“I had something else to say to you, Adrian.  My boys are going to the English riders this evening, and would be glad to have you accompany them.  You can begin with the decoction to-day.”

The physician bowed to the ladies and went on; Barbara followed him into the street, asking: 

“Are you in earnest about the prescription?”

“Of course, of course,” replied the doctor, “my grandmother used this remedy for headache, and she was a sensible woman.  Evening and morning, and the proper amount of sleep.”

Henrica occupied a pretty, tastefully-furnished room.  The windows looked out upon the quiet court-yard, planted with trees, adjoining the chamois-leather work shops.  She was allowed to sit up part of the day in a cushioned arm-chair, supported by pillows.  Her healthy constitution was rapidly rallying.  True, she was still weak, and the headache spoiled whole days and nights.  Maria’s gentle and thoughtful nature exerted a beneficial influence upon her, and she cheerfully welcomed Barbara, with her fresh face and simple, careful, helpful ways.

When Maria told her about the purchase Adrian had made for her, she was moved to tears; but to the boy she concealed her grateful emotion under jesting words, and greeted him with the exclamation: 

“Come nearer, my preserver, and give me your hand.”

Afterwards, she always called him “my preserver” or, as she liked to mingle Italian words with her Dutch, “Salvatore” or “Signor Salvatore.”  She was particularly fond of giving the people, with whom she associated, names of her own, and so called Barbara, whose Christian name she thought frightful, “Babetta,” and little slender, pretty Bessie, whose company she specially enjoyed, “the elf.”  The burgomaster’s wife only remained “Frau Maria,” and when the latter once jestingly asked the cause of such neglect, Henrica replied that she suited her name and her name her; had she been called Martha, she would probably have named her “Maria.”

The invalid had passed a pleasant, painless day, and when towards evening Adrian went to see the English riders and the fragrance of the blooming lindens and the moonlight found their way through the open windows of her room, she begged Barbara not to bring a light, and invited Maria to sit down and talk with her.

From Adrian and Bessie the conversation turned upon their own childhood.  Henrica had grown up among her father’s boon companions, amid the clinking of glasses and hunting-shouts, Maria in a grave burgher household, and what they told each other seemed like tidings from a strange world.

“It was easy for you to become the tall, white lily you are now,” said Henrica, “but I must thank the saints, that I came off as well as I did, for we really grew up like weeds, and if I hadn’t had a taste for singing and the family priest hadn’t been such an admirable musician, I might stand before you in a still worse guise.  When will the doctor let me hear you sing?”