[Illustration:  “Make me not to remember the past”]

“I think it was not her fault if two men quarrelled and fought about her.”

“She was not wholly innocent.  Miriam, make me not to remember the past.  My eyes are old now; they should not weep any more.  I have drunk my cup of sorrow to the lees.  O Miriam, Miriam, do not fill it again!”

“God forbid!  My father, I will keep the promise that I made you.  I will do all that you wish.”

Cohen bowed his head solemnly, and remained for some minutes afterward motionless.  His eyes were closed, his face was as still as a painted face.  Whether he was praying or remembering, Miriam knew not.  But solitude is the first cry of the wounded heart, and she went away into it.  She was like a child that had been smitten, and whom there was none to comfort.  But she never thought of disputing her grandfather’s word, or of opposing his will.  Often before he had been obliged to give her some bitter cup, or some disappointment; but her good had always been the end in view.  She had perfect faith in his love and wisdom.  But she suffered very much; though she bore it with that uncomplaining patience which is so characteristic of the child heart—­a patience pathetic in its resignation, and sublime in its obedience.

And it was during this hour of trial to Miriam that Joris was talking to Lysbet of her.  It did him good to put his fears into words, for Lysbet’s assurances were comfortable; and as it had been a day full of feeling, he was weary and went earlier to his room than usual.  On the contrary, Lysbet was very wakeful.  She carried her sewing to the candle, and sat down for an hour’s work.  The house was oppressively still; and she could not help remembering the days when it had been so different,—­when Anna and Cornelia had been marriageable women, and Joanna and Katherine growing girls.  All of them had now gone away from her.  Only Bram was left, and she thought of him with great anxiety.  Such a marriage as his father had hinted at filled her with alarm.  She could neither conquer her prejudices nor put away her fears; and she tormented herself with imagining, in the event of such a misfortune, all the disagreeable and disapproving things the members of the Middle Kirk would have to say.

In the midst of her reflections, Bram returned.  She had not expected him so early, but the sound of his feet was pleasant.  He came in slowly; and, after some pottering, irritating delays, he pushed his father’s chair back from the light, and with a heavy sigh sat down in it.

“Why sigh you so heavy, Bram?  Every sigh still lower sinks the heart.”

“A light heart I shall never have again, mother.”

“You talk some foolishness.  A young man like you!  A quarrel with your sweetheart, is it?  Well, it will be over as quick as a rainy day.  Then the sunshine again.”

“For me there is no hope like that.  So quiet and shy was my love.”