"Ah, Hans," called his sister plaintively, "this foot is not well
yet. The strings hurt me on last market day, and now I cannot
bear them tied in the same place."

"Tie them higher up, then," answered Hans, as without looking at
her he performed a wonderful cat's cradle step on the ice.

"How can I? The string is too short."

Giving vent to a good-natured Dutch whistle, the English of which
was that girls were troublesome creatures, he steered toward her.

"You are foolish to wear such shoes, Gretel, when you have a
stout leather pair. Your klompen *{Wooden shoes.} would be
better than these."

"Why, Hans! Do you forget? The father threw my beautiful new
shoes in the fire. Before I knew what he had done, they were all
curled up in the midst o the burning peat. I can skate with
these, but not with my wooden ones. Be careful now--"

Hans had taken a string from his pocket. Humming a tune as he
knelt beside her, he proceeded to fasten Gretel's skate with all
the force of his strong young arm.

"Oh! oh!" she cried in real pain.

With an impatient jerk Hans unwound the string. He would have
cast it on the ground in true big-brother style, had he not just
then spied a tear trickling down his sister's cheek.