"My Sunday-school children. I thought your dear uncle wouldn't like it if he knew there wasn't going to be any singing during the marriage ceremony to-morrow. I know how bright and cheery he liked everything," she purred. "If he were alive it would be a church wedding! Dear, happy, charitable soul!"
As she spoke she handed the children their umbrellas and, exchanging good-byes, the little choir hurried out into the rain.
"Where's Kathrien?" said Frederik.
"Still upstairs with Willem," answered Mrs. Batholommey, glancing up toward the little boy's room apprehensively as she spoke, and lowering her voice a bit.
Frederik made an inarticulate sound of annoyance, and putting his hand into his pocket, took out two steamer tickets and examined them. His one idea was to get away from the simple, quaint surroundings that his uncle had kept and beautified for him in the fond, proud hope that his nephew would love and care for the place as he had done.
To Frederik it meant nothing but a humdrum existence, full of annoying detail. The money for which it stood had been his goal—that, and Kathrien, his uncle's very brightest flower—a flower which he was about to tear up by the roots and transplant to foreign soil.
Mrs. Batholommey sat down in the big chair by the fire, and took up her crochet work with a sigh. Occasionally she looked at Frederik, and finally she spoke.
"Of course I'm glad to stay here and chaperone Kathrien; but poor Mr. Batholommey has been alone at the parsonage for ten days—ever since your dear uncle—it will be ten days to-morrow since he di—oh, by the way, some mail came for your uncle. I put it in the drawer."
Frederik did not trouble to answer. He merely nodded.
"Curious how long before people know a man's gone," soliloquised Mrs. Batholommey.