By way of compensation she now
flew about the room in extreme haste. Tossing a block of peat
upon the fire, blowing invisible fire from the table, and handing
the finished hose to Hans, all in an instant. . .
"Comes, Hans," she said as her boy lingered by the door. "What
keeps thee?"
Hans kissed his mother's plump cheek, rosy and fresh yet, in
spite of all her troubles.
"My mother is the best in the world, and I would be right glad to
have a pair of skates, but"--and as he buttoned his jacket he
looked, in a troubled way, toward a strange figure crouching by
the hearthstone--"if my money would bring a meester *{Doctor
(dokter in Dutch), called meester by the lower class.} from
Amsterdam to see the father, something might yet be done."
"A meester would not come, Hans, for twice that money, and it
would do no good if he did. Ah, how many guilders I once spent
for that, but the dear, good father would not waken. It is God's
will. Go, Hans, and buy the skates."
Hans started with a heavy heart, but since the heart was young
and in a boy's bosom, it set him whistling in less than five
minutes. His mother had said "thee" to him, and that was quite
enough to make even a dark day sunny.
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