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was one morning during the summer holidays that old Mr. van der Welcke said to his wife:

“Why not ask the little boy to come and stay with us?”

There was never much said between the old people, but each understood without words, or from a single word, the thought that was passing in the other’s mind.

Not until the evening did the old lady ask:

“The little boy alone?”

“Yes, alone. . . or with Henri.”

Two days after that, she suggested:

“Oughtn’t we to invite them all three, in that case? Constance as well?”

The old man said nothing and went on reading, as though he had not heard; and his wife did not press for an answer. But, at nightfall, when they sat staring at the dark summer evening outside, old Mr. van der Welcke said:

“No, I don’t like her. Let us ask Henri and Adriaan.”

She said nothing. She was used to obeying her husband’s wishes; and she had brought up Henri also, long ago, to obey his parents’ wishes. And Henri had obediently given up his life, given up himself, at their command, to that woman. Which of the two was more to blame, whether he had been the