The ride was not a very pleasant one.  Katherine could not help feeling that Mrs. Gordon was distrait and inconsistent; and, towards its close, she became very silent.  Yet she kissed her kindly, and drawing her closely for a last word, said, “Do not forget to wear your wadded cloak and hood.  You may have to take the water; for the councillor is very suspicious, let me tell you.  Remember what I say,—­the wadded cloak and hood; and good-by, good-by, my dear.”

“Shall I see you soon?”

“When we may meet again, I do not pretend to say; till then, I am entirely yours; and so again good-by.”

The ride had not occupied an hour; but, when Katherine got home, Lysbet was making tea.  “A cup will be good for you, mijn kind.”  And she smiled tenderly in the face that had been so white in its woeful anguish, but on which there was now the gleam of hope.  And she perceived that Katherine had received some message, she even divined that there might be some appointment to keep; and she determined not to be too wise and prudent, but to trust Katherine for this evening with her own destiny.

That night there was a meeting at the Town Hall, and Joris left the house soon after his tea.  He was greatly touched by Katharine’s effort to appear cheerful; and when she followed him to the door, and, ere he opened it, put her arms round his neck, and kissed him, murmuring, “My father, mijn vader!” he could not restrain his tears.

“Mijn kind, my liefste kind!” he answered.  And then his soul in its great emotion turned affectionately to the supreme fatherhood; for he whispered to himself, as he walked slowly and solemnly in the pleasant evening light:  “‘Gelijk sich een vader outfermt over de kinderen!’ Oh, so great must be Thy pity!  My own heart can tell that now.”

For an hour or more Katherine sat in the broad light of the window, folding and unfolding the pieces of white linen, sewing a stitch or two here, and putting on a button or tape there.  Madam passed quietly to and fro about her home duties, sometimes stopping to say a few words to her daughter.  It was a little interval of household calm, full of household work; of love assured without need of words, of confidence anchored in undoubting souls.  When Lysbet was ready to do so, she began to lay into the deep drawers of the presses the table-linen which Katherine had so neatly and carefully examined.  Over a pile of fine damask napkins she stood, with a perplexed, annoyed face; and Katherine, detecting it, at once understood the cause.

“One is wanting of the dozen, mother.  At the last cake-baking, with the dish of cake sent to Joanna it went.  Back it has not come.”

“For it you might go, Katherine.  I like not that my sets are broken.”