“Little use it would be, Joris.  To give consent in this matter would be a sacrifice refused.  Be sure that Cohen will not listen to Bram; no, nor to you, nor to me, nor to Miriam.  If it come to a question of race, more proud is the Jew of his race then even the Englishman or the Dutchman.  If it come to a question of faith, if all the other faiths in the world die out, the Jew will hold to his own.  Say to Bram, ‘I am willing;’ and Cohen will say to him, ‘Never, never will I consent.’  If you keep the ‘Jew’s cup’ for Bram and Miriam, always you will keep it; yes, and they that live after you, too.”

Why it is that certain trains of thought and feeling move to their end at the same hour, though that end affect a variety of persons, no one has yet explained.  But there are undoubtedly currents of sympathy of whose nature and movements we are profoundly ignorant.  Thus how often we think of an event just before some decisive action relating to it is made known to us!  How often do we recall some friend just as we are about to see or hear from him!  How often do we remember something that ought to be done, just at the last moment its successful accomplishment was possible to us!

And at the very hour Joris and Lysbet were discussing the position of their son with regard to Miriam Cohen, the question was being definitely settled at another point.  For Joris was not the only person who had observed Bram’s devotion to the beautiful Jewess.  Cohen had watched him with close and cautious jealousy for many months; but he was far too wise to stimulate love by opposition, and he did not believe in half measures.  When he defined Miriam’s duty to her, he meant it to be in such shape as precluded argument or uncertainty; and for this purpose delay was necessary.  Much correspondence with England had to take place, and the mails were then irregular.  But it happened that, after some months of negotiation, a final and satisfactory letter had come to him by the same post as brought Katherine’s letter to Joris Van Heemskirk.

He read its contents with a sad satisfaction, and then locked it away until the evening hours secured him from business interruption.  Then he went to his grandchild.  He found her sitting quietly among the cushions of a low couch.  It seemed as if Miriam’s thoughts were generally sufficient for her pleasure, for she was rarely busy.  She had always time to sit and talk, or to sit and be silent.  And Cohen liked best to see her thus,—­beautiful and calm, with small hands dropped or folded, and eyes half shut, and mouth closed, but ready to smile and dimple if he decided to speak to her.

She looked so pretty and happy and careless that for some time he did not like to break the spell of her restful beauty.  Nor did he until his pipe was quite finished, and he had looked carefully over the notes in his “day-book.”  Then he said in slow, even tones, “My child, listen to me.  This summer my young kinsman Judah Belasco will come here.  He comes to marry you.  You will be a happy wife, my dear.  He has moneys, and he has the power to make moneys; and he is a good young man.  I have been cautious concerning that, my dear.”