he asked her, "Have you put the poppets quite away, Freule?" He had a tender recollection of poor battered " Ketje," to whom he always traced the beginning of his friendship with the Freule.

"Oh, I have Jan and Liz somewhere stillthat is, their bodies. But I have not looked at them this long, long time. The fact is, Dirk,"

lowering her voice to a confidential whisper, "they have grown too big."

"What? The poppets?"

"No, Jan and Liz themselves.

They have

Then they

grown too big for their bodies-their wooden bodies. You see, they would grow up. wanted so many things. Jan wanted to go to the war, and fight for the Prince and he went. And Liz has a soldier lover, like Tant' Marie. And things happen to them you know; Jan is very good and brave, the other day he took a town. But you see, Dirk, a wooden poppet could not do all that. So it had to be left behind."

But poppets, whether of wood or of "imagination all compact," were soon driven wholly out of Roske's mind. For the City Fathers yielded to the prayers of the whole community, and sent a deputation to the Prince, imploring his presence. Adrian, shaken once more out of his dreamy indifference, had supported the movement with all his heart, so heartily indeed that he was invited to form one of the deputation.

But the shy, reserved scholar declined the honour. Much as he reverenced the Prince, he had no desire to stand before great men. The study suited him better than the Court: though by no means devoid of ambition, it was the praise of the learned he desired, and not that of Princes.

Roskě was nearly out of her senses-for a day with disappointment at his refusal, and for many days after with excitement and expectation. The deputation brought back a favourable answer; and straightway the whole city went into raptures. Every one was in a fever of preparation; and there was nothing talked of, from morning to night, but triumphal arches and decorations, processions and banquetings, public rejoicings of all sorts and descriptions.

Dirk put off his intended departure to see the Prince and share the festivities. Marie was cheerful and hopeful, Roskě in a frenzy of delight; only Adrian felt a touch of sadness. Days long past in Antwerp when he wooed and won his Rose, came back to his thoughts.

Roske's recollections could only go back to the Prince's coming to Leyden, the day after the wonderful Relief; which, with the one exception of

her mother's death, had given her young life its most striking impression. "And he spoke that day to you, Dirk," she said. "This time, I hope, he will speak to me."

"Foolish child!" said Tant' Marie. "Thy tongue runs away with thy wit. The Prince speak to thee! What next, I wonder?"

Even this touch of blame Dirk resented for his little lady. "You know, Mejuffrouw," he said to Tant' Marie, "Her Excellency the Princess is coming with the Prince. They say she is a most sweet and gracious lady, and I am sure she would love Freule Roskě well, if she could but see her. And she would ask the Prince to speak to her."

No doubt it was Dirk's fault, for putting such thoughts into Roske's head, that she appeared next morning in the character of a little Joseph, a teller of glorious dreams. "I dreamed," she announced at breakfast, "that the Prince took me up in his arms, as Dirk used long ago when I was little."

Even Adrian joined in the laughter that followed.

"Wise people are too busy by day to dream much by night," he said. "Or, if they do, they keep their dreams to themselves."

Especially such dreams as savour of pride and vainglory," said Tant' Marie. "Roskě will be dreaming next that the King of Spain has offered her his son in marriage."

"The King of Spain," said accurate Roskě, well pleased in her turn to correct her Aunt, "the King of Spain has no son-for he killed him." (Such, at the time, was the popular version of the story of the unfortunate Don Carlos.) And, if he had twenty, and they all caine to me on their knees, I would not look at one of them! But, father, is it wrong to dream?"

"No, ma mie, not wrong. Some of us might be glad to dream a little more. But it is not overwise to tell our dreams, lest folk should laugh at us, and I would not any one should laugh at thee, my Roskě. Perhaps," he added, more than half to himself, "it is me they would laugh at, could they guess the half I have dreamed about thee, Roskě."

THE

But give me your sun from yonder skies!' They had answered, 'And afterwards, what else?'" HE great day dawned at last, and dawned early enough. For it was a brilliant July morning, cloudless, save for a few white cirri, far up in the blue. The old town seemed to reflect the brightness, though not the calm, of the sky above it. It was all ablaze with flowers; garlands and triumphal arches everywhere, decked with orange flags, orange streamers, orange ribbons in

profusion. Every soul in the city crowded to the streets through which the Prince was to pass. Balconies and windows were packed all too quickly, then the people climbed the linden-trees, and clung to the branches like living fruit, or rushed up on the roofs, where they stood, sat, or perched, heedless of discomfort-heedless of danger even. Long ere the first shot from the guns at the gate announced the coming of the Prince, was nothing to be seen along the whole line but a sea of glad and smiling faces, dashed with flames of orange and gleams of white and blue.

Adrian's home in the "Lange Nieuwe" street offered in its front windows, and especially in that balcony on the third story, large advantages for gazers, which he shared liberally with his friends and neighbours. The best places were assigned to the ladies, who began to arrive at cock crow, all in holiday attire, and nearly all in orange, white and blue, but so elaborately bedecked, befrilled, and bedizened that Roskě opined they must have stayed up all night arraying themselves. She herself was arrayed, much to her satisfaction, in a new skirt of blue brocade, stiff and rich, with a bodice of velvet to match, the white being supplied by her snowy cap and apron, and the whole duly set off with orange ribbons. She wore the usual golden ornaments on her head; but Dirk's gift was thought, not by her aunt alone but even by her father, unsuited to her age and position. All the more gladly she accepted a bunch of choice flowers, roses and lilies, which Dirk brought her at daybreak. "I will throw them down to the Prince when he passes," she said. "Perhaps he will touch them."

It would have broken her heart if her favourite place on the balcony had not been reserved for her. But Marie, giving way, as she was wont to do, to others, was content to take her stand within at one of the windows, while Adrian, who had been called to visit a patient dangerously ill, and came back rather late, placed himself beside her. This was not at all to Roske's satisfaction. She ran in, flashing in and out through the throng like a sunbeam, and catching her father's hand, implored him to come out on the balcony.

"That would never do, Roskě," said he. "Dost not know I must give place to the ladies?"

"Oh? Then you shall have my place, father. I love you to have it. Do come, do!" Adding as an afterthought, "If you squeeze a little you can fit into it quite well."

Could self-abnegation go farther? Adrian smiled on her fondly, but declined the generous offer, with thanks. So she danced back to her place again; and Adrian presently heard her happy little voice crying out a premature, "Vivat Oranje!"

Dirk stood in the street below. Roskě and Tant' Marie had succeeded in "paning" the famous cap with blue velvet, and, adorned with a new orange cockade, it looked passing gay as he waved it gleefully to his little lady on the balcony.

The street was narrow and the crowd dense; the outriders had much ado to clear the way for the Prince's carriage. Dick got pushed aside, up against the house. "I shall not see him," he thought. "But the Freule will see splendidly."

The noise increased, the shouting grew louderever louder. "I must see!" thought Dirk. With a climb and a spring he gained the narrow ledge of a ground-floor window, and stood clinging to the

casement.

Just in time. He was coming! The horses' heads were in sight now-‘ -"a roar like thunder shook the street." A tempest of shouts and cheering, "Vivat Oranje! Oranje boven! Oranje, blanje, blaue!" pealed from a thousand throats.

Dirk saw all; the Prince's face lit up with a calm and serious joy-the sweet lady's beside him. "Vivat Oranje!" went up from his utmost heart, as he flung the cap high in air.

A child's cry drowned his voice, a piercing cry -as of mortal terror. The horses stopped; the people pressed to and fro in an agitated mass. All was confusion.

Dirk was in the street, fighting his way through the crowd madly, desperately, the strength of ten in his single arm. He would have known that voice amidst uncounted millions, and it would have called him from the ends of the earth.

He felt no surprise to see Roskě lying in the street a little heap of blue and white-just under the horses' heads. He expected it; years had passed already since he heard that cry.

Dr. Kaspar Maldeer, her father's rival, knelt beside her, one hand under her head, the other laid upon her heart. As Dirk approached, he looked up, gave the bystanders one sorrowful glance, then took his hand from her heart, and put it upon her eyes. No one spoke a word. Dirk's face was ashen, and he trembled like an aspen leaf. But there was something yet that he could do for Roskě. Silently he stepped forward, and stooped down to take her in his arms. The right was his.

No; another claimed it, to whom even Dirk gave way. The crowd divided, falling back to right and left as the Prince drew near. The joy in his face was quenched now. Without a word to any man, he bent down over the child, took her tenderly up in his arms, and, with her head laid upon his breast, turned towards the door of the house where the balcony was. Adrian and Marie had heard-not seen. It was some seconds ere they knew what had happened. Then Adrian rushed to the door, where some with pitying words and gestures tried to hold him back.

He struggled with them blindly, in a maze of bewildered horror, conscious only of the wish to see. Then suddenly he came to himself. He was standing face to face with the Prince, and in his arms Roskě lay" asleep." He turned and went in with him to the nearest room, where were gathered a panic-stricken group, with Marie amongst them. The Prince looked around upon them all, his glance resting for a moment on the face of Marie. Then he looked again at Adrian, read the anguish in his eyes, and hesitated no more. He knew the heart of a father. He placed the burden in his arms, and his voice was low and tender as he said: She My friend, God has called your little one. is with Him now. It was but a moment, and see -she did not suffer. For her there is no sorrow any more—your sorrow may Christ comfort."