"Aye," responded Peter's cheery voice, "willing heart makes nimble foot--and who knows, but it may make strong arms also." "Pete," asked Ludwig, changing the subject, "did you tell me last night that the painter Wouvermans was born in Haarlem?" "Yes, and Jacob Ruysdael and Berghem too. I like Berghem because he was always good-natured--they say he always sang while he painted, and though he died nearly two hundred years ago, there are traditions still afloat concerning his pleasant laugh. He was a great painter, and he had a wife as cross as Xantippe." "They balanced each other finely," said Ludwig; "he was kind and she was cross. But, Peter, before I forget it, wasn't that picture of St. Hubert and the Horse painted by Wouvermans? You remember father showed us an engraving from it last night." "Yes, indeed; there is a story connected with that picture." "Tell us!" cried two or three, drawing closer to Peter as they skated on. "Wouvermans," began the captain, oratorically, "was born in 1620, just four years before Berghem. He was a master of his art, and especially excelled in painting horses. Strange as it may seem, people were so long finding out his merits, that, even after he had arrived at the height of his excellence, he was obliged to sell his pictures for very paltry prices. The poor artist became completely discouraged, and, worse than all, was over head and ears in debt. One day he was talking over his troubles with his father-confessor, who was one of the few who recognized his genius. The priest determined to assist him, and accordingly lent him six hundred guilders, advising him at the same time to demand a better price for his pictures. Wouvermans did so, and in the meantime paid his debts. Matters brightened with him at once. Everybody appreciated the great artist who painted such costly pictures. He grew rich. The six hundred guilders were returned, and in gratitude, Wouvermans sent also a work which he had painted, representing his benefactor as St. Hubert kneeling before his horse--the very picture, Ludwig, of which we were speaking last night." "So! so!" exclaimed Ludwig, with deep interest. "I must take another look at the engraving as soon as we get home." * * * * * At that same hour, while Ben was skating with his companions beside the Holland dyke, Robby and Jenny stood in their pretty English schoolhouse, ready to join in the duties of their reading class. "Commence! Master Robert Dobbs," said the teacher, "page 242; now, sir, mind every stop." And Robby, in a quick childish voice, roared forth at schoolroom pitch: "LESSON 62.--THE HERO OF HAARLEM.