The strain was over; and the little lad slumbered peacefully,—until dawn, as it proved. We got the mother gradually quieted, and at last induced to go off to bed, leaving Kathleen in charge for the night. About half-past-one, Terence and I, growing hungry, extemporised a sort of pic-nic in the kitchen; but Kathleen wouldn’t touch anything we brought her.

It was then I began to notice how grave she was, and silent.

But I must say, nobody could be more devoted than she was to the youthful invalid.

He awoke rather early after his timely sleep, but much calmer. And—a good sign—he had a healthy ‘trek’, which we were gratified to see in operation upon ‘beschuit’ and ‘melk’, before his mother arrived to resume the reins of authority.

As we escorted Kathleen to her hotel in the cool of the morning, we found her singularly irresponsive, not to say depressed; and I somehow got wind of the fact that van Leeuwen, who had motored up to the Hague, on hearing of her father’s accident, had been prowling about the Vieux Doelen ever since. He had visited Dr. MacNamara almost every day; but Kathleen had kept studiously aloof.

“I know he likes father,” she said, “and I’m glad he came so often to see him. Not very interesting, otherwise! In any case he has suddenly vanished into space!”

The evening before, when she was on her way to my landlady’s to watch by the sick boy, van Leeuwen had met her right in front of the Mauritshuis. But she had treated him with such stately indifference, and greeted his remarks with such frigid courtesy, that the good-natured fellow was really hurt. He had in fact returned the same evening to Arnhem.

Kathleen said she was very glad, except for her father’s sake. But she didn’t give one the impression of being enthusiastic about it, and I drew my own conclusions.

On reaching the Doelen, we found a hasty scrawl from the very man we had been talking of—van Leeuwen—inviting Terence and myself to a cycling tour in his neighbourhood.

“Well, then, I’ll go next Friday,” Terence broke out; “at least, if you’re ready then, Jack. We’ll have a grand time. Dad is all right now; and that funny little kid is on the mend. So we can go with a clear conscience. Say, yes.”

“Ah, that’s like you boys”, said Kathleen banteringly, but without the ghost of a smile, “to go cycling about, enjoying yourselves, no matter what happens to others! I’m still anxious about that child. And I do wish I understood him better when he talks.”

“As for that”, I interrupted, “I’ll give you the key to it, in an instant. Jan’s reminiscences are all about my Dutch. Well, I’ll lend you my diary, and the most entertaining Grammar in Holland. Besides, I’ve written a monograph on obvious blunders, English into Dutch. Read these, now, when you’re tending this convalescent boy-hero of yours. He’ll understand them, I’ll be bound; and it’ll shake him up, and do you a world of good yourself.”

“What a silly cousin, to be sure!” she replied. “You forget, sir, I need some one to explain all your double-Dutch. Get me a ‘coach’ now, a competent one, who knows everything, and I’ll give your booklet a trial.”

“Done!” I said, as we parted.

And I held her to it. My diary kept her amused for a couple of days, as she watched in the sick-room. It roused her out of her depression, and she got into the way of reading things to Jan as he recovered.

She couldn’t remain quite smileless; but grew interested enough in Dutch to demand my monograph and—above all—the Grammar!

“You shall have them both,” I assured her,—“the booklet on the spot; and the Grammar, when I get as far as Arnhem and don’t need to use it for a while.”

“Couldn’t I have it sooner? I’m dying with curiosity to see that awful book. Or, when you are there, and any of your friends are coming to the Hague, just send it with them.”

“Yes. There’s a ‘coach’ coming up in a day or two. I’ll send it along.”

I fancied her eyes gave a bit of a flicker. But she was meek and friendly: so I knew it was all right. She hadn’t asked what kind of coach. But she’s intelligent.

That very instant I went home and wrote van Leeuwen that we—Terence and I—were starting next day, by train, for Arnhem, whence we should have a run through Gelderland.

There was no note-paper in the house, but I couldn’t wait. So I a penned what I had to say on a series of visiting cards,—numbering them: 1, 2, 3 up to 10, and enclosing them in a portly yellow envelope. It was the only thing I had. I was pleased to notice its impressive aspect, as that would prevent its getting lost readily.

For I attached much importance to that communication.

In it I prepared van Leeuwen’s mind, indirectly and circuitously, for apprehending the idea that Miss MacNamara was now deeply interested in Dutch; and was studying it to help her in nursing that sick boy. Also that, as she had grown much too sombre of late with the responsibilities she had assumed, we were trying to brighten her up. When the lad was quite well, we should all do the Friesland meres, before we returned to Kilkenny. But not for a while yet.

And so on. I hinted as distantly as I could, that he had motored back to Arnhem a trifle too soon. We were all sorry he had left so suddenly. Even yet, if he would leave his camera at home—the one with the loud click—and if he wouldn’t be too exclusively immersed in Celtic manuscripts, and avoided arguing about the Suffragettes, when he did meet with the MacNamara family, there was no reason to suppose that his offences were beyond pardon. All this in shadowy outline—for fear he would motor up like a Fury, and either break his neck on the way, or spoil everything by premature action.

I made the haze quite thick, here and there, on the visiting cards—their form lent itself to obscurity—and I told him I should see him without fail within twenty-four hours.

“I might have to ask a favour at his hands about a grammar.

Terence was well: the Doctor was well, went to Leyden daily to the Library. We expected to reach Velperweg toward midday. Don’t be out.”

I posted the yellow missive with my own hands, and reckoned out by the ‘bus-lichting’ plate, that it would be collected that night.

“Tour or no tour, to-morrow,” I said to myself, heaving a sigh of relief, after my race to the pillar-box; “We’re on the brink of a romance, if the protagonists only knew it. A little bad Dutch now seems all that is required. And we can rely on Boyton.”

Queer, when you think of it, that you sometimes hold people’s destinies in the hollow of your hand!

However, I didn’t philosophise much, but got to sleep as soon as ever I could,—content as from a good day’s work.