silver, silence is gold;" so she held her peace.

Now Truide, rendered fairly frantic by her enforced confinement to
the house, grew to look upon Jan as her only chance of excitement and
distraction; and Jan, poor, thick-headed noodle of six feet high, was
thoroughly wretched. What to do he knew not. A strange, mad, fierce
passion for Truide had taken possession of him, and an utter distaste,
almost dislike, had come in place of the old love for Koosje. Truide
was unlike anything he had ever come in contact with before; she was so
fairy-like, so light, so delicate, so dainty. Against Koosje's plumper,
maturer charms, she appeared to the infatuated young man like--if he had
ever heard of it he would probably have said like a Dresden china image;
but since he had not, he compared her in his own foolish heart to an
angel. Her feet were so tiny, her hands so soft, her eyes so expressive,
her waist so slim, her manner so bewitching! Somehow Koosje was
altogether different; he could not endure the touch of her heavy hand,
the tones of her less refined voice; he grew impatient at the denser
perceptions of her mind. It was very foolish, very short-sighted; for
the hands, though heavy, were clever and willing; the voice, though a
trifle coarser in accent than Truide's childish tones, would never tell
him a lie; the perceptions, though not brilliant, were the perceptions
of good, every-day common sense. It really was very foolish, for what
charmed him most in Truide was the merest outside polish, a certain ease
of manner which doubtless she had caught from the English aristocrats
whom she had known in her native place. She had not half the sterling
good qualities and steadfastness of Koosje; but Jan was in love, and
did not stop to argue the matter as you or I are able to do. Men in
love--very wise and great men, too--are often like Jan van der Welde.
They lay aside pro tem. the whole amount, be it great or small, of
wisdom they possess. And it must be remembered that Jan van der Welde