The first changes referred especially to Hyde’s life, and were not altogether approved by him. His pretence of reading law had to be abandoned, for he had promised to remain at home with his mother, and it would not therefore be possible for him to dawdle about Pearl Street and Maiden Lane watching for Cornelia. But he had that happy and fortunate temper that trusts to events; and also, he soon began to realize that if circumstances alter cases, they also alter feelings.

For, looking upon Hyde Manor as the future home of himself and his wife—and that wife, happily, Cornelia—he found it very easy to take an almost eager interest in all that concerned its welfare and beauty. “How good! How unselfish he is!” thought his mother. “Never before has he been so ready to listen and so willing to please me.” But, really, the work soon became delightful to him. The passion for land and for its improvement—the ruling passion of an Englishman—was not absent in George; it was only latent, and the idea of home, of his own personal home, developed it with amazing rapidity. He was soon able to make excellent suggestions to his mother; for her ideas, beautiful enough in the cultivation of flat surfaces, did not embody the grander possibilities of the higher lands near the river. But George saw every advantage, and with great ability directed his little gang of labourers among the rocks and woody crags of the yet unplanted wilderness.

In spite of their anxiety about the General, in spite of George’s longing to see Cornelia, these early summer days, with their glory of sunshine and shade and their miracles of growth, were very happy days; though madame reached her happiness by putting the future quite out of her thoughts, and George reached his by anticipating the future as the fruition of the present. Never since his early boyhood had madame and her son been so near and so dear to each other; for her brother-in-law’s probable death and her husband’s dangerous journeying released her from social engagements, and permitted her to spend her time in the employments and the companionship she loved best of all.

George, while accepting for himself the same partial seclusion, had more freedom. He rode into town three or four times every week; got the news of the clubs and the streets; loitered about Maiden Lane and the shopping district; and when disappointed and vexed at events went to his Grandmother Van Heemskirk for sympathy. For, as yet, he hesitated about naming Cornelia to his mother. He was sure she was aware of his passion, and her reticence on the subject made him fear she was going to advocate the fulfilment of his father’s promise. And he had such a singular delicacy about the girl he loved that he could not endure the thought of bandying her name about in an angry discussion. Added to this fine sense was an adoring love for his mother. She was in anxiety enough, and would be, until she heard of her husband’s safety; why, then, should he add his anxiety to hers?

Yet he was not happy about Cornelia. Since that unfortunate morning at Richmond Hill they had never met. If she saw him go up or down Maiden Lane, she made no sign. Several times Arenta’s face at her parlour window had given him a passing hope; but Arenta’s own love affairs were just then at a very interesting point; and, besides, she regarded the young Lieutenant’s admiration for her friend as only one of his many transient enthusiasms.

“If there was anything real in it,” she reflected, “Cornelia would have talked about him; and that she has never done.” Then she began to remember, with pride, the very sensible behaviour of her own lover. “My Athanase,” she reflected, “did not give me an hour’s rest until we were engaged. He insisted on talking to father about our marriage settlements and our future—in fact, he made of love a thing possible and practical. A lover like Joris Hyde is not, I think, very fortunate.”

She did not understand that the quality of love in its finest revelation desires, after its first sweet inception, a little period of withdrawal—it wonders at its strange happiness—broods over it—is fearful of disturbing emotions so exquisite—prefers the certainty of its delicious suspense to a more definite understanding, and finds a keen strange delight in its own poignant anxieties and hopes. These are the birth pangs of an immortal love—of a love that knows within itself, that it is born for Eternity, and need not to hurry the three-score-and-ten years of time to a consummation.

Of such noble lineage was the love of Cornelia for Joris Hyde. His gracious, beautiful youth, seemed a part of her own youth; his ardent, tender glances had filled her heart with a sweet trouble that she did not understand. It was the most natural thing in the world that she should wish to be apart; that she should desire to brood over feelings so strangely happy; and that in this very brooding they should grow to the perfect stature of a luminous and unquenchable affection.

Joris was moved by a sentiment of the same kind, though in a lesser degree. The masculine desire to obtain, and the delightful consciousness that he possessed, at least, the tremendous advantage of asking for the love he craved, roused him from the sweet torpor to which delicious, dreamy love had inclined him.

“I have thought of Cornelia long enough,” he said one delightful summer morning; “with all my soul I now long to see her. And it is not an impossible thing I desire. In short, there is some way to compass it.” Then a sudden, invincible persuasion of success came to him; he believed in his own good fortune; he had a conviction that the very stars connived with a true lover to work his will. And under this enthusiasm he galloped into town, took his horse to a stable, and then walked towards Maiden Lane.

In a few moments he saw Arenta Van Ariens. She was in a mist of blue and white, with flowing curls, and fluttering ribbons; and a general air of happiness. He placed himself directly in her path, and doffed his beaver to the ground as she approached.

“Well, then,” she cried, with an affected air of astonishment, “who would have thought of seeing you? Your retirement is the talk of the town.”

“And pray what does the town say?”

“Some part of it says you have lost your fortune at cards; another part says you have lost your heart and got no compensation for it. ‘Tis strange to see the folly of young people of this age,” she added, with a little pretended sigh of superior wisdom.

“As if you, also, had not lost your heart!” exclaimed Hyde.

“No, sir! I have exchanged mine for its full value. Where are you going?”

“With you.”

“In a word, no. For I am going to Aunt Angelica’s.”

“Upon my honour, it is to your Aunt Angelica’s I desire to go most of all!”

“Now I understand. You have found out that Cornelia Moran is going there. Are you still harping on that string? And Cornelia never said one word to me. I do not approve of such deceit. In my love affairs I have always been open as the day.”

“I assure you that I did NOT know Miss Moran was going there. I had not a thought of Madame Jacobus until we met. To tell the very truth, I came into town to look for you.”

“For me? And why, pray?”

“I want to see Miss Moran. If I cannot see her, then I want to hear about her. I thought you, of all people, could tell me the most and the best. I assured myself that you had infinite good temper. Now, pray do not disappoint me.”

“Listen! We meet this afternoon at my aunt’s, to discuss the dresses and ceremonies proper for a very fine wedding.”

“For your own wedding, in fact—Is not that so?”

“Well, then?”

“Well, then, who knows more on that subject than Joris Hyde? Was I not, last year, at Lady Betty Somer’s splendid nuptials; and at Fanny Paget’s, and the Countess of Carlisle’s? Indeed, I maintain that in such a discussion I am an absolute necessity. And I wish to know Madame Jacobus. I have long wished to know her. Upon my honour, I think her to be one of the most interesting women in New York!”

“I will advise you a little. Save your compliments until you can say them to my aunt. I never carry a word to any one.”

“Then take me with you, and I will repeat them to her face.”

“So? Well, then, here we are, at her very door. I know not what she will say—you must make your own excuses, sir.”

As she was speaking, they ascended the white steps leading to a very handsome brick house on the west side of Broadway. It had wide iron piazzas and a fine shady garden at the back, sloping down to the river bank; and had altogether, on the outside, the very similitude of a wealthy and fashionable residence. The door was opened by a very dark man, who was not a negro, and who was dressed in a splendid and outlandish manner—a scarlet turban above his straight black hair, and gold-hooped earrings, and a long coat or tunic, heavily embroidered in strange devices.

“He was an Algerine pirate,” whispered Arenta. “My Uncle Jacob brought him here—and my aunt trusts him—I would not, not for a moment.”

As soon as the front door closed, Joris perceived that he was in an unusual house. The scents and odours of strange countries floated about it. The hall contained many tall jars, full of pungent gums and roots; and upon its walls the weapons of savage nations were crossed in idle and harmless fashion. They went slowly up the highly polished stairway into a large, low parlour, facing the vivid, everyday business drama of Broadway; but the room itself was like an Arabian Night’s dream, for the Eastern atmosphere was supplemented by divans and sofas covered with rare cashmere shawls, and rugs of Turkestan, and with cushions of all kinds of oriental splendour. Strange tables of wonderful mosaic work held ivory carvings of priceless worth; and porcelain from unknown lands. Gods and goddesses from the yellow Gehenna of China and the utterable idolatry of India, looked out with brute cruelty, or sempiternal smiles from every odd corner; or gazed with a fascinating prescience from the high chimney-piece upon all who entered.

The effect upon Hyde was instantaneous and uncanny. His Saxon-Dutch nature was in instant revolt against influences so foreign and unnatural. Arenta was unconsciously in sympathy with him; for she said with a shrug of her pretty shoulders, as she looked around, “I have always bad dreams after a visit to this room. Do these things have a life of their own? Look at the creature on that corner shelf! What a serene disdain is in his smile! He seems to gaze into the very depths of your soul. I see that there is a curtain to his shrine; and I shall take leave to draw it.” With these words she went to the scornful divinity, and shut his offending eyes behind the folds of his gold-embroidered curtain.

Hyde watched her flitting about the strange room, and thought of a little brown wren among the poisonous, vivid splendours of tropical swamp flowers. So out of place the pretty, thoughtless Dutch girl looked among the spoils of far India, and Central America, and of Arabian and African worship and workmanship. But when the door opened, and Madame Jacobus, with soft, gliding footsteps entered, Hyde understood how truly the soul, if given the wherewithal, builds the habitation it likes best. Once possessed of marvellous beauty, and yet extraordinarily interesting, she seemed the very genius of the room and its strange, suggestive belongings. She was unusually tall, and her figure had kept its undulating, stately grace. Her hair, dazzlingly white, was piled high above her ample brow, held in place with jewelled combs and glittering pins. Her face had lost its fine oval and youthful freshness, but who of any feeling or intelligence would not have far preferred the worn countenance, expressing in a thousand sensitive shades and emotions the story of her life and love? And if every other beauty had failed, Angelica’s eyes would have atoned for the loss. They were large, softly-black, slow-moving, or again, in a moment, flashing with the fire that lay hidden in the dark pit of the iris.

It was said that her slaves adored her, and that no man who came within her influence had been able to resist her power—no man, perhaps, but Captain Jacobus; and he had not resisted, he had been content to exercise over her a power greater than her own. He had made her his wife; he had lavished on her for ten years the spoils of the four quarters of the world; and his worship of her had only been equalled by her passionate attachment to him. Ten years of love, and then parting and silence—unbroken silence. Yet she still insisted that he was alive, and would certainly come back to her. With this faith in her heart, she had refused to put on any symbol of loss or mourning. She kept his fine house open, his room ready, and herself constantly adorned for his home-coming. Society, which insists on uniformity, did not approve of this unreasonable hope. It expected her to adopt the garments of widowhood for a time, and then make a match in accordance with the great fortune Captain Jacobus had left her. But Angelica Jacobus was a law unto herself; and society was compelled to take her with those apologizing shrugs it gives to whatever is original and individual.

She came in with a smile of welcome. She was always pleased that her fine home should be seen by those strange to it; and perhaps was particularly pleased that General Hyde’s son should be her visitor. And as Joris was determined to win her favour, there was an almost instantaneous birth of good-will.

“Let me kiss your hand, madame,” said the handsome young fellow, lifting the jewelled fingers in his own. “I have heard that my father had once that honour. Do not put me below him;” and with the words he touched with his warm lips the long white fingers.

Her laugh rang merrily through the dim room, and she answered—“You are Dick Hyde’s own son—nothing else. I see that”—and she drew the young man towards the light and looked with a steady pleasure into his smiling face as she asked—

“What brought you here this morning, sir?”

“Madame, I have heard my father speak of you; I have seen you; can you wonder that I desired to know you? This morning I met Miss Van Ariens, and when she said she was coming here, I found myself unable to resist the temptation of coming with her.”

“Let me tell you something, aunt. I think Lieutenant Hyde can be of great service to us. He took part in several noble English weddings last year, and he offers his advice in our consultation to-day.”

“But where is Cornelia? I thought she would come with you.”

“She will be here in a few minutes. I saw her half-an-hour ago.”

“What a beautiful girl she has become!” said madame.

“She is an angel,” said Hyde.

Angelica laughed. “The man who calls a woman an angel has never had any sisters,” she answered; “but, however, she has beauty enough to set young hearts ablaze. I like the girl, and I wonder not that others do the same.”

Even as she spoke Cornelia entered. There was a little flush and hurry on her face; but oh, how innocent and joyous it was! Quick-glancing, sweetly smiling, she entered the musky, scented parlour, and in her white robe and white hat stood like a lily in its light and gloom. And when she turned to Hyde an ineffable charm and beauty illumed her countenance. “How glad I am to see you!” she said, and the very ring of gladness was in her voice. “And how strange that we should meet here!”

“That is so,” replied Madame Jacobus. “One can never see where the second little bird comes from.”

“Am I late, madame? Surely your clock is wrong.”

“My clock is never wrong, Cornelia, A Dutch clock will always go just about so. Come, now, sit down, and let us talk of such follies as weddings and wedding gowns.”

In this conversation Hyde triumphantly redeemed his promise of assistance. He could describe with a delightful accuracy—or inaccuracy—the lovely toilets and pretty accessories of the high English wedding feasts of the previous year. And in some subtle way he threw into these descriptions such a glamour of romance, such backgrounds of old castles and chiming bells, of noble dames glittering with gems, and village maids scattering roses, of martial heroes, and rejoicing lovers, all moving in an atmosphere of song and sunshine, that the little party sat listening, entranced, with sympathetic eyes drinking in his wonderful descriptions.

Madame Jacobus was the first to interrupt these pretty reminiscences. “All this is very fine,” she said, “but the most of it is no good for us. The satin and the lace and even the gems, we can have; the music can be somehow managed, and we shall not make a bad show as to love and beauty. But castles and lords and military pomp, and old cathedrals hung with battle flags— Such things are not to be had here, and, in plain truth, they are not necessary for the wedding of a simple maid like our Arenta.”

“You forget, then, that my Athanase is of almost royal descent,” said Arenta. “A very old family are the Tounnerres—older, indeed, than the royal Capets.”

“No one is to-day so poor as to envy the royal Capets; and as for an ancient family, Captain Jacobus used to speak of his forefathers as the old fellows whom the flood could not wash away.’ Jacobus always put his ideas in such clear, forcible words. What I want to know is this—where is the ceremony to be performed?”

“The civil ceremony is to be at the French Embassy,” answered Arenta with some pride.

“Is that all there is to it?”

“Aunt! How could you imagine that I should be satisfied with a civil ceremony? My father also insists upon a religious ceremony; and my Athanase told him he was willing to marry me in every church in America. I am not Gertrude Kippon! No, indeed! I insist on everything being done in a moral and respectable manner. My father spoke of Doctor Kunz for the religious part.”

“I like not Doctor Kunz,” answered madame. “Bishop Provoost and the Episcopal service is the proper thing. Doctor Kunz will be sure to say some sharp words—his tongue is full of them—he stands too stiff—he does not use his hands gracefully—his walk and carriage is not dignified—and he looks at you through spectacles—and I, for one, do not like to be looked at through spectacles. We must decide for the Episcopal church.”

“And the little trip after it,” continued Arenta. “Lieutenant Hyde says that, in England, it is now the proper thing.”

“But in America it is not the proper thing. It is a rude unmannerly way to run off with a bride. We are not red Indians, nor is the Marquis carrying you by force from some hostile tribe. The nuptial trip is a barbarism. I am now weary. Lieutenant, take Miss Moran and show her my garden. I tell you, it is worth walking through; and when you have seen the flowers, Arenta and I will give you a cup of tea.”

Arenta would gladly have gone into the garden also, but her aunt detained her. “Can you not see,” she asked, “that those two are in love with each other? Give love its hour. They do not want your company.”

“And for that very reason I wish to go with them. My brother is in love with Cornelia, and I am for Rem, and not for a stranger—also, my father and Cornelia’s father are both for Rem; and, besides, Doctor Moran hates the Hydes. He will not let Cornelia marry the man.”

“HE WILL NOT LET! When did Doctor John become omnipotent? Love laughs at fathers, as well as at locksmiths. And if Doctor John is against young Hyde, then I shall the more cheerfully be for him—a pleasant, handsome youth as ever I saw, is he; and Doctor John—well, he is neither pleasant nor handsome.”

“Aunt Angelica! I am astonished at you! Every one will contradict what you say.”

“For that reason, I will maintain it. It is not my way to shout with the multitude.”

With some hesitation, yet quite carried away by Hyde’s personal longing and impulse, Cornelia went into the garden with her lover. It was a green, shady place, full of great maple-trees and flowering vines and shrubs, and patches of green grass. All kinds of sweet old-fashioned flowers grew there, mingling their scent with the strawberries’ perfume and the woody odours of the ripening cherries. They were alone in this lovely place; the high privet hedges hid them from the outside world, and the babble and rumble of Broadway came to them only as the murmur of noise in a dream. Speechless with joy, Hyde clasped Cornelia’s slender fingers, and they went together down the few broad low steps which led them into the green shadows of the trees. How soft was the grassy turf! How exquisite the westering sunlight, sifting through the maple leaves! They looked into each other’s eyes and smiled, but were too happy to speak. For they had suddenly come into that land, which is east of the sun, and west of the moon; that land not laid down on any chart, but which we feel to be our rightful heritage.

Slowly, as they stepped, they came at length to a little summerhouse. It was covered with a thick jessamin vine; and the mysterious, languorous perfume of its starlike flowers filled the narrow resting-place with the very atmosphere of love. They sat down there, and in a few moments the seal was broken and Hyde’s heart found out all the sweetest words that love could speak. Cornelia trembled; she blushed, she smiled, she suffered herself to be drawn close to his side; and, at last, in some sweet, untranslatable way, she gave him the assurance of her love. Then they found in delicious silence the eloquence that words were incompetent to translate; time was forgotten, and on earth there was once more an interlude of heavenly harmony in which two souls became one and Paradise was regained.

Arenta’s voice, petulant and not pleasant, broke the charm. With a sigh they rose, dropped each other’s hand, and went out of their heaven on earth to meet her.

“Tea is waiting,” she said, “and Rem is waiting, and my aunt is tired, and you two have forgotten that the clock moves.” Then they laughed, and laughter is always fatal to feeling; the magical land of love was suddenly far away, and there was the sound of china, and the heavy tones of Rem’s voice—dissatisfied, if not angry—and Arenta’s lighter fret; and they stood once more among fetishes and forms so foreign, fabulous and fantastical, that it was difficult to pass from the land of love, and all its pure delights, into their atmosphere.

It would have been harder but for Madame Jacobus. She understood; and she sympathized; and there was a kindly element in her nature which disposed her to side with the lovers. Her smile,—quick and short as a flash of the eyes—revealed to Hyde her intention of favour, and without one spoken word, these two knew themselves to be of the same mind. And, in parting, she held his hand while she talked, saying at last the very words he longed to hear—

“We shall expect you again on Thursday, Lieutenant. Everything is yet undecided, and the work you have begun, it is right that you should finish.”

He answered only, “Thank you, madame!” but he accompanied the words with a look which asked so much, and confessed so much, that madame felt herself to be a silent confidante and a not unwilling accomplice. And when she had closed the door on her guests, she acknowledged it. “But then,” she whispered, “I always did dearly love a lover; and this promises to be a love affair that will need my help—plenty of good honest hatred for it to combat—and wealth and rank and all sorts of conflicting conditions to get the better of—Well, then, my help is ready. In plain truth, I don’t like such perfection as Doctor John; and my nephew Rem is not interesting. He is sulky, and Hyde is good-tempered, just like his father, too; and there never was a more fascinating man than Dick Hyde. HE-HO! I remember!—I remember!—and yet I dare say Dick has forgotten my very name—this is a marriage that will exactly suit me—I don’t care who is against it!” Then she said softly to herself—

“REM went to Cornelia as they were about to leave, and he reminded her that, by her permission, he had come to walk home with her.

“CORNELIA turned to Hyde, excused herself, and, cool and silent, took her place by Rem’s side.

“HYDE accepted the position with a smile, and a gracious bow, and then joined Arenta.

“ARENTA was far less agreeable than she ought to have been; for both she and her brother had a kind of divination. They knew, in spite of appearances, that Rem had not got the best of Joris Hyde. I am quick in my observations, and I know this is so. Well then, it is a very interesting affair as it stands—and it is like to grow far more interesting. I am not opposed to that. I shall enjoy it. Hyde and Cornelia ought to marry—and they have my good wishes.”

As for Hyde, no thought that could mar the sweetness and joy of this fortunate hour came into his mind. Neither Rem’s evident hatred, nor Arenta’s disapproval, nor yet Cornelia’s silence, troubled him. He had within his heart a talisman that made everything propitious. And he was so joyous that the people whom he passed on the street caught happiness from him. Men and women alike turned to look after the youth, for they felt the virtue of his passing presence, and wondered what it might mean. Even the necessary parting from Cornelia was only a phase of this wonderful gladness; for Love never fails of his token, and, though Arenta’s sharp eyes could not discover it, Hyde received the silent message that was meant for him, and for him only. That one thought made his heart bound and falter with its exquisite delight—for him only—for him only, was that swift but certain assurance; that instantaneous bright flash of love that held in it all heaven and earth, and left him, as he told himself again and again, the happiest man in all the world.

He was hardly responsible for his actions at this hour; for when a swift gallop brought him to the Van Heemskirk house, he quite unconsciously struck the door some rapid, forceful blows, with his riding whip. His grandfather opened it with an angry face.

“I thought it was thee,” he said. “Now, then, in such lordly fashion, whom didst thou summon? dog or slave, was it?”

“Oh, grandfather, I intended no harm. Did I strike so hard? Upon my word, I meant it not.”

At this moment Madame Van Heemskirk came quickly forward. She turned a face of disapproval on her husband, and asked sharply, “Why dost thou complain?”

“I like not my house-door struck so rudely, Lysbet. No man in all America, but Joris Hyde, would dare to do it.”

At these words Joris flung himself from his horse and clasped his grandfather’s hand. “I did wrong,” he said warmly; “but I am beside myself with happiness; and I thought of nothing but telling you. My heart was in such a hurry that my hands forgot how to behave themselves.”

“So happy as that, art thou? Good! Come in, and tell us what has happened to thee.”

But Lysbet divined the joy in her grandson’s face; and she said softly as he seated himself at the open window where his grandfather’s chair was placed—

“It is Cornelia?”

“Yes, it is Cornelia. She loves me! The most charming girl the sun ever shone upon loves me. It is incredible! It is amazing! I cannot believe in my good fortune. Will you assure me it is possible? I want to hear some one say so—and who is there but my grandfather and you? I do not like to tell my mother, just yet. What do you say?”

“I say that thou hast chosen a good girl for a wife. God bless thee,” answered Lysbet with great emotion.

Van Heemskirk smiled, but was silent; and Hyde stooped forward, gently moved his long pipe away from his lips, and said, “Grandfather, speak, You know Cornelia Moran?”

“I have seen her. With thee I saw her—walking with thee—dancing with thee. A great beauty I thought her. Thy grandmother says she is good. Well, then, the love of a good, beautiful girl, is something to be glad over. Not twice in a lifetime comes such great fortune. But make up thy mind to expect much opposition. Doctor John and thy father were ever unfriends. Thy father has other plans for thee; Cornelia’s father has doubtless other plans for her. Few men can stand against Doctor John; he has the word, and the way, to carry all before him. I know not how the little Cornelia can dare to disobey him.”

“She has said ‘yes’ to me; and, before heaven and earth, she will stand by it.”

“Say that much. And of thyself, art thou sure?”

“Why art thou throwing cold water on such sweet hopes?” said Lysbet to her husband.

“Because, when love flames beyond duty and honour and all expediences, Lysbet, some one a little cold water ought to throw. And THOU will not do it. No! Rather, would thou add fuel to the flame.”

“I know not what you mean, sir,” said Hyde, vaguely troubled by his grandfather’s words.

“I think thou knowest well what I mean. Thy father has told thee that thy duty and thy honour are pledged to Annie Hyde.”

“I never pledged! Never!”

“But, as in thy baptism thy father made vows for thee, so also for thy marriage he made promises. Noble birth has responsibility, as well as privilege. For thyself alone it is not permitted thee to live, from both the past and the future there are demands on thee.”

“Grandfather, this living for the future is the curse of the English land-owners. They enjoy not the present, for they are busy taking care of the years they will never see. Their sons are in their way; it is their grandsons and their great-grandsons that interest them. Why should my father plan for my marriage? He may be Earl Hyde for twenty years—and I hope he will. For twenty years Cornelia and I can be happy here in America; and twenty years is a great opportunity. Everything can happen in twenty years. Of one thing I am sure—I will marry Cornelia Moran, even if I run away with her to the ends of the earth.”

“‘Run away with her.’ To be sure! That is in the blood;” and the old man looked sternly back to the days when Hyde’s father ran away with his own little daughter.

With some anger Lysbet answered his thoughts. “What art thou talking about? What art thou thinking of? Many good men have run away with their wives. This almighty Doctor John ran away with his wife. Did not Ava Willing leave her father’s house and her friends and her faith for him? And did not the Quakers read her out of their Meeting for her marriage?—and I blame them not. Doctor John was no match for Ava Willing. More, too, if thou must look back; remember one May night, when thou and I sat by the Collect in the moonlight, and thou gave me this ring. What did thou say to me that night?”

“‘Tis years ago, Lysbet, and If I have forgotten—”

“Forgotten! Well, then, men do forget; but they may be thankful that God has so made women that they do NOT forget. The words thou said that night have been singing in my heart for fifty years; and yet, if thou must be told, some of those words were about RUNNING AWAY WITH THEE;—for, at the first, my father liked thee not.”

“Lysbet! My sweet Lysbet! I have not forgotten. For thy dear sake I will stand by Joris, though in doing so I am sure I shall make some unfriends.”

“Good, my husband. I take leave to say that thou art doing right.”

“Well, then,” said Hyde, “if my grandmother stand by me, and you also, sir; and also Madame Jacobus—”

“Madame Jacobus!” cried Lysbet.

“Yes, indeed!” answered Hyde. “‘Tis to her understanding and kindness I owe my opportunity; and she gave me, also, one look which I cannot pretend to misunderstand—a look of clear sympathy—a look that promised help.”

“She is a clever woman,” said Van Heemskirk. “If Joris has her good will it is not to be thrown away.”

“I like her not,” said Lysbet. “With my grandson, with my affairs, why should she meddle? Pray, now, what took thee, Joris, to her house? It is full of idolatries and graven images. Doctor Kunz once wrote to her a letter about them. He said she ought to remember the Second Commandment. And she wrote to him a letter, and told him to trouble himself with his own business. Much anger and shame there might have been out of this, but Angelica Jacobus is rich, and she is generous to the church, and to the poor; and Doctor Kunz said to the elders, ‘Let her alone, for there is a savour of righteousness in her;’ and when she heard of that, she was pleased with the Doctor, and sent him one hundred dollars for the Indian Mission. But, Joris, she is no good to thee. I hear many queer stories of her.”

“Downright lies, all of them,” replied Hyde. Then he rose, saying, “I must ride onward. My mother will not sleep until she sees me.”

“It is nearly dark,” said Van Heemskirk, “and to-night thou art in the clouds. The land and the water will be alike to thee. Rest until the morning.”

“I fear not the dark. I know the road by night or by day.”

“Yet, even so, mind what I tell thee—if thou ride in the dark, be not wiser than thy beast.”

Then they walked with him to the door, and watched him leap to his saddle and ride into the twilight trembling over the misty meadows, trickling with dews. And a great melancholy fell over them, and they could not resume the conversation. Joris re-lit his pipe, and Lysbet went softly and thoughtfully about her household duties. It was one of those hours in which Life distills for us her vague melancholy wine; and Joris and Lysbet drank deeply of it.

The moon was in its third day, and the silent crescent has no calmer and sweeter time; yet Joris it inclined to a sad presentiment. “In my heart there is a fear, Lysbet,” he said softly. “I think our boy has gone a road he will dearly rue. I foresee disputing, and wounded hearts, and lives made barren by many disappointed hopes.”

“Nothing of the kind,” answered Lysbet cheerfully. “Our little Joris is so happy to-night, why wilt thou think evil for him? To think evil is to bring evil. Out of foolishness or perchance such a great love has not come. No, indeed! That it comes from heaven I am sure; and to heaven I will leave its good fortune.”

“Pleasant are thy hopes, Lysbet; but, too often, vain and foolish.”

“Thy reasoning, is it any wiser? No. Often I have found it wrong. One thing the years have said to me, it is this—‘Lysbet put not thy judgment in the place of Providence. If thou trust Providence, thou hast the easy heart of a child of God; if thou trust to thine own judgment, thou hast the troubled heart of an anxious woman.’”