“Sweet one, I am as glad as thou, yet am I uneasy to hear the child is wise before his time, I love him dear; but he is thine idol, and Heaven doth often break our idols.”
“Make thy mind easy,” said Margaret. “Heaven will never rob me of my child. What I was to suffer in this world I have suffered, For if any ill happened my child or thee, I should not live a week. The Lord He knows this, and He will leave me my boy.”
A month had elapsed after this; but Margaret's words were yet ringing in his ears, when, going on his daily round of visits to his poor, he was told quite incidentally, and as mere gossip, that the plague was at Deventer, carried thither by two sailors from Hamburgh.
His heart turned cold within him. News did not gallop in those days. The fatal disease must have been there a long time before the tidings would reach Gouda. He sent a line by a messenger to Margaret, telling her that he was gone to fetch little Gerard to stay at the manse a little while, and would she see a bed prepared, for he should be back next day. And so he hoped she would not hear a word of the danger till it was all happily over. He borrowed a good horse, and scarce drew rein till he reached Deventer, quite late in the afternoon. He went at once to the school. The boy had been taken away.
As he left the school he caught sight of Margaret's face at the window of a neighbouring house she always lodged at when she came to Deventer.
He ran hastily to scold her and pack both her and the boy out of the place.
To his surprise the servant told him with some hesitation that Margaret had been there, but was gone.
“Gone, woman?” said Gerard indignantly, “art not ashamed to say so? Why, I saw her but now at the window.”
“Oh, if you saw her—”
A sweet voice above said, “Stay him not, let him enter.” It was Margaret.