“Ah! Exactly so. You are right, boy, I am a fool. Good boy. One does not wish one’s father killed--of course I am a fool.” “Will he die, mynheer, if this sickness goes on?” “Humph! This is no new illness. The same thing growing worse ever instant--pressure on the brain--will take him off soon like THAT,” said the doctor, snapping his fingers. “And the operation MAY save him,” pursued Hans. “How soon, mynheer, can we know?” Dr. Boekman grew impatient. “In a day, perhaps, an hour. Talk with your mother, boy, and let her decide. My time is short.” Hans approached his mother; at first, when she looked up at him, he could not utter a syllable; then, turning his eyes away, he said in a firm voice, “I must speak with the mother alone.” Quick little Gretel, who could not quite understand what was passing, threw rather an indignant look at Hans and walked away. “Come back, Gretel, and sit down,” said Hans, sorrowfully. She obeyed. Dame Brinker and her boy stood by the window while the doctor and his assistant, bending over the bedside, conversed together in a low tone. There was no danger of disturbing the patient. He appeared like one blind and deaf. Only his faint, piteous moans showed him to be a living man. Hans was talking earnestly, and in a low voice, for he did not wish his sister to hear. With dry, parted lips, Dame Brinker leaned toward him, searching his face, as if suspecting a meaning beyond his words. Once she gave a quick, frightened sob that made Gretel start, but, after that, she listened calmly. When Hans ceased to speak, his mother turned, gave one long, agonized look at her husband, lying there so pale and unconscious, and threw herself on her knees beside the bed. Poor little Gretel! What did all this mean? She looked with questioning eyes at Hans; he was standing, but his head was bent as if in prayer--at the doctor. He was gently feeling her father’s head and looked like one examining some curious stone--at the assistant. The man coughed and turned away--at her mother. Ah, little Gretel, that was the best you could do--to kneel beside her and twine your warm, young arms about her neck, to weep and implore God to listen. When the mother arose, Dr. Boekman, with a show of trouble in his eyes, asked gruffly, “Well, jufvrouw, shall it be done?” “Will it pain him, mynheer?” she asked in a trembling voice. “I cannot say. Probably not. Shall it be done?” “It MAY cure him, you said, and--mynheer, did you tell my boy that--perhaps--perhaps...” She could not finish. “Yes, jufvrouw, I said the patient might sink under the operation, but we hope it may prove otherwise.” He looked at his watch. The assistant moved impatiently toward the window. “Come, jufvrouw, time presses. Yes or no?” Hans wound his arm about his mother. It was not his usual way. He even leaned his head against her shoulder. “The meester awaits an answer,” he whispered.