"O-o-oh!" said the others doubtfully, while Markus simply smiled. Thus Marjon was soon back again in her girl's apparel--an ugly red-checked little frock. Keesje alone was satisfied with the change. "Have you been singing much?" asked Markus. "Yes, we sing every day," said Marjon, "and Johannes has made some nice new songs." "That is good," said Markus. Then, turning to husband and wife: "May they sing here a little?" "Sing! A pretty time for singing!" said the wife, scornfully. "Why not?" asked the husband. "A nice song is never out of place." "You are right," said Markus. "It is not well to hear nothing but sighs." Marjon softly tuned her guitar; and while the husband sat beside the brick stove, smoking his pipe, and the wife laid her little one in bed, the two children began to sing a song--the last of those they had made together. It was a melancholy little song, as were all those they had sung during the last weeks. These were the words: "If I should say what makes me sad, My effort would be all in vain; But nightingales and roses glad They whisper it in sweet refrain. "The evening zephyr softly sighs In strains one clearly understands; I see it traced high o'er the skies In writing made by mystic hands. "I know a land where every grief Is changed into a mellow song; Where roses heal with blushing lips All wounds and every aching wrong. "That land, though not so far away, I may not, cannot enter there; It is not here where now I stay And no one saves me from despair." "Is that Dutch, now?" asked the miner. "I can't understand a bit of it? Can you, wife?" Weeping, the wife shook her head. "Then what are you snivelling for, if you don't understand?" "I don't understand it at all; but it makes me cry, and that does me good," said the wife. "All right, then! If it does you good we'll have it once more." And the children sang it over again. * * * * * When they went away, they left the family in a more peaceful mood. Markus took his place in the middle, between the two children, Keesje sitting upon his shoulder, with one little hand resting confidingly on his cap, attentively studying the thick, dark hair at his temples. "Markus!" said Johannes. "I do not understand it. Really, what has my grief to do with theirs? And yet, it did seem as if they were crying over my verses. But my little griefs are of so little account, while they are anxious about things so much more important." "I understand, perfectly," said Marjon. "Awhile ago, they might beat me as hard as they pleased, and I wouldn't utter a sound. But once, when they had given me a hard whipping, I saw a forlorn little kitten that looked quite as unhappy as I was, and then I began to cry with all my might, and it made me feel better."