had scooped it up in their wooden shoes and poured it into a heap in the
middle of the road and then wetted it; and now they were boring all sorts
of holes in it and tunnels and passages and making it into a
rats'-castle. She let them be, gathered up her little skirts, so as not
to dirty them, and passed by on one side.

Mother was up to her elbows in the golden dough of the cakebread,
stirring and beating and patting the jumble of eggs and flour and milk.
Horieneke took the crying baby out of the cradle, shaking and tossing it
in the air, and went into the garden just outside the door. The golden
afternoon sun lay all around and everything was radiant with translucid
green. The little path lay neatly raked and the yellow daffodils stood,
like brass trumpets, closely ranked on their stalks; under the shrubs
bright violets peeped out with raised eyebrows, like the grinning faces
of little old wives. The whole garden was filled with a scent of fresh
jasmine and a cool fragrance of cherry-blossom and peach.

It was all so still and peaceful that Horieneke, who had begun to sing,
stopped in the middle and stood listening to the chaffinches and siskins
chattering pell-mell.

From there she went to her little bedroom, laid the child on her bed and
drew the curtains before the window which let in the sun in a thousand
slender beams of dusty light. The pictures and images gleamed on the wall
and the saints seemed to smile with happiness in that cool air, fragrant
of gillyflowers and white jasmine. She took out her new prayer-book,
flicked the silver clasp open and shut and played with the little shaft
of light which the gilt edge sent running all round the white walls. Then
she stood musing for a long time, gazing out through the little curtains
at those white trees in blossom, around and above which the golden pollen