tossing of the waves but strengthened its hold, and embedded it more securely in that sure resting-place within the veil.
In a red and gold ante-chamber at the Hotel de Ville, in Antwerp, Chancellor Maas was at his toilet, surrounded by a bevy of obsequious lackeys. They were engaged in the wearisome task of rejuvenating the elderly man so that his face should not record his sixty-five years, but present the appearance of a man of thirty-five. With a look of vanity, the magistrate watched the result. At length the work of art was completed, and arrayed in a gorgeous costume of silver and blue, he surveyed his reflection in the mirror with serenity.
Dismissing his servants, the Chancellor repaired to the Burgomaster's house. He was ushered into the presence of Madam Van Straalen.
“Hilvardine is spending the day away from home,” said that lady.
“Where, may I ask?”
Madam hesitated.
“Is she at Dr. Chenoweth's again?”
“Yes.”
The Chancellor grew very red in the face, “Did I not tell you that there would be trouble if your daughter did not cease her visits to that family?”
“She is very fond of Madam Chenoweth,” began the Burgomaster's wife.
