[Composed by Stern.]
It was evening. Tine was reading in the inner gallery; and Havelaar was drawing an embroidery pattern; little Max was putting together a puzzle picture, and was getting angry because he could not find that red lady’s body.
“Will it be right so, Tine?” asked Havelaar. “See, I have made this palm a little larger. . . it is exactly Hogarth’s line of beauty.”
“Yes, Max! but these lace-holes are too near each other.”
“Are they? And the others?”
“Max! do let me see your trousers, . . . have you that stripe?”
“Ah! I remember where you embroidered that, Tine!”
“Not I—where then?”
“It was at the Hague, when Max was ill, and we were so frightened because the physician said that he had such an uncommonly shaped head, and that so much care was
