With a face almost as pale as that of his aunt, Johannes looked straight up into her glistening glasses. There were tears in her voice, and Johannes saw them appear from under the spectacles, and slowly trickle down along the delicate lines of her cheeks. It was Johannes' turn, now, to feel badly. He was utterly confounded. Who was right--Father Pan or Aunt Seréna? In such straits was he that he would rather be running the streets at such a pace as never to get back again. The street door stood ajar, the autumn day was drawing to its close in a melancholy twilight, and a drizzling rain was falling. Daatje was standing outside, talking with some one. "Aunt Seréna," said Johannes, trying hard to control himself, "I know that I am wicked, but I really will be good--_really_--if only I knew...." Just then there came from outside a sound which made him quiver with agitation. It thrilled through marrow and bone, and he felt his knees giving way. It was the sharp, rasping sound of steel being held against the whetstone; and through the door-crack he saw the glitter of that beautiful fountain of golden sparks. It sounded to him like a blessed tidings--like the utterance of mercy to one condemned. "That is Markus!" he cried, with heightened color and shining eyes. Aunt Seréna went to the door and opened it. There, bowed over his work, stood Markus. Again, he was treading the wheel of the old cart, the one with the footboard. As before, the water was dripping from his old cap, down upon his faded raincoat. His face was sad, and there were deep lines about his mouth. "Markus!" cried Johannes; and, springing forward, he threw his arms around him, and pressed his head caressingly against the wet clothing. "For the love of Christ, Boy! What are you doing?" said Daatje. "What Romish freak is this?" "Oh, Aunt Seréna!" cried Johannes. "May he not come indoors? He is so wet, and so tired! He is a good man--my best friend." Daatje placed her arms akimbo, and stepped angrily in front of Aunt Seréna and the doorway. "Now, I'll attend to that. The dear Lord preserve us! Such a dirty lout of a gypsy come into my clean marble hall! That's altogether too much!" But Aunt Seréna, in that earnest tone which had always been a command for Daatje--admitting no oppositions--said: "Daatje, go back to the kitchen. I will settle this matter myself." And turning toward Markus she asked: "Will you not come in and rest?" Slowly straightening himself up, Markus replied: "I will, Madam." And he laid down his scissors, took off his cap, and walked in. This time Daatje was disobedient, for she did not return to the kitchen, but remained, arms still akimbo, repeatedly shaking her head, surveying the intruder with horror--especially his feet, and the old coat which he hung upon the hat-rack. And, when Aunt Seréna actually let him out of the vestibule into the room itself, she tarried behind the unclosed door, anxiously listening.