By this time the canal was gilded with sunlight. The pure
morning air was very delightful, and skaters were gradually
increasing in numbers. It was hard to obey the summons. But
Gretel and Hans were good children; without a thought of yielding
to the temptation to linger, they pulled off their skates,
leaving half the knots still tied. Hans, with his great square
shoulders and bushy yellow hair, towered high above his blue-eyed
little sister as they trudged homeward. He was fifteen years old
and Gretel was only twelve. He was a solid, hearty-looking boy,
with honest eyes and a brow that seemed to bear a sign GOODNESS
WITHIN just as the little Dutch zomerhuis *{Summer house} wears
a motto over its portal. Gretel was lithe and quick; her eyes
had a dancing light in them, and while you looked at her cheek
the color paled and deepened just as it does upon a bed of pink
and white blossoms when the wind is blowing.

As soon as the children turned from the canal, they could see
their parents' cottage. Their mother's tall form, arrayed in
jacket and petticoat and close-fitting cap, stood, like a
picture, in the crooked frame of the doorway. Had the cottage
been a mile away, it would still have seemed near. In that flat
country every object stands out plainly in the distance; the
chickens show as distinctly as the windmills. Indeed, were it
not for the dikes and the high banks of the canals, one could
stand almost anywhere in middle Holland without seeing a mound or
a ridge between the eye and the "jumping-off place."

None had better cause to know the nature of these same dikes than
Dame Brinker and the panting youngsters now running at her call.
But before stating WHY, let me ask you to take a rocking-chair