“Very possibly,” said the host, incredulously; “at the same time, do not take it amiss, my good sir, if I do not remember you. Our village has no longer a bird-shooting; the shooting-ground is converted into private property, and for a year past has been unoccupied, owing to the death of the possessor.”
Deterred by the cold reception of the host, the traveler gave up the attempt to make himself known; but as he prepared to go further, he said, calmly:—
“In the village here there live a good many of my friends who cannot have forgotten me. You, Peter Joostens, were very young at that time. I am persuaded that the brick-maker, Paul, will rush to my arms the moment that he sees me. Does he yet live in the clay dale?”
“The brick-yard became, many years ago, a prey to the flames; the clay-field is cultivated, and bears now the finest hay. The meadow now belongs to the rich Mr. Tirt.”
“And what has become of Paul?”
“After their misfortunes, the whole family went away. . . I do not know certainly, perhaps he, too, is dead. But I observe that you talk of our grandfathers’ time, and it will be difficult to get answers to all your questions unless you go to the grave-digger. He can reckon up for you on his fingers what has happened for a hundred years past, or more.”
“I can believe that; Peter Jan must have reached his ninetieth year.”
“Peter Jan? That is not the name of the grave-digger; his name is Lauw Stevens.”
A glad smile illumined the countenance of the traveler.
“God be praised,” he exclaimed, “that he has at least left one of my comrades still in life!”