“Almost every day.”
“I have put a Bible for Agneta in your portmantle—it is large print that she may read it while at her spinning-wheel.”
“She is a good girl.”
A radiant look came into John de Witt’s eyes.
“I can hardly bring myself to do without such precious company, but they are better with my sister. This house is too quiet, and I so seldom here.”
Both were silent, thinking of Wendela de Witt. Regrets were not in their religion; believing, they could not repine.
The firelight, showing more strongly as the grey day faded, warmed the sombre, dark room into a more cheerful aspect, glittering redly in the brass fireirons and bellows, the nails in the leather chairs, the Ruard’s embroidered dress and sword-hilt; showing, too, the Grand Pensionary’s tall and stately figure in his quiet black with the plain linen collar tied with silk tassels, and the brown hair falling either side the melancholy, composed face.
There was a great likeness between the two brothers, though Cornelius was of a larger make, a freer carriage, haughtier perhaps and more fiery, but with a glance as dignified and a bearing as noble.
“Since you must go——” John de Witt was saying, when Van Ouvenaller opened the door.