The procession was over. Pallieter was walking about the ramparts with the visitors and Charlot was busy cooking indoors. Suddenly from the convent garden came the chatter and shouting of children, and out of the gateway streamed a crowd of the white-muslin girls and the purple-vested boys, dancing and jumping, carrying a parcel of sweets. They trooped all together into the field, calling and laughing with joy, and sucking sweets. There were about forty of them, all rustling and flashing with color. They jumped over the brooks, chased one another about, and gathered armfuls of flowers and rushes. Then three nuns came out to scold them and send them off home, but the children laughed at them and made a ring round them, dancing and singing. The nuns joined in directly, and seemed to enjoy the fun, and then all the novices who were walking on the ramparts came down and joined in the fun. The priest appeared and beckoned to them with his finger. Pallieter went and stood behind him, and waved his arm to the nuns to come and fetch the priest. They understood at once, and led him into the crowd of merrymakers, whether he would or not. They made a ring and danced round him, singing: “Is the priest at home to-night? I’d like to get my sins put right Before the day is dawning!” And the priest sang the answer with a shaky voice, beating time with his forefinger: “They say I’m poor as Job himself; I’ve neither cent nor gear nor pelf.” When Pallieter saw and heard this he caught hold of Marieke’s hand and pulled her into the crowd, and they whirled round with the rest. They sang and twirled, and feet stamped and skirts swung, and the priest held his sides with laughing. Pallieter started another song, threw his legs up as high as his head, and would not hear of stopping. On the convent rampart, the country folks, the older nuns, and the men from the almshouse all stood laughing and chuckling, and Charlot at the kitchen window laughed till the tears ran down her face. Felix Timmermans, _Pallieter_. Harper & Brothers. By kind permission of the author, the translator, C. B. Bodde, and the Publishers. THE FORGER GRACE E. POLK It was spring, one of those gusty March days whose blasts, reminiscent of winter, are succeeded by a mood so soft and wooing that the senses ache with the swift prescience of growing things. It was the sort of day that sends young lambs on shaky legs cavorting over the meadows, and lures young boys out of their white beds, to sleep in the open fields or any chicken-coop or ash-barrel. Such a boy now walked along the street peddling handbills.