“Yes, dearest,” he answered gently. “Agneta will tell thee how to spell it.”
“I know,” insisted the younger John.
The Grand Pensionary met his father’s glance across the room that was now filled with the pleasant candlelight, then crossed to the child on the floor and stood him up.
“Thou art almost too old for petticoats,” he smiled.
The little Jacob looked at him and smiled back brilliantly. John de Witt dropped on one knee beside him, and Agneta came and stood behind them, uneasy because her brother’s jacket was crumpled, and, to her housewifely eye, untidy.
But the boy’s father did not notice that; he smoothed the fair curls with a gentle hand.
“I think thou hast grown since I saw thee last,” he said yearningly.
With a sudden shyness the child hid his face on the Grand Pensionary’s shoulder.
John de Witt pressed him close.
There was silence in the room save for the scratching of Maria’s quill.