He pounced upon it, opened it, and read the following words, in a handwriting which he could scarcely have recognized as that of Rosa, so much had she improved during her short absence of seven days,-- “Be easy; your tulip is going on well.” Although these few words of Rosa’s somewhat soothed the grief of Cornelius, yet he felt not the less the irony which was at the bottom of them. Rosa, then, was not ill, she was offended; she had not been forcibly prevented from coming, but had voluntarily stayed away. Thus Rosa, being at liberty, found in her own will the force not to come and see him, who was dying with grief at not having seen her. Cornelius had paper and a pencil which Rosa had brought to him. He guessed that she expected an answer, but that she would not come before the evening to fetch it. He therefore wrote on a piece of paper, similar to that which he had received,-- “It was not my anxiety about the tulip that has made me ill, but the grief at not seeing you.” After Gryphus had made his last visit of the day, and darkness had set in, he slipped the paper under the door, and listened with the most intense attention, but he neither heard Rosa’s footsteps nor the rustling of her gown. He only heard a voice as feeble as a breath, and gentle like a caress, which whispered through the grated little window in the door the word,-- “To-morrow!” Now to-morrow was the eighth day. For eight days Cornelius and Rosa had not seen each other. Chapter 20. The Events which took place during those Eight Days On the following evening, at the usual hour, Van Baerle heard some one scratch at the grated little window, just as Rosa had been in the habit of doing in the heyday of their friendship. Cornelius being, as may easily be imagined, not far off from the door, perceived Rosa, who at last was waiting again for him with her lamp in her hand. Seeing him so sad and pale, she was startled, and said,-- “You are ill, Mynheer Cornelius?” “Yes, I am,” he answered, as indeed he was suffering in mind and in body. “I saw that you did not eat,” said Rosa; “my father told me that you remained in bed all day. I then wrote to calm your uneasiness concerning the fate of the most precious object of your anxiety.” “And I,” said Cornelius, “I have answered. Seeing your return, my dear Rosa, I thought you had received my letter.” “It is true; I have received it.” “You cannot this time excuse yourself with not being able to read. Not only do you read very fluently, but also you have made marvellous progress in writing.” “Indeed, I have not only received, but also read your note. Accordingly I am come to see whether there might not be some remedy to restore you to health.” “Restore me to health?” cried Cornelius; “but have you any good news to communicate to me?” Saying this, the poor prisoner looked at Rosa, his eyes sparkling with hope. Whether she did not, or would not, understand this look, Rosa answered gravely,--