"Yes, Femke is an excellent girl. I don't have any trouble with her."
The father spoke in a business-like manner; and he meant it that way. The spots on Femke's soul were easily removed. He praised Femke as a cook would praise a kitchen-pot.
Father Jansen had still more praise for Femke: she had patched his drawers so nicely.
The mention of this fact did not touch Walter's Êsthetic feelings. With him there were other considerations. Fancy was used to seeing everything nude--fathers, humanity--so there was no difficulty here.
Walter was sixteen years old, already a little man--why must Femke patch drawers for this father!
"Yes," said the mother. "Femke is clever at patching. If you've got anything else that needs mending, just send it over."
Walter was warm. If it had been collars, socks, waistcoats, or--well, if it had to be something questionable--if it had only been trousers!
"Just send it over, and if Femke isn't here----"
"Where is she going to be?" thought Walter.
"Then I will attend to it myself. I can do it neatly."
Thank God! Dear, good, magnificent Mrs. Claus! Do it, do it yourself, and leave Femke where she is.
Thus Walter's thoughts; but what did he say?--the hypocrite, the budding man.
"Yes, indeed, Mrs. Claus, I had almost forgotten to ask where your daughter Femke is."
"Femke? She's at my niece's, where the girl is sick. You know we're of good family. Femke is looking after my niece's children."
Walter didn't have the courage to ask where this niece lived, so he assumed a look of contentment.
After much waiting and twisting and turning on his chair, Walter finally left the house with Father Jansen. He had not yet learned how to end a visit: some people never learn it.
"Don't you want to do me a favor?" said the good man. "Then walk on my right side. I'm deaf here"--pointing to his left ear.
"I will tell you how it happened. When I was a little boy--are you a good climber?"
"Well, I am! In the whole of Vucht there wasn't a boy who could climb as well as I could. Do you know what I did once? I climbed up and slipped a flower-pot from a third-story window. And--my priest wasn't in a good humor at all! He didn't want to accept me till I had returned that flower-pot; and then I had to go and beg the old woman's pardon. And she herself went to the priest to intercede for me. Then he accepted me. But I got twenty 'confiteors'--oh, he was severe!