“Then, some woman it is?”

“Kiss me, mother.  After all, there is no woman like unto you.”

She drew close to him, and he stooped his handsome face to hers, and kissed her many times.  Her smile comforted him, for it was full of confidence, as she said—­

“Trouble not yourself, Joris.  At the last, your father sees through my eyes.  Must you go?  Well then, the Best of Beings go with you!”

“When are you coming to town, mother?”

“Next week.  There is a dinner party at the President’s, and your father will not be absent—­nor I—­nor you?”

“If I am invited, I shall go, just that I may see you enter the room.  Let me tell you, that sight always fills my heart with a tumultuous pride and love.”

“A great flatterer are you, Joris!” but she lifted her face again, and George kissed it, and then rode rapidly away.

He hardly drew rein until he reached his grandfather’s house, a handsome Dutch residence, built of yellow brick, and standing in a garden that was, at this season, a glory of tulips and daffodils, hyacinths and narcissus—­the splendid colouring of the beds being wonderfully increased by their borderings of clipped box.  An air of sunshiny peace was over the place, and as the upper-half of the side-door stood open he tied his horse and went in.  The ticking of the tall house-clock was the only sound he heard at first, but as he stood irresolute, a sweet, thin voice in an adjoining room began to sing a hymn.

“Grandmother!  Grandmother!!  Grandmother!!!” he called, and before the last appeal was echoed the old lady appeared.  She came forward rapidly, her knitting in her hand.  She was singularly bright and alert, with rosy cheeks, and snow-white hair under a snow-white cap of clear-starched lace.  A snow-white kerchief of lawn was crossed over her breast, and the rest of her dress was so perfectly Dutch that she might have stepped out of one of Tenier’s pictures.

“Oh, my Joris!” she cried, “Joris!  Joris!  I am so happy to see thee.  But what, then, is the matter?  Thy eyes are full of trouble.”

“I will tell you, grandmother.”  And he sat down by her side and went over the conversation he had had with his father.  She never interrupted him, but he knew by the rapid clicking of her knitting needles that she was moved far beyond her usual quietude.  When he ceased speaking, she answered—­

“To sell thee, Joris, is a great shame, and for nothing to sell thee is still worse.  This is what I think:  Let half of the income from the earldom go to the poor young lady, but thyself into the bargain, is beyond all reason.  And if with Cornelia Moran thou art in love, a good thing it is;—­so I say.”

“Do you know Cornelia, grandmother?”

“Well, then, I have seen her; more than once.  A great beauty I think her; and Doctor John has Money—­plenty of money—­and a very good family are the Morans.  I remember his father—­a very fine gentleman.”