Peter was in excellent spirits. He had heard through Hilda of Dame Brinker's laugh and of Hans' joyous words, and he needed no further proof that Raff Brinker was a cured man. In fact the news had gone forth in every direction, for miles around. Persons who had never before cared for the Brinkers, or even mentioned them, except with a contemptuous sneer or a shrug of pretended pity, now became singularly familiar with every point of their history. There was no end to the number of ridiculous stories that were flying about. Hilda, in the excitement of the moment, had stopped to exchange a word with the doctor's coachman, as he stood by the horses, pommelling his chest and clapping his hands. Her kind heart was overflowing. She could not help pausing to tell the cold, tired-looking man that she thought the doctor would be out soon; she even hinted to him that she suspected--only suspected--that a wonderful cure had been performed--an idiot brought to his senses. Nay, she was _sure_ of it--for she had heard his widow laugh--no, not his widow, of course, but his wife--for the man was as much alive as anybody, and, for all she knew, sitting up and talking like a lawyer. All this was very indiscreet. Hilda in an impenitent sort of way felt it to be so. But it is always so delightful to impart pleasant or surprising news! She went tripping along by the canal, quite resolved to repeat the sin, _ad infinitum_, and tell nearly every girl and boy in the school. Meantime, Janzoon Kolp came skating by. Of course, in two seconds, he was striking slippery attitudes, and shouting saucy things to the coachman, who stared at him in indolent disdain. This, to Janzoon, was equivalent to an invitation to draw nearer. The coachman was now upon his box gathering up the reins and grumbling at his horses. Janzoon accosted him. "I say. What's going on at the idiot's cottage? Is your boss in there?" Coachman nodded mysteriously. "Whew!" whistled Janzoon, drawing closer. "Old Brinker dead?" The driver grew big with importance, and silent in proportion. "See here, old pincushion, I'd run home yonder and get you a chunk of gingerbread if I thought you could open your mouth." Old pincushion was human--long hours of waiting had made him ravenously hungry. At Janzoon's hint, his countenance showed signs of a collapse. "That's right, old fellow," pursued his tempter, "hurry up--what news--old Brinker dead?" "No--CURED! got his wits," said the coachman, shooting forth his words, one at a time, like so many bullets. Like bullets (figuratively speaking) they hit Janzoon Kolp. He jumped as if he had been shot. "Goede Gunst! you don't say so!" The man pressed his lips together, and looked significantly toward Master Kolp's shabby residence.