let others talk about it, and the Tilbaks spoke lovingly of the patriotism of the millionaire at the Marché-aux-Chevaux, and Vincent held this destiny before the eyes of his little Pierket, a good student, "One day you will enter the employment of Daelmans-Deynze."
He has led you to the end of the courtyard, and into the house, the ancient facade of which is overrun with ivy almost as old as the house itself. At the left, opposite the offices, are the stables and coach-house. You ascend four steps, and push open the great glass door, canopied by a marquise.
"Josephine! Here is a resurrected friend!"
And a hearty clap on the back from the hand of your host brings you into the presence of Madame Daelmans.
She has been working at a bit of crochet, but gives vent to an exclamation of surprise, and goes into raptures at the happy inspiration to which they owe your visit.
If the husband is charming, and a splendid host, what can be said of his wife? Pre-eminently the Antwerp housewife, she is solicitous, neat and diligent.
She is forty years old, this Madame Daelmans. Strands of glossy black hair frame a merry face wherein burn two dark, affectionate eyes, and whose lips smile maternally. Her cheeks are plump, and the color of a ripening apple.
The good lady is short, and complains that she is beginning to be too stout. However, laziness is not the cause of her corpulence. She rises at daybreak, and is always on her feet, as active and busy as an ant. She presides, so she says, over all the details of the housekeeping, but what she does not tell is that she puts her hand to all the work. Nothing goes quickly enough
