ferent expression, a different voice, a different step during the last few months? Did he not feel what prompted her to go for long, long walks—sometimes with him, sometimes alone—over the dunes, towards the sea? . . . Though he did not know her new life, he had guessed her love . . .
There was a buzzing in his ears as she talked, as she explained to him how it would be better like that, for Papa, and how they both loved him, their child. She mentioned no names, neither Marianne's nor Brauws'. He remained quiet; and she did not see what was passing within him, not even when he said:
"If you think . . . if Papa is of opinion . . . that it will be better so, Mamma . . ."
She went on speaking, while her heart throbbed violently with the force of her emotion. She spoke of honesty and sincerity . . . of happiness for Papa . . . perhaps. A curious shyness made her shrink from speaking of herself. He hardly heard her words. But he understood her: he understood what she actually wanted, the future which she wished to bring about and compel. But a passion of melancholy overwhelmed him and his heart was weighed down with grief. He heard her speak of her life—his father's and hers—as a chain, a yoke, a lie. He felt dimly that she perhaps was right; and the light of those glowing dreams of hers made something shine vaguely before his childish eyes. But he found in it only sadness; and his
