It seemed homelike to be on board "Lorelei" again, in my place at the wheel, with the two girls and the Chaperon in their deck-chairs close by. Starr had been meaning to make a sketch of the group under the awning, but the dread apparition of his aunt's husband had twisted his nerves like wires struck by lightning, and he could do nothing. His is essentially the artistic temperament, and he is a creature of moods, impish in some, poetic in others; an extraordinary fellow, like no one I ever saw, yet curiously fascinating, and I find myself growing oddly fond of him, in an elder-brotherly, protecting sort of way.

Even I have my moods sometimes, though I can hide them better than he can; and this morning I was in the wrong key for the idyllic peace and prim prettiness of Broek-in-Waterland. I should have liked better to be out on a meer in Friesland, in a stiff breeze; but since it had to be Broek, I made the best of it.

The canal leading to that sleepy little village, which seems to float on the water like a half-closed lily, is one of the prettiest in the Netherlands. Almost at once, after parting from Amsterdam, we turned out of the North Sea Canal; and the smoke and bustle of the port were left behind like a troubled dream. We lifted a veil of sunbright mist, and found ourselves in the country—a friendly country of wide spaces such as we passed through in motoring between Amersfoort and Spaakenberg; of mossy farmhouses and hayfields, grazing cows, and swallows skimming low over little side-canals carpeted with vegetation like a netting of green beads. But here the hay was not protected by the elevated roofs of thatch we had seen yesterday. It lay in loose heaps of yellowing grass, shining in the sun like giant birds' nests of woven gold; and all the low-lying landscape shimmered pale golden and filmy green, too sweet and fresh for the green of any other country save mine, in mid-July. Here and there a peasant in some striking costume, or a horse in a blue coat, made a spot of color in the pearl and primrose light, under clouds changeful as opal; and each separate, dainty picture of farmhouse, or lock, or group of flags and reeds had its double in the water, lying bright and clear as a painting under glass, until our vandal boat came to shiver picture after picture.

As we moved, our progress not only sent an advance wave racing along the dyke, but tossed up a procession of tiny rainbow fountains, as if we threw handfuls of sapphires and diamonds into the water in passing.

Sometimes we had glimpses of mysterious villages, a line of pink-and-green houses stretching along the canal banks below the level of the water, shielded by rows of trees trained, in the Dutch way, to grow flat and wide, screening the windows as an open fan screens the sparkling eyes of a woman who peeps behind its sticks.

These half-hidden dwelling-places inspired Starr to launch out in a disquisition upon some of the characteristics he has observed among my people.

"Funny thing," said Starr, "the Dutch are a queer mixture of reserve and curiosity. You don't see a town or village where the windows aren't covered with curtains, and protected by squares of blue netting. But though the beings behind those windows are so anxious to live in private, they're consumed with curiosity about what's going on outside. For fear of missing something, they stick up looking-glasses on the walls to tell them what happens in the street. 'Seeing, unseen,' is the motto that ought to be written over the house doors."

"The Lady of Shalott started the fashion," said Nell.

As we drew nearer to Broek-in-Waterland, the landscape, already fragrant with daintiness, began to tidy itself anew, out of deference to Broek's reputation. The smallest and rudest wooden houses on the canal banks had frilled their windows with stiff white curtains and tied them with ribbon. Railings had painted themselves blue or green, and smartened their tips with white. Even the rakes, hoes, and implements of labor had got themselves up in red and yellow, and green buckets had wide-open scarlet mouths.

As we walked to the village, after mooring "Lorelei" at the bridge, the girls laughed and chatted together, but involuntarily they hushed their voices on entering the green shadow of the little town under its slow-marching procession of great trees; and the spell of somnolent silence seized them.

I think no one coming into Broek-in-Waterland could escape that spell. There is no noise there. Even the trees whisper, and not the most badly brought up dog would dare to bark aloud.

"Have you noticed," Nell asked me softly, "that you never hear sounds in dreams? No matter how exciting things are, there's never any noise; everything seems to be acted in pantomime. Well, it's like that here. We're dreaming Broek-in-Waterland as we have other places."

"And dreaming each other, too?"

"I shouldn't wonder."

"Then I hope nothing will happen to wake me up."

Just then we arrived at a dream curiosity-shop which gave her an excuse not to answer.

On the edge of the town it stands, one of the first among the little old houses, which look as if they had been made to accommodate well-to-do dolls of a century or two ago. Modestly retired in a doll's garden, with an imitation stalactite grotto, and groups of miniature statues among box-tree animals, its door is always open to welcome visitors and allure them. Within, vague splashes of color against a dim background; blues that mean old Delft; yellow that means ancient brass; and all gleaming in the dusk with the strange values that flowers gain in twilight.

I knew that Nell and Phyllis and the Chaperon would not pass by, and they didn't.

There was a man inside, but he did not ask us to buy anything. He had the air of a host, pleased to show his treasures, and the Chaperon feared that I was playing some joke when I encouraged them to invade the quaint and pretty rooms.

"I don't believe it is a shop," said she. "It's just an eccentric little house, that belongs to somebody who's away—a dear old maiden lady, perhaps, a collector of antiques, for her own pleasure. This man's her caretaker."

"She's strayed into some other dream, maybe," suggested Nell. "She's lost her way, poor old dear, and can never find it again, to come back, so that's why the things are for sale—if they really are. But listen, all the clocks in the house are talking to each other about her. They expect her to come, and that's why they keep on ticking, through the years, to make the time seem short in passing; for some of them must have had their hundredth birthday, long, long ago."

"He's a faithful caretaker then, to keep everything in such good order," said Phyllis. "But perhaps he believes what the clocks are saying about the old lady coming back. He's got the sweetest little clean curtains at the windows, and this too adorable wall-bed is ready for her to hop into, and dream the right dream again."

"He'd be mobbed by other Broekites, if he didn't keep things clean," I answered. "You know, Broek-in-Waterland is supposed to be the cleanest place in the Netherlands, which is something of a boast, isn't it? The saying used to be that, if a leaf dropped off a tree, or a wisp of hay off a passing cart, and one of the inhabitants saw it, he ran out of his house and threw the dreadful thing into the canal."

"Let's scatter a few bits of paper," said Starr, "and see what would happen."

"I'm afraid they're not as observant or energetic as they used to be. I counted three straws on the bricks, coming up."

"What wouldn't I give to have lunch in this house, on that charming old mahogany table, with those Delft plates and pewter mugs," sighed Miss Rivers, her eyes traveling over the old furniture which, as she said, seems to be ready and waiting till the wrong dream shall break.

"I'm going to take you to lunch somewhere else," I told her. "But you can buy Delft plates and pewter mugs here for your own table, if you like."

Then some exchange and barter did take place; although Nell said it seemed cruel to buy anything and separate it from its old friends. One ought to apologize to the things that were left for tearing their companions away.

There was time to step into the nearest cheese factory, and to go on and see the old church, I said, if they didn't mind lunching late. Of course they did not; so we strolled into the show place of Broek, a large house where cows live in neat bedrooms carpeted with something which resembles grated cheese. The Chaperon suggested that, after all, it was nothing but sawdust, and probably she was right; nevertheless each little cubicle in the long row, with its curtained window and blue-white wall, looked pretty enough for a fastidious human being. We should have lingered looking at the cheeses and sniffing dairy smells, but suddenly a tidal wave of tourists from an excursion steamer swept in, swamped us, and swallowed Tibe. He was retrieved after a search, in the doorway of the curiosity-shop, whither he had wisely returned to await his friends, and we then went on past the meer with its deserted bandstand, to one of the few lovable churches left in my country.

It is whitewashed and bare, but somehow, instead of making it grim, the whiteness has given it a religious look. The old canopied rosewood pulpit makes you feel good, though not disagreeably good, and the brass-work is a joy.

"You've seen a comic opera cheese factory," said I, when we had left the church. "Now, I'll show you the real thing, and then you shall have lunch. It won't be conventional, but I think you'll like it."

"For heaven's sake let's drown our sorrows in cheese, or something else supporting, and soon, or we perish," said the Mariner. "Our blood will then be upon your head, and as it's blue, and you're brown, it won't be at all becoming."

At this, I hurried them on, and presently arrived at a red-brick house set in a little garden. The glass of the white-curtained windows, and the varnished woodwork of the door at which I knocked, glittered so intolerably that they hurt the eyes, and made one envy the Chaperon her blue glasses. It was a relief when the dazzling door flew back to disclose a dim interior, and a delightful old lady in a lace-covered gold helmet, a black dress, and an elaborate apron.

"Something to eat?" she echoed my demand. "But, mynheer, we have nothing which these ladies would fancy. For you two we could do well enough, for you are men, and young. What does it matter what you eat, if it is enough? These ladies will laugh at our fare."

"They'll laugh with pleasure," said I. "You can give us eggs, cheese, bread and butter, and coffee, can't you, and strawberries and cream, perhaps?"

"Yes, mynheer, and some fresh cake."

"Food for kings and queens, as you'll serve it, y'vrouw," I assured her; and we flocked into the hall.

"Would you like to show your friends how we make our cheese, while I get ready the food?" asked the dame. "If you would, I will send for my son to guide you, though you know it so well yourself, mynheer, you need no explanations."

Her son being one of the principal objects of interest at Wilhelminaberg, however, the visit would not be complete without his society, and his presence was commanded. Promptly he appeared, bringing with him a smell of clover, and milk, and new-made cheese; a young man with the long, clever nose, narrow blue eyes, and length of upper lip, which you can see on any canvas of an old Dutch master.

Wilhelminaberg is not a show place; few tourists find their way there, and it is never flooded by a wave of strangers; but if some of the stage effects are lacking, it is more interesting for that reason.

Starr was captivated with the cows' part of the house, divided from their human companions only by a door. He whipped out the sketch-block and small box of colors which he always carries, and began jotting down impressions. A dash of red for the painted brick walls, and of green for the mangers; a yellow blur for the mote-filled rays of sunshine streaming through the cows' white-curtained windows, and on the flower-pots adorning their window-sills; a trifle more elaboration for the carpet of sawdust stamped with an ornamental pattern, and the quaint design of the cupboard-beds for the stablemen in the wall opposite; a streak here and there for the cords which loop the cows' tails to nails in the ceiling; gorgeous spots of crimson and yellow for the piled cheeses. And in the adjoining room, the while our guide described in creditable English the process of cheese-making, Starr sketched him standing before his big blue press, printing out his molds with an odd, yellow reflection from the cheese cannonballs heaped on trays, shining up into the shrewd Dutch face. Then in came the young wife, with a child or two (pretty dark creatures like their mother, with the innocent brown eyes of calves), followed by grandmama in her gold helmet, to say that our meal was ready; and Starr induced them to stand for him, though they were reluctant and self-conscious, and it was by sheer fascination that he prevailed.

Never had any of the party except myself seen a room like that to which we were summoned for luncheon, and Starr could not eat until he had said in a "few words of paint" what he thought of its paneled walls, its shelves littered with quaint and foolish china, ostrich eggs, shells, model ships, and hundred-year-old toys; its ancient brass-handled chests of drawers, its extraordinary fireplace, and best of all, its white-curtained cupboard-beds; one for grandmama, with a kind of trapeze arrangement to help her rise; one for papa and mama, with an inner shelf like a nest for baby; and one with a fence for a parcel of children. The artist's cream-eggs grew cold while he worked, but it was worth the sacrifice, for the result was excellent, and Nell's admiration gave me, I'm ashamed to say, a qualm of jealousy. I have no such accomplishments with which to win her.

We sat in high chairs with pictures of ships painted on backs and arms, while we lunched off willow-patterned plates, drank delicious coffee out of cups with feet, and stirred it with antique silver spoons, small enough for children's playthings. Afterwards the old lady with the helmet, and the pretty daughter-in-law were persuaded to show their winter wardrobes, which consisted mostly of petticoats. There were dozens, some knitted of heavy wool, some quilted in elaborate patterns, and some of thick, fleecy cloth; but there was not one weighing less than three pounds.

"Do ask how many they wear at a time?" the Chaperon commanded, no doubt with a thought for her mysterious note-book, about which I often wonder.

"I wear eight, summer and winter," replied the old lady. "My daughter-in-law is of the younger generation, and does not put on more than six. Little Maria is allowed only four; it is better for children not to carry much weight."

The girls looked petrified. "What martyrdom!" exclaimed Nell. "Even the Duke of Alva couldn't have subjected Dutch women to much worse torture than that. Eight of these knitted and wadded petticoats in summer! It's being buried alive up to the waist. In the name of civilization, why do they do it?"

I passed on the question to the old lady. She and her daughter-in-law received it gravely, thought it over for a moment, and then replied——

"But we must do it, mynheer; it is the mode. It has always been the mode."

"Talk of slaves of fashion!" muttered Nell. "If you want to find them, don't look in London or Paris or New York, but among the peasantry of Holland!"

Not one of the three could recover from the shock. They seemed stunned, as if all the petticoats at once had fallen from the shelves onto their heads and overwhelmed them; and even when we had said good-by to Wilhelminaberg, they talked in hushed tones of what it must feel like to be clothed in eight petticoats. They would probably have gone on discussing the subject in all its phases, until we regained the boat, if something had not happened. It was just after we passed the bandstand in the meer, and Starr had wondered aloud if the inhabitants of Broek ever did revel so giddily and publicly as to come outside their gardens to hear music, when there was a loud splash, followed by a cry.

The splash was Tibe's, the cry his mistress's, and in an instant we were in a flutter, for the dog was in the lake.

Close to shore the water is coated over with lily-pads, mingling with a bright green, beady vegetation; and Tibe mistook it for a meadow. Standing at a considerable elevation on the road above, he leaped down with happy confidence, only to be deceived as many wiser than he have been, by appearances. Bulldogs have virtues all their own, but they are not spaniels; and there was despair in Tibe's brown eyes, as he threw one last look of appeal at his friends before disappearing under the green carpet.

Up he came in a second, covered with green beads, his black mouth choked with them. Although not a water-dog, instinct kept him afloat, and he began to swim awkwardly, forging farther from shore instead of nearer. In a moment he had tangled his legs among thick-growing, ropey stems of water-lilies, and frightened and confused at finding himself a prisoner, went down again under the green surface.

Meanwhile his mistress was half mad with fright, and would not listen to Starr's assurance that the dog was in no danger.

"He'll bob up serenely and swim close to us; then I'll hook my stick in his collar and pull him out," the Mariner said cheerfully; but she pushed him away, sobbing.

Now, I never could bear to see a woman cry, even a woman in blue spectacles; so I did not wait for Tibe to come up and recover presence of mind, as he probably would, but splashed down myself onto the green carpet.

The water hardly reached to my hips, so there was no bravery in the feat, and I felt a fool as I went wading out to the spot where, by this time, the dog's head had again appeared among the water-lily pads, the living image of a gargoyle. But as I hauled him out, with a word of encouragement, the poor chap's gratitude repaid me. Looking like a vert-de-gris statue of a dog, he licked such portions of me as he could reach with a green tongue, and blessed me with his beautiful eyes.

When I had him on terra firma we both shook ourselves, sending an emerald spray flying in all directions; and then abortive attempts were made to dry Tibe with the handkerchiefs of the united party. A few hurried "Thank you's" were all I got from the Chaperon at the time, but on board "Lorelei" she had something more to say.

Before starting, I had to go to my stateroom on "Waterspin" to change wet clothes for dry ones, and when I was ready to take up my part of skipper, no one was on deck save the Chaperon and Tibe—a subdued Tibe buttoned up in a child's cape, which his mistress insisted on buying in Amsterdam for him to wear in cold weather.

"My poor darling spattered the girls so much, that they're below taking off their frocks," she explained. "Mr. Starr's changing too, I think, but I waited to speak to you alone, although I am a sight. I have something particular to say."

I looked a question, and she went on. "I've always liked you, from the first. I saw you were the kind of man who could be trusted never to injure a woman, no matter what your opinion of her might be, and I'd have done you a good turn if it had come in my way; but now, after what I owe you this afternoon, I'm ready to go out of my way. You won't think I'm an interfering"—she hesitated a moment—"old thing, if I say I can guess why you are skipper—why you're on this trip at all. Now, if you wanted to be disagreeable I expect you could say that you know why I'm on board; but I don't believe you do want to be disagreeable, do you?"

"Certainly not," said I, laughing. "And even if I did, there's an old proverb which forbids the pot to call the kettle black."

"Oh, you and I and my dear nephew Ronny are pots and kettles together, the three of us; but our hearts are all right. And talking of hearts leads up to what I want to say."

"About my job as skipper?"

"Yes."

"You say you can guess why I took it. My idea is, that you guessed the first day on board."

"Why, of course I did. I saw which one of the girls it was, too, and noticed that something had gone wrong. That interested me, for I'm observant."

"You're 'a chiel amang us takkin notes.'"

"Think of a Dutchman quoting that! However, even peasants in Holland break into English and German. Why shouldn't a Jonkheer spout Burns? But let me get to my point. I haven't found out what the trouble is, but I know you must have sinned against the girl in some way, or done something tactless, which is worse, and made her angry. Or else she felt it was her duty to be angry, and has been living up to it ever since. Talk of the 'way of a man with a maid!' The way of a maid with a man is funnier and more subtle. Nell Van Buren is an adorable girl, but the more adorable a girl is, the more horried she can be."

"That is subtle."

"Why, of course. What else should it be? And the whole thing's been as good as a play to watch. I wished you well from the beginning, but I thought you capable of taking care of yourself."

"And now you've changed your mind?"

"I have, since yesterday. I'm sure something happened at Amsterdam in the morning, she was so different. What did you do to her?"

"I bullied her a little," I said.

"I thought as much. How could you?"

"I believed it would be good for her."

"So it was. But it wasn't good for you."

"She has been angelic since."

"That's the danger-signal. Poor man, you couldn't see it?"

"I was rather encouraged—though it seemed too delightful to be true," I admitted.

"Men are blind—especially when they're in love. You understand motor-boats better than you do girls."

"I dare say," I said meekly.

"She's so nice to you because she means to punish you by-and-by, for humbling her pride. I'm warning you, as a reward for saving my treasured lamb. If Tibe hadn't fallen into the water, and you hadn't pulled him out, perhaps I'd have left you to founder, and watched the fun. But now I say, take care. She's dangerous."

"How can you tell?" I asked.

"How can I tell? Because I'm a woman, of course, and because I should act just the same—if I were young."

"Well, if you're right, what am I to do?"

"That's what I want to talk to you about. You must pretend to be tired of her."

"Good heavens!"

"She mustn't see that she has any power over you. She cares for you more than she lets herself think."

"I wish to goodness I could believe that."

"There's no use in your believing it. The thing is, to make her believe it—make her find it out, with a shock. And there's only one way of doing that."

"What?"

"Rouse her to jealousy."

I laughed bitterly. "Tell me to get her the moon."

"Flirt with Miss Rivers."

"My dear madam, you've proved to me that I'm a fool; but I'm neither cad nor hypocrite."

"Dear me, if that's the way you're going to take it, you're lost. Our dear Ronny will snatch her from under your nose, although she isn't a bit in love with him, and is with you, if you'd consent to shake her up a little."

"Starr is in love with them both."

"He was; or rather he was in love with being in love. But because you want Miss Van Buren, out of pure contrariness he thinks now that he wants her. Beware of her kindness. If you should be deluded by it into proposing, she'd send you about your business, and perhaps accept the other man because she was wretched, and didn't quite realize what was the matter."

"You're a gloomy prophetess," I said miserably.

"You won't take my advice?"

"No. I can't do that. I must do the best I can for myself in some other way."

"There isn't any other."

"I shall try."

"Well, promise me you won't propose for a fortnight, anyhow; or until I give you leave."

"We—all—always—do whatever you wish us to, extraordinary lady. I wonder why?"

"You must go on wondering. But in the meantime I will—"

"You will——"

"Try to save you—as you saved Tibe."

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