"But, Johannes," said the countess, "why was not your friend in a burial club? Nowadays all people of his class belong to such clubs. Is that not so, Freule?"
"Of course," replied the Honorable Lady. "Every decent poor person belongs to a club. But it's astonishing how people will complain of their poverty and yet be so thoughtless and careless."
"Yes, astonishing," sighed the other visitor.
"Then you will do nothing for me?" asked Johannes, not without a touch of bitterness in his tones.
The countess looked at Van Lieverlee, who frowned and shook his head.
"No, dear Johannes. For anything else, quite willingly; but for this there seems to be no justification."
A whole night and day passed in which nothing could be done, since Marjon had not yet returned; and the three gulden and twenty-four cents had only increased by very slow degrees to about five gulden.
At last, on Saturday forenoon, a carriage drew up to the door of the little coffee-house, and out stepped a stately figure in black, which, with its old-time jetted bonnet, heavy rustling black-silk skirt, full mantilla, and a dainty, lavenderlike suggestion of linen chests, and of choice silken souvenirs, entirely filled the narrow entrance.
"Aunt Seréna!" cried Johannes. And in a quick impulse of warm affection he threw his arms around her.