Trynje, busying herself in tucking a robe around her patient’s feet, did not hear. “There,” she exclaimed, “you are well placed.” She stood off and looked at her charge with a satisfied air. “It is good to be out again, is it not? Are you tired? When you are rested I will tell you something about myself. I have been keeping it till now to tell you.” She sat down on the ground by Alaine’s side, her round, smiling face rosier than ever. “You will get well,” she went on, “for after a while my wedding will be.”
“What?” Alaine smiled to see the blushes.
Trynje nodded. “Yes, all arranged it is. Last night he was here.”
Alaine laid her hand, now so frail-looking, on Trynje’s plump one. “He was? And who is he?”
“Adriaen Vrooman. He has returned from a long journey into the woods with his man Isaac, and they brought many pelts. He is now ready to marry. Betrothed we are, and married we will be before the winter comes.”
“And you are happy, Trynje, happy?”
“Oh, yes.” Trynje looked very complacent. She was quite satisfied.
Alaine patted the hand resting on her knee, but as she leaned her head back against the soft fur which hung over the chair the tears welled up into her eyes. Madam van der Deen, standing behind her, laid her hand upon the girl’s head. She looked up and with trembling lips asked, “Is there no hope, no hope?”
“We have heard nothing, but there is always hope till worst is proved. Be comforted by that, my child. One there is in there who has less to hope for than you, for he is helpless, paralyzed, but entirely conscious, and there he must lie waiting for death to release him, and with but a misspent life to dwell upon. Yet sinned against he has been, and forgive him you should.”
Alaine turned her dark eyes upon the goede vrouw’s kind face. “You mean—who is it, Madam?”