and eight! And then the nursery proper, Jan tyrannizing over Piet and Klaasje! . . . How pink and young and fresh and sunny it all was! . . . Now those were real children, even though Klaasje's laugh was very dull and silly. She had never known Addie like that. Addie had never had that sort of youth. No, his childhood had been spent amid the outbursts of temper of his father and mother, amid their jealousies, amid scenes and tears, so that the child had never been a child. And yet . . . and yet, though he had grown up early, how well he had taken care of himself and what kindly powers had watched over him, making him into their one great joy and happiness and consolation! . . .
But, though this melancholy just passed through her, still the morning, that Sunday morning, had begun sunnily for her, with all that golden hair, all those soft, pink cheeks, all that mad, radiant gaiety; and Constance forgot her gloomy depression, caused by she knew not what, in the glow of childish happiness in that living-room.
The stairs now groaned under a heavy tread.
"There's Gerrit," said Adeline.
"How late he is!" said Constance, laughing. "Gerrit, how late you are!" she cried, even before he opened the door.
And she was surprised that his step should sound so sluggish and heavy, accustomed as she was to hear him fill the whole house with the brisk noise of his
