The sick man sank away, sank away in the downy abyss. . . .
Gerrit made progress every day. He was now so much better that he had walked across the room, on Constance' arm, and just seen his two boys, only for a moment, because he longed for them so:
"The others too," he said.
The next day they brought Marietje and Gerdy and Constant to him; the day after that, the four others. . . . He had now seen them all:
"But for such a short time!" he said.
He recovered slowly. He had seen Van der Welcke and Addie; and, one pale, wintry, sunny day, he had been out for a little while, but the outside world made him giddy. Still he couldn't deny it: he was getting better. He saw his mother; and, when she saw him, she forgot that he had been ill:
"Where have you been, Gerrit? . . ."
"Laid up, Mamma."
"Laid up? . . ." The old woman nodded wisely. "You haven't been ill, have you?"
"Just a little, Mamma. It wasn't very bad. . . ."
And he got better, he made progress. He went out walking, with his wife, with Constance, with
