Strange that the visit of their good benefactor should have left a cloud, yet so it was. Gretel frowned, an anxious childish frown, and kneaded the bread-dough violently, without looking up. Dame Brinker hurried to her husband's bedside, leaned over him, and fell into silent but passionate weeping. In a moment Hans entered. "Why, mother," he whispered in alarm, "what ails thee? Is the father worse?" She turned her quivering face toward him, making no attempt to conceal her distress. "Yes. He is starving--perishing. The meester said it." Hans turned pale. "What does this mean, mother? We must feed him at once. Here, Gretel, give me the porridge." "Nay!" cried his mother, distractedly, yet without raising her voice, "it may kill him. Our poor fare is too heavy for him. Oh, Hans, he will die--the father will _die_ if we use him this way. He must have meat, and sweet wine, and a dek-bed. Oh, what shall I do? what shall I do?" she sobbed, wringing her hands. "There is not a stiver in the house." Gretel pouted; it was the only way she could express sympathy just then; her tears fell one by one into the dough. "Did the meester say he _must_ have these things, mother?" asked Hans. "Yes, he did." "Well, mother, don't cry, _he shall have them_; I shall bring meat and wine before night. Take the cover from my bed. I can sleep in the straw." "Yes, Hans; but it is heavy, scant as it is. The meester said he must have something light and warm. He will perish. Our peat is giving out, Hans. The father has wasted it sorely, throwing it on when I was not looking, dear man." "Never mind, mother," whispered Hans, cheerfully. "We can cut down the willow tree and burn it, if need be; but I'll bring home something to-night. There _must_ be work in Amsterdam, though there's none in Broek. Never fear, mother; the worst trouble of all is past. We can brave anything now that the father is himself again." "Aye!" sobbed Dame Brinker, hastily drying her eyes, "that is true indeed." "Of course it is. Look at him, mother, how softly he sleeps. Do you think God would let him starve, just after giving him back to us. Why, mother, I'm as _sure_ of getting all the father needs, as if my pocket was bursting with gold. There, now, don't fret." And hurriedly kissing her, Hans caught up his skates and slipped from the cottage. Poor Hans! Disappointed in his morning's errand, half sickened with this new trouble, he wore a brave look, and tried to whistle as he tramped resolutely off with the firm intention of mending matters.