But feelings for abstract right and wrong, like personal likes and dislikes, do not grow strongly where expediency and advisability and advantage have to rule; she was only going to do what she must in Holland; the debt must be paid, honour demanded no less; the blue daffodil was the only hope of paying it.  She was not going to steal a bulb exactly; she was going to get it somehow, as a gift, perhaps, opportunity must show how; and when it was hers, she could do with it as she pleased, there was no wrong in that.  She must go; she must do it; the thing was so necessary as to be unavoidable, and not open to question.  She looked down, and her eye fell on the watch again; it stared up at her in the same vacant way as Johnny had done that day when he wanted to sell it and his other things to help them out of their justly earned, sordid difficulties.  With shame she had prevented that, feeling the cause unworthy of the sacrifice.  But this sacrifice, for a still more unworthy cause, she was too late to prevent.  Johnny had gone.  She looked earnestly to see if he was among those who loitered about the stairs, or those in the more distant street.  But she could not see him, he was gone clean from sight; there was only the busy, unfamiliar life of the river around; yellow, sunlit water; the crowded craft, and the great stately wonder of the Tower Bridge silently raising and parting its solid roadway to let some boat go, as she would soon go down to the sea.

CHAPTER IV

THE OWNER OF THE BLUE DAFFODIL

Vrouw Snieder, the notary’s wife, sat by her window at work on a long strip of red crochet lace.  From her place she could see all who came up the street, and, there being a piece of looking-glass set outside, at right angles to the pane, also most who came down it.  This, though doubtless very informing, did not help the progress of the lace; but that was of no consequence, Mevrouw always had some red lace in making, and it might as well be one piece as another.  With her, were her two daughters, Denah and Anna, though Anna had no business there, being supposed just then to be preparing vegetables for dinner.  She had only come into the room to fetch keys, but a remark from her mother brought her to the window.

“There goes Vrouw Van Heigen’s English miss,” the old lady said, and both her daughters looked at once.

“She has been marketing, I see; she seems a good housewife.”

“She walks in the road,” Denah observed critically; “It is so conspicuous, I could not do it; besides, one might be run over.”

“The English always walk in the road,” her sister answered; “they think everything will get out of their way, and they do not at all mind being conspicuous.”

“The English miss should mind,” Denah said, “for she is not pretty; no one looks at her to admire; besides she is poor and has to work hard.”

“Yes, yes,” her mother agreed placidly; “she is a fine worker.  Vrouw Van Heigen is full of her praises; such a cook—­she has twenty new dishes, and everything is done quickly, one cannot tell how; it is like having a magician in the house, so she says.  Ah, there is Herr Van de Greutz’s Marthe going into the apothecary’s.  I wonder now—­”