denly felt as though in a dream, she had no strength to resist the gently persuasive voices of her mother and her aunt, which were luring and luring her, like voices from very far away, voices which she seemed to hear through the haze of vague and enticing distance. Yet her own wan voice did not reveal what she felt, as she continued feebly objecting:
"I should be too much trouble. An invalid is so depressing."
"It would be very difficult for Addie to look after you here."
"Besides, you have Grandmamma . . ."
"She's no trouble."
"And little Klaasje."
"Yes, but that's different."
"How are Marietje and Adele?"
"Quite well, very well indeed. We'll go on calling her Marietje and, if you come down, we'll call you . . let's say Mary, to avoid confusion."
"Mary. . . ."
"Will that do?"
"But your house is so full as it is."
"Guy is giving you his room."
The girl uttered more faint words and phrases, but they were like little waves which carried her softly and tenderly towards the gentle vision and the dream.
"Very well, Auntie," she said, at last. "You are very good to me."
"It's only natural, as far as I'm concerned. But, when you're at Driebergen, you'll thank your uncle, won't you?"
"Of course. It's his house."
"Yes."
"Won't it be rather damp . . . for Marietje?" asked Adolphine, hesitatingly.
"I don't think so," said Constance.
