"The Father Markus speaks about?"
"Yes. Of course," said Marjon.
Johannes was silent a while, gazing at the rapid flow of the water, and the slower and slower course of things according to their distance in the rear. His head was full of ideas, each one eager for utterance. But it is delightful to lie thus and view a passing country spread out under the clear light—letting the thoughts come very calmly, and selecting carefully those worthy of being clad in speech. Many are too tender and sensitive to be accorded that honor, but yet they may not be meanest ones.
Johannes first selected a stray thought.
"Is that your own idea?" he asked. Marjon was not quick with an answer, herself, this time.
"My own? No. Markus told me it. But I knew it myself, though. I knew it, but he said it. He drew it out of me. I remember everything he says—everything—even although I don't catch on."
"Is there any good in that?" asked Johannes, thoughtlessly.
Marjon looked at him disdainfully, and said:
"Jimminy! You're just like Kees. He doesn't know either that he can do more with a quarter than with a cent. When I got my first quarter, I didn't catch on, either, but then I noticed that I could get a lot more candy with it than with a cent. Then I knew better what to do. So now I treasure the things Markus has said—all of them."
"Do you think as much of him as I do?" asked Johannes.