“I don’t know; he only told me that he had had many experiences.”

“I can easily believe it.  He is living at the tavern; but perhaps we can find a room for him in the side wing, looking out upon the court-yard.”

“No, Peter,” cried the young wife eagerly.  “There is no room in order there.”

“That can be arranged later.  At any rate we’ll invite him to dinner to-morrow, he may have something to tell us.  There is good marrow in the young man.  He begged me not to let him remain idle, but make him of use in the service.  Jan Van der Does has already put him in the right place, the new commandant looks into people’s hearts.”

Barbara mingled in the conversation, Peter, though it was a week-day, ordered a jug of wine to be brought instead of the beer, and an event that had not occurred for weeks happened:  the master of the house sat at least fifteen minutes with his family after the food had been removed, and told them of the rapid advance of the Spaniards, the sad fate of the fugitive Englishmen, who had been disarmed and led away in sections, the brave defence the Britons, to whose corps Georg belonged, had made at Alfen, and of another hot combat in which Don Gaytan, the right-hand and best officer of Valdez, was said to have fallen.  Messengers still went and came on the roads leading to Delft, but to-morrow these also would probably be blocked by the enemy.

He always addressed everything he said to Maria, unless Barbara expressly questioned him, and when he at last rose from the table, ordered a good roast to be prepared the next day for the guest he intended to invite.  Scarcely had the door of his room closed behind him, when little Bessie ran up to Maria, threw her arms around her and asked: 

“Mother, isn’t Junker Georg the tall captain with the blue feather, who ran down-stairs so fast to meet you?”

“Yes, child.”

“And he’s coming to dinner to-morrow!  He’s coming, Adrian.”

The child clapped her hands in delight and then ran to Barbara to exclaim once more: 

“Aunt Barbel, did you hear?  He’s coming!”

“With the blue feather,” replied the widow.

“And he has curls, curls as long as Assendelft’s little Clara.  May I go with you to see Cousin Henrica?”

“Afterwards, perhaps,” replied Maria.  “Go now, children, get the flowers and separate them carefully from the leaves.  Trautchen will bring some hoops and strings, and then we’ll bind the wreaths.”

Junker Georg’s remark, that this was a lucky day, seemed to be verified; for the young wife found Henrica bright and free from pain.  With the doctor’s permission, she had walked up and down her room several times, sat a longer time at the open window, relished her chicken, and when Maria entered, was seated in the softly-cushioned arm-chair, rejoicing in the consciousness of increasing strength.

Maria was delighted at her improved appearance, and told her how well she looked that day.