"Ha, ha! I've caught you!" cried Hans.
"Ha, ha! I caught you," she retorted, struggling to free herself.
Just then a clear, quick voice was heard calling, "Hans! Gretel!"
"It's the mother," said Hans, looking solemn in an instant.
By this time the canal was gilded with sunlight. The pure morning air was very delightful, and skaters were gradually increasing in numbers. It was hard to obey the summons. But Gretel and Hans were good children. Without a thought of yielding to the temptation to linger, they pulled off their skates, leaving half the knots still tied. Hans, with his great square shoulders, and bushy yellow hair, towered high above his blue-eyed little sister, as they trudged homeward. He was fifteen years old, and Gretel was only twelve. He was a solid, hearty-looking boy, with honest eyes, and a brow that seemed to bear a sign, "goodness within," just as the little Dutch zomerhuis[1] wears a motto over its portal. Gretel was lithe and quick. Her eyes had a dancing light in them; and, while you looked at her cheek, the color paled and deepened just as it does upon a bed of pink-and-white blossoms when the wind is blowing.
As soon as the children turned from the canal, they could see their parents' cottage. Their mother's tall form, arrayed in jacket and petticoat, and close-fitting cap, stood, like a picture, in the crooked frame of the doorway. Had the cottage been a mile away, it would still have seemed near. In that flat country, every object stands out plainly in the distance: the chickens show as distinctly as the windmills. Indeed, were it not for the dikes, and the high banks of the canals, one could stand almost anywhere in Middle Holland without seeing a mound or a ridge between the eye and the "jumping-off place."
- ↑ Summer-house.
