“I suppose he forgot them.  Ah, there they are!  How beautiful!  How fragrant!  I will give them to you, mother.”

“They are your own, my dear.  I would not give them away.”

Then Cornelia lifted them, and shyly buried her face in their beauty and sweetness; and afterwards took the card in her hand and read “Lieutenant George Hyde.”  “But, mother,” she said, “Arenta called him Joris.”

“Joris is George, my dear.”

“Certainly, I had forgotten.  Joris is the Dutch, George is the English form.  I think I like George better.”

“As you have neither right nor occasion to call him by either name, it is of no consequence Take away your flowers and put them in water—­the young man is very extravagant, I think.  Do you know that it is quite noon, and your father will be home in a little while?”

And there was such kind intent, such a divining sympathy in the simple words, that Cornelia’s heart grew warm with pleasure; and she felt that her mother understood, and did not much blame her.  At the same time she was glad to escape all questioning, and with the violets pressed to her heart, and her shining eyes dropped to them, she went with some haste to her room.  There she kissed the flowers, one by one, as she put them in the refreshing water; and then, forgetting all else, sat down and permitted herself to enter the delicious land of Reverie.  She let the thought of Hyde repossess her; and present again and again to her imagination his form, his face, his voice, and those long caressing looks she had seen and felt, without seeming to be aware of them.

A short time after Cornelia came home, Doctor Moran returned from his professional visits.  As he entered the room, his wife looked at him with a curious interest.  In the first place, the tenor of her thoughts led her to this observation.  She wished to assure herself again that the man for whom she had given up everything previously dear to her was worthy of such sacrifice.  A momentary glance satisfied her.  Nature had left the impress of her nobility on his finely-formed forehead; nothing but truth and kindness looked from his candid eyes; and his manner, if a little dogmatic, had also an unmistakable air of that distinction which comes from long and honourable ancestry and a recognized position.  He had also this morning an air of unusual solemnity, and on entering the room, he drew his wife close to his heart and kissed her affectionately, a token of love he was not apt to give without thought, or under every circumstance.

“You are a little earlier to day,” she said.  “I am glad of it.”

“I have had a morning full of feeling.  There is no familiarity with Death, however often you meet him.”

“And you have met Death this morning, I see that, John?”

“As soon as I went out, I heard of the death of Franklin.  We have truly been expecting the news, but who can prepare for the final ‘He is gone.’  Congress will wear mourning for two months, I hear, and all good citizens who can possibly do so will follow their example.  The flags are at half-mast, and there is sorrow everywhere.”