Chapter XIII
The preacher had come and gone. Sentence had been passed and the penalty paid. But Walter was depressed and despondent. Leentje did her best to put some animation into him, but in vain. Perhaps it was because she no longer understood her ward.
Those confidential communications of Walter’s were beyond her comprehension; and often she looked at him as if she doubted his sanity. From her meagre weekly allowance she saved a few doits, thinking to gladden Walter’s heart with some ginger cakes, which he had always enjoyed. It was no use: Walter’s soul had outgrown ginger cakes. This discovery caused Leentje bitter pain.
“But, my dear child, be reasonable, and don’t worry over such foolishness. This Fancy, or whatever the creature’s name is, has mocked you; or you have dreamed it all.”
“No, no, no, Leentje. It’s all true. I know everything she said, and it’s all true.”
“But, Walter, that story about your sister—you would have known that long ago.”
“I did know it, but I had forgotten it. I knew everything that Fancy told me. It had only slipped out of my mind. When she spoke, then it all came back to me distinctly.”
“I will go to those mills some day,” said Leentje.
And she did it. After Walter’s description she was able to find the place where that important meeting had taken place. She saw the timbers, the dirt, the ducks, the meadow—everything was there, even the ashes,—everything except Fancy and her stories.
Nor could Walter find Fancy now. In vain did he go out walking with those respectable Halleman boys as often as he was in the way at home. For hours he would stand on the bridge and listen to the rattling of the sawmills; but they told him nothing, and Fancy would not return.