Hans listened attentively, growing red and pale by turns and throwing quick, anxious glances toward the bed.

"It may KILL the father--did you say, mynheer?" he exclaimed at last in a trembling whisper.

"It may, my boy. But I have a strong belief that it will cure and not kill. Ah! If boys were not such dunces, I could lay the whole matter before you, but it would be of no use."

Hans looked blank at this compliment.

"It would be of no use," repeated Dr. Boekman indignantly. "A great operation is proposed, but one might as well do it with a hatchet. The only question asked is, 'Will it kill?'"

"The question is EVERYTHING to us, mynheer," said Hans with tearful dignity.

Dr. Boekman looked at him in sudden dismay.

"Ah! Exactly so. You are right, boy, I am a fool. Good boy. One does not wish one's father killed--of course I am a fool."

"Will he die, mynheer, if this sickness goes on?"

"Humph! This is no new illness. The same thing growing worse ever instant--pressure on the brain--will take him off soon like THAT," said the doctor, snapping his fingers.