opportunity that makes thieves of thinking folk, and she knew it;
rather it is the thief that makes opportunity, if he is up to his
work. Why should she be afraid to go to the barns? She would not take
the daffodil the more for going; if she meant to do it, and, through
cowardice, let this opportunity slip, she would soon find another. And
if she did not mean to, the proximity of the thing would not make her
take it.

She put down her work. "I will lock up for you, Mijnheer; give me the
keys."

He protested, and his wife protested, much more feebly, and thanked
her for going the while. They gave her many directions, and told her
she must put on this, that, and the other, and must be careful not to
get her feet wet, and really need not to be too particular in
examining all the doors. She answered them with impatient politeness,
as one does who is waiting for the advent of a greater matter; she
was not irritated by the trivial interruptions which came between her
and the decision which was yet to be made; it was somehow so great to
her that it seemed as if it could wait. At last she was off,
Mijnheer's galoshes wallowing about her feet, his black-caped
mackintosh thrown round her shoulders. She had neither hat nor
umbrella. Mevrouw literally wailed when she started; but it made no
impression, she came of the nation most indifferent to getting wet,
and most-susceptible to death by consumption of any in Europe.

She slopped along in the great galoshes, her back to the lighted house
now, her face to the dark barns. There they were, easily accessible,
waiting for her. Was she to take one, or was she not? She did not give
herself any excuse for taking it, or tell herself that one out of six