"Let me bring the water!" cried the Little Marie, gayly, clapping her hands ingenuously. "This is just like keeping house to John, my brother. Did I tell you his beard was like yours? See, I will stroke it. Even so does it fall so gracefully on brother John's breast!" And as she tripped away with the tall jug in her hand to the pail behind the door, the jailer devoutly hoped that it would be much more than an hour and a half before his deputy should return. The Little Marie was a long time in finding the proper water-pail, and it was not till Peter was half across the floor on his way to assist her that she appeared, carrying the beaker of water in one hand and a small earthenware cup in the other. "A big, big jug for the mickle great cat, And a little wee jug for the kitten." So she chanted, to the tune of a Flanders nursery rhyme. Then she laughed merrily. And the amorous Black Peter, subdued to the soles of his boots, vowed that he had never heard anything half so prettily witty in all his life. Then the Little Marie poured out a full tumbler of the Hollands and water from the jug which she had brought for him, and also adjusted a tiny portion for herself. "Milk for the kitten," she said; "taste it," and she offered to feed him with a spoonful--"nice, nice--is it not, brother John?" And brother John smiled and tasted. "Now drink, great black cat!" she commanded, stamping her foot. And, nothing loath, Peter drank her health--once, twice, and thrice. He would have come about the table to mix another, and, mayhap, to take the Little Marie by the waist. But even as he rose he began to see a flock of Little Maries, and he put his hand hard on the oaken settle. "I think I will sit down," he said; "drink thou to my health, Little Marie!" And with his eyes drooping with leaden sleep, Peter watched a regiment of country girls drinking his health out of tall green glasses with twisted stems. The last words his ears caught, ere the drowsy, lisping ocean of infinite sleep swelled up and drowned everything, were, "Kittens' milk, brother John--only nice sweet milk for pretty innocent kittens." And then Black Peter's chin sank on his breast. * * * * * So soon as the jailer's head fell and his eyes finally closed, an instantaneous change passed over the face of the Little Marie. The wayward mirth and provocation died out of it. A haggard, anxious expression came into her eyes. She ran forward and grasped the bundle of keys that swung at Peter's girdle. She tried with all her might to pull them away, but they were locked to a strong steel band which passed about his waist. The girl stood a moment in despair. Then she thrust a quick hand into all his pockets and pulled out many trifles such as men carry--love-tokens, buttons, coins, and the like, mixed with ends of string and stray scraps of tobacco.