“No, Dominé,” repeated Pietje, sitting down on the window-sill.
Dominé Rovers turned upon the recumbent father. Of course he had lost his temper; he had known all along that he would do so the consciousness of losing hold caused him to let go all the faster.
“I appeal to you,” he cried—“you, the responsible guardian of this child. Her lot is in your hands to-day for life-long weal or woe. She is incapable of choosing, and unfit to do so. It is only your selfishness, Klomp, that is ruining your daughters’ lives. You say you want them with you, I hear. A pretty excuse.”
“Yes; I love them,” murmured Klomp, sentimentally.
“And what would Mietje do?” interposed Pietje, looking up from vague contemplation of the pendent potato-peel. Mietje was the child of twelve.
This objection not being easy to meet, the Dominé ignored it. “Fine love, indeed,” he shouted to the father. “When a parent loves his child, he sacrifices any inclinations of his own to that child’s real welfare. The parent who doesn’t do that, doesn’t love. Do you understand me?”
“Oh yes,” said Klomp.
“Then take this to heart. If you don’t send Pietje to Groningen, and make her go, you don’t love her. There!”
“Would the Dominé send Juffrouw Ursula to Groningen?” asked Pietje, askance.