Hans Brinker; Or, The Silver Skates

by Mary Mapes Dodge

Then new thoughts came. Why had not Hans told her? It was a shame. It was her father as well as his. She was no baby. She had once taken a sharp knife from the father's hand. She had even drawn him away from the mother on that awful night when Hans, big as he was, could not help her. Why then must she be treated like one who could do nothing? Oh, how very still it was—how bitter, bitter cold! If Annie Bouman had only stayed home instead of going to Amsterdam it wouldn't be so lonely. How cold her feet were growing—was it the moaning that made her feel as if she were floating in the air!

This would not do—the mother might need her help at any moment!

Rousing herself with an effort, Gretel sat upright, rubbing her eyes and wondering—wondering that the sky was so bright and blue—wondering at the stillness in the cottage—more than all, at the laughter rising and falling in the distance.

Soon she sank down again, the strange medley of thought growing more and more confused in her bewildered brain.

What a strange lip the meester had! How the stork's nest upon the roof seemed to rustle and whisper down to her! How bright those knives were, in the leathern case—brighter perhaps than the silver skates. If she had but worn her new jacket she would not shiver so. The new jacket was pretty—the only pretty thing she had ever worn. God had taken care of her father so long, He would do it still, if those two men would but go away. Ah, now the meesters were on the roof, they were clambering to the top—no—it was her mother and Hans,—or the storks—it was so dark who could tell? and the mound rocking, swinging in that strange way. How sweetly the birds were singing. They must be winter birds, for the air was thick with icicles—not one bird—but twenty. Oh! hear them, mother—wake me, mother, for the race—I am so tired with crying, and crying——

A firm hand was laid upon her shoulder.

"Get up, little girl!" cried a kind voice. "This will not do, for you to lie here and freeze."

Gretel slowly raised her head. She was so sleepy that it seemed nothing strange to her that Hilda van Gleck should be leaning over her, looking with kind, beautiful eyes into her face. She had often dreamed it before.

But she had never dreamed that Hilda was shaking her roughly, almost dragging her by main force—never dreamed that she heard her saying, "Gretel! Gretel Brinker! you must wake!"

This was real. Gretel looked up. Still the lovely delicate young lady was shaking, rubbing, fairly pounding her. It must be a dream. No, there was the cottage—and the stork's nest, and the meester's coach by the canal. She could see them now quite plainly. Her hands were tingling, her feet throbbing—Hilda was forcing her to walk.