"The clock struck seven," cried Jan. "I counted the strokes."

"What a scholar is our Janke!" laughed his mother, as she lifted
the last sheaf of wheat on her fork and tossed it at Father Van
Hove's feet. "He can count seven when it is supper-time! As for
me, I do not need a clock; I can tell the time of day by the ache
in my bones; and, besides that, there is Bel at the pasture bars
waiting to be milked and bellowing to call me."

"I don't need a clock either," chimed in Marie, patting her apron
tenderly; "I can tell time by my stomach. It's a hundred years
since we ate our lunch; I know it is."

"Come, then, my starvelings," said Mother Van Hove, pinching
Marie's fat cheek, "and you shall save your strength by riding
home on the load! Here, Ma mie, up you go!"

She swung Marie into the air as she spoke. Father Van Hove
reached down from his perch on top of the load, caught her in his
arms, and enthroned her upon the fragrant grain.

"And now it is your turn, my Janke!" cried Mother Van Hove, "and
you shall ride on the back of old Pier like a soldier going to
the wars!" She lifted Jan to the horse's back, while Father Van
Hove climbed down to earth once more and took up the reins.

Fidel came back dripping wet from the river, shook himself, and
fell in behind the wagon. "U - U!" cried Father Van Hove to old
Pier, and the little procession moved slowly up the cart-path