Katherine had not spoken during the discussion but, when it was over, she said, “Mijn vader, mijn moeder, to-day I cannot go!  For me have some pity.  The dominie I will speak to first; and what he says, I will do.”

“Between me and thy moeder thou shalt be.”

“Bear it I cannot.  I shall fall down, I shall be ill; and there shall be shame and fear, and the service to make stop, and then more wonder and more talk, and the dominie angry also!  At home I am the best.”

“Well, then, so it shall be.”

But Joris was stern to Katherine, and his anger added the last bitterness to her grief.  No one had said a word of reproach to her; but, equally, no one had said a word of pity.  Even Joanna was shy and cold, for Batavius had made her feel that one’s own sister may fall below moral par and sympathy.  “If either of the men die,” he had said, “I shall always consider Katherine guilty of murder; and nowhere in the Holy Scriptures are we told to forgive murder, Joanna.  And even while the matter is uncertain, is it not right to be careful?  Are we not told to avoid even the appearance of evil?” So that, with this charge before him, Batavius felt that countenancing Katherine in any way was not keeping it.

And certainly the poor girl might well fear the disapproval of the general public, when her own family made her feel her fault so keenly.  The kirk that morning would have been the pillory to her.  She was unspeakably grateful for the solitude of the house, for space and silence, in which she could have the relief of unrestrained weeping.  About the middle of the morning, she heard Bram’s footsteps.  She divined why he had come home, and she shrank from meeting him until he removed the clothing he had worn during the night’s bloody vigil.  Bram had not thought of Katherine’s staying from kirk; and when she confronted him, so tear-stained and woe-begone, his heart was full of pity for her.  “My poor little Katherine!” he said; and she threw her arms around his neck, and sobbed upon his breast as if her heart would break.

[Illustration:  “O Bram! is he dead?”]

“Mijn kleintje, who has grieved thee?”

“O Bram! is he dead?”

“Who?  Neil?  I think he will get well once more.”

“What care I for Neil?  The wicked one!  I wish that he might die.  Yes, that I do.”

“Whish!—­to say that is wrong.”

“Bram!  Bram!  A little pity give me.  It is the other one.  Hast thou heard?”

“How can he live?  Look at that sorrow, dear one, and ask God to forgive and help thee.”

“No, I will not look at it.  I will ask God every moment that he may get well.  Could I help that I should love him?  So kind, so generous, is he!  Oh, my dear one, my dear one, would I had died for thee!”