The boy burst into tears. He knew that it was all imagination; he knew that he was sick; he knew that chimneys don't dance, and that girls are not blown to the moon; and yet----
Weeping he called Femke's name softly, not loud enough to be heard by the others, but loud enough to relieve his own depression.
"What's that?" he cried suddenly. "Does she answer? Is that imagination, too?"
Actually, Walter heard his name called, and it was Femke's voice!
"I must know whether I'm dreaming, or not," he said, and straightened himself up in bed. "That is a red flower, that is a black one, I am Walter, Laurens is a printer's apprentice--everything is all right; and I'm not dreaming."
He leaned out of bed and listened again, his mouth and eyes as wide open as he could get them, as if the senses of taste and sight were going to reinforce that of hearing.
"O, God! Femke's voice! Yes, yes, it is Femke!" He jumped out of bed, ran out the door, and half ran, half fell down the steps.
To return to Femke for a little while. She had expected Walter at the bridge the next day after the story of the sun-worshipers. At first she thought that Walter was waiting till he could borrow from Stoffel the book with the picture showing Aztalpa embracing the two brothers. She wanted to see Walter with the picture; now she would have been satisfied with him without the picture. It couldn't be the boy's person, she thought--such a child!--but he did recite so well. Perhaps in the heart of the girl Walter and his recitals had already coalesced.
"Put the clothes in the sun," cried her mother; and Femke translated that: Sun--Peru--Aztalpa--Kusco--Walter.
"Run those fighters away; they'll throw dirt on the clothes."
Femke dreamed: Courageously fighting against the enemies of the country--the noblest tribe of the Incas--Telasco--Walter.
Everything seemed to be calling for Walter; but he did not come.
The first day she was sad; the second, impatient; the third, restless.
"Mother, I'm going to see what's become of the little boy who was going to write a poem."
"Do, my child!" said the mother. "Do you think you will find him?"
Femke nodded; but her nod was not convincing. She did not know where Walter lived and was afraid to say so. It took courage to start out to trace the child when she didn't know where he lived; and this courage she wished to conceal. And why? Just timidity incident to the tender feelings. Sometimes we conceal the good and boast of the bad.