"Yes, but you see," Johannes began again, "when people speak of our Father, they mean God, and God is...." What was it again, that Windekind had said about God? The thought came to him, and clothed in the old terms. But Johannes hesitated. The terms were surely not attractive. "What is God, now?" asked Marjon. The old jargon must be used. There was nothing better. "... An oil-lamp, where the flies stick fast." Marjon whistled--a shrill whistle of authority--a circus-command. Keesje, who was sitting on the foremast, thoughtfully inspecting his outstretched hind foot, started up at once, and came sliding down the steel cable, in dutiful haste. "Here, Kees! Attention!" Kees grumbled assent, and was instantly on the alert, for he was well drilled. His sharp little brown eyes scarcely strayed for one second away from the face of his mistress. "The young gentleman here says he knows what God is. Do you know?" Keesje shook his head quickly, showing all his sharp little white teeth in a grin. One would have said he was laughing, but his small eyes peered as seriously as ever from Marjon's mouth to her hand. There was nothing to laugh at. He must pay attention. That was clear. Goodies were bound to follow--or blows. But Marjon laughed loudly. "Here, Kees! Good Kees!" And then he had the dainties, and soon was up on the mast, smacking aloud as he feasted. The result of this affront was quite unexpected to Marjon. Johannes, who had been lying prone on the deck, with his chin in his hands, gazed sadly for a while at the horizon, and then hid his face in his folded arms, his body shaking with sobs. "Stop now, Jo; you're silly! Cry for _that_!" said Marjon, half frightened, trying to pull his arms away from his face. But Johannes shook his head. "Hush! Let me think," said he. Marjon gave him about a quarter of an hour, and then she spoke, gently and kindly, as if to comfort him: "I know what you wanted to say, dear Jo. That's the reason, too, why I always speak of The Father. I understand that the best; because, you see, I never knew my earthly father, but he must have been much better than other fathers." "Why?" asked Johannes. "Because I am much better than all those people round about me, and better than that common, dark woman who had another father." Marjon said this quite simply, thinking it to be so. She said it in a modest manner, while feeling that it was something which ought to be spoken. "Not that I have been so very good. Oh, no! But yet I have been better than the others, and that was because of the father; for my mother, too, was only a member of a troupe. And now it is so lovely that I can say 'Father' just as Markus does!" Johannes looked at her, with the sadness still in his eyes.