130 Hans Brinker

when he moans, how I ache,— ache all over! Perhaps I
love him, after all, and God will see I am not such a bad,
wicked girl as I thought. Yes, I love the poor father, almost
as Hans does— not quite; for Hans is stronger, and does not
fear him. Oh! will that moaning go on forever and ever?
Poor mother, how patient she is! She never pouts, as I do, ”
about the money that went away so strangely. If he only
could, just for one instant, open his eyes and look at us, as Hans
does, and tell us where mother’s guilders went, I would not
care for the rest. Yes, I would care; I don’t want the poor
father to die, to be all blue and cold, like Annie Bouman’s
little sister — I Anow I don’t. Dear God, I don’t want father
to die.”

Her thoughts merged into a prayer. When it ended the
poor child scarcely knew. Soon she found herself watching
a little pulse of light at the side of the fire, beating faintly, but
steadily, showing that somewhere in the dark pile there was
warmth and light that would overspread it at last. A large
earthen cup, filled with burning peat, stood near the bedside :
Gretel had placed it there to “ stop the father’s shivering,” she
said. She watched it. as it sent a glow around the mother’s
form, tipping her faded skirt with light, and shedding a sort of
newness over the threadbare bodice. It was a relief to Gretel
to see the lines in that weary face soften as the firelight flick-
ered gently across it.

Next she counted the window-panes, broken and patched
as they were, and finally, after tracing every crack and seam
in the walls, fixed her gaze upon a carved shelf made by Hans.
The shelf hung as high as Gretel could reach. It held a
large, leather-covered Bible, with brass clasps, ——a wedding-
present to Dame Brinker from the family at Heidelberg.