And in these words, good reader, when I think of them, I find a certain solution to the problem of her behaviour on many occasions when brought into close contact with her country's enemies.
There was never anything personal in the most bitter feelings of resentment and hatred of her country's foes, and never at any time did she belong to the ranks of those among her fellow-patriots who deemed it an unpardonable crime to recognise and appreciate the good qualities possessed by them.
A love of fair-play characterised her, even as a child, and it is certain that the cruel circumstances of the war developed this sense of justice to an abnormal extent, often bringing upon her, in later years, misunderstanding and distrust from those who should have been her friends.
It is June 28th, a glorious, cloudless summer's morn.
Speeding swiftly, almost silently, cutting its way through the calm, blue waters of the English Channel, a passenger-boat is fast approaching Holland's shores.
The hour is early, and of the few figures moving on the pier, one stands apart, watching intently, as the ship draws near.
He waves his hat, he has recognised the figure of the girl who stands on deck and waves her handkerchief in response to his greeting.
His strong hand clasps hers; and now the discreet reader need not avert his eyes—no need here to "draw the veil"—for Hansie had written from London to this tall, broad-shouldered man:
"What is left of me is coming to you now, but we must meet as friendly acquaintances, until we are both certain of ourselves."