It was now the close of day, and every
easel, except that of Schalken, was
deserted. Gerard Douw was pacing the
apartment with the restless step of
impatient expectation, every now and then
humming a passage from a piece of music
which he was himself composing; for,
though no great proficient, he admired the
art; sometimes pausing to glance over the
work of one of his absent pupils, but more
frequently placing himself at the window,
from whence he might observe the passengers
who threaded the obscure by-street
in which his studio was placed.

'Said you not, Godfrey,' exclaimed
Douw, after a long and fruitless gaze from
his post of observation, and turning to
Schalken--'said you not the hour of ap-
pointment was at about seven by the clock
of the Stadhouse?'

'It had just told seven when I first saw
him, sir,' answered the student.

'The hour is close at hand, then,' said
the master, consulting a horologe as large
and as round as a full-grown orange.
'Mynher Vanderhausen, from Rotterdam