Windsor Magazine/The Confession of Floris Heenvliet

The Confession of Floris Heenvliet.
By MARJORIE BOWEN,
Author of "The Viper of Milan.'"
FLORIS HEENVLIET was skating along the canal that runs from Delft to Rotterdam. He had his back to the former town, which was where he lived, but he had not yet come so far that he could see the houses of Rotterdam, or even the spires of the big churches with their lead cupolas visible as far as Schiedam.
It was late afternoon, cold and lonely.
Floris had passed no one since he had left his uncle's house in the Koornmarkt, and he was glad. He was skating in face of the wind, he had his fur collar turned up, his cap pulled low, and his hands in his pockets.
It was delightful to feel his body swing forward without exertion or fatigue, to feel the ice spinning away from under his feet, to see the long canal ever widening before him, and to hear the solitary yet homely sound of the wind that blew back his coat and seemed to be struggling to lift up his cap, that it might whisper something in his ear.
On either side the flat, bare country was lying under a white salt mist that became grey in the distance and mingled with the sombre-coloured sky.
Floris skated through field after field, where the

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