Fanny, ceny, fanny, ceny,
Fanny, ceny, fan—cy.
Fancy—what do you mean by that? Is that the name of both of you? And what is it? Has it wings?
“Morning Hour” and “Eagle” had fused into something that had wings and was called fancy.
Fancy lifted Walter up and bore him away.
When she brought him back to the bridge again it had already been dark for a long time. He shook himself as if he were wet, rubbed his eyes and started home. We shall see later what awaited him there; but first we must go back a few hours. I hope the reader will not disdain an invitation to Juffrouw Pieterse’s. Remember that her husband never made anything, but bought everything ready-made in Paris.
In passing by I should like to make Master Pennewip a short visit.
Chapter VII
School was out; and the seats looked as if the pupils had just left the tediousness of it all lying there. The map of Europe looked down peevishly on the heap of writing-pads. There lay the mutilated and well-worn goose-quills, which since time immemorial have opened up the gates of learning. True, the black-board vaunted itself with the heavy results of the last lesson in “fractions”; but the school was no more. The spirit had fled: It was a corpse.