A large jug, which Cornelius had skilfully broken, did service as a flower-pot. He half filled it, and mixed the earth of the garden with a small portion of dried river-mud; a mixture which formed an excellent soil.
Then, at the beginning of April, he planted his first sucker in that jug.
Not a day passed on which Rosa did not come to have her chat with Cornelius.
The tulips, concerning whose cultivation Rosa was taught all the mysteries of the art, formed the principal topic of the conversation; but, interesting as the subject was, people cannot always talk about tulips.
They, therefore, began to chat also about other things, and the tulip-fancier found out, to his great astonishment, what a vast range of subjects a conversation may comprise.
Only Rosa had made it a habit to keep her pretty face invariably six inches distant from the grating, having, perhaps, become mistrustful of herself.
There was one thing especially which gave Cornelius almost as much anxiety as his bulbs—a subject to which he always returned—the dependance of Rosa on her father.
Indeed, Van Baerle’s happiness depended on the whim of this man. He might one day find Lœvesteir dull, or the air of the place unhealthy, or the gin bad, and leave the fortress, and take his daughter with him, when Cornelius and Rosa would again be separated.
“Of what use would the carrier-pigeons then be?” said Cornelius to Rosa, “as you, my dear girl, would not be able to read what I should write to you, nor to write to me your thoughts in return.”
“Well,” answered Rosa, who, in her heart, was as much afraid of a separation as Cornelius himself,
