“Nolla! Do help me move this heavy stand out to the light—I verily believe it is an antique!” cried she.
Having satisfied themselves that the panels were genuine old pieces, they ran to Mr. Fabian’s room and called him forth. He examined the stand and the bed, and some of the old stoneware pieces in the room, and sighed. “We’ve stumbled over a veritable Mecca of antiques, girls,” said he.
That night after supper, Mr. Fabian led the host to tell of how he acquired the pieces of furniture. And the result of that talk was the purchase of the stand, the bed, and many smaller pieces of stoneware and odd furnishings that had been replevined from the convent building, generations before. Even the few statues that had been stored in the low attic of the Inn were sold to the Americans; and the old couple were made happy at the knowledge that, at last, they were provided for in old age, through the sale of the objects that they could readily do without.
The Count was made supremely happy with the purchase of a holy picture which he declared was from the brush of an old master. And Mrs. Alexander smiled contentedly because the Count was so kind and chivalrous to her.
A group of humble peasants gathered, the following morning, to wish the tourists God-speed, for the entire village had heard of the good fortune that had come to their old friends at the Inn. When a few furlongs farther on from the Inn, Mr. Fabian read a sign that said “To Abbeville,” he said aloud, “Well, of all things! We stopped at that famous old convent spot and never knew it, until this minute.”
From Boulogne, where they wired Mr. Ashby about the bed and other articles they had secured, they drove to Ostend. Thence to Bruges, where Mr. Fabian showed the girls the famous Belfry that is three hundred and fifty feet high. The quaint irregular houses in the streets of the town were duly admired and snapshots taken of them by Dodo; then the two cars started for Antwerp.
Along the road, and in the villages they passed through, most of the peasants wore wooden shoes. One woman was seen driving a tiny milk-cart that was drawn by a large dog. The tourists stopped for a drink of the rich milk, and Mrs. Fabian noticed the bit of priceless Flemish lace pinned upon the peasant’s head.
“How much do you want for that piece of lace, my good woman?” asked she, eagerly.
But the woman shook her head and smiled, saying: “My family lace. Gran’mudder make it.”
Antwerp still displayed the scars left by the German occupation, so the tourists decided not to tarry there very long.