“But my father hates Doctor Moran.”

“Very wicked is he to hate any one.  Why, then?”

“He gave me only one reason—­that his family is French.”

“So!  Thy mother was Dutch.  Every one cannot be English—­a God’s mercy they cannot!  Now, then, thy grandfather is coming; thy trouble tell to him.  Good advice he will give thee.”

Senator Van Heemskirk however went first into his garden and gathering great handfuls of white narcissus and golden daffodils, he called a slave woman and bade her carry them to the Semple house, and lay them in, and around, his friend’s coffin.  One white lily he kept in his hand as he came towards his wife and grandson, with eyes fixed on its beauty.

“Lysbet,” he said,—­but he clasped George’s hand as he spoke—­“My Lysbet, if in the Dead Valley of this earth grow such heavenly flowers as this, we will not fear the grave.  It is only to sleep on the breast that gives us the lily and the rose, and the wheat, and the corn.  Oh, how sweet is this flower!  It has the scent of Paradise.”

He laid it gently down while he put off his fine broadcloth coat and lace ruffles and assumed the long vest and silk skull cap, which was his home dress; then he put it in a buttonhole of his vest, and seemed to joy himself in its delicate fragrance.  With these preliminaries neither Joris nor Lysbet interfered; but when he had lit his long pipe and seated himself comfortably in his chair, Lysbet said—­

“Where hast thou been all this afternoon?”

“I have been sealing up my friend’s desk and drawers until his sons arrive.  Very happy he looks.  He is now one of those that know.”

“Well, then, after the long strife, ‘He Rests.’”

“Men have written it.  What know they about it?  Rest would not be heaven to my friend Alexander Semple.  To work, to be up and doing His Will, that would be his delight.”

“I wonder, Joris, if in the next life we shall know each other?”

“My Lysbet, in this life do we know each other?”

“I think not.  Here has come our dear Joris full of trouble to thee, for his father has said such things as I could not have believed.  Joris, tell thy grandfather what they are.”

And this time George, being very sure of hearty sympathy, told his tale with great feeling—­perhaps even with a little anger.  His grandfather listened patiently to the youth’s impatience, but he did not answer exactly to his expectations.

“My Joris,” he said, “so hard it is to accept what goes against our wishes.  If Cornelia Moran you had not met, would your father’s desires be so impossible to you?  Noble and generous would they not seem—­”

“But I have seen Cornelia, and I love her.”

“Two or three times you have seen her.  How can you be sure that you love her?”

“In the first hour I was sure.”

“Of nothing are we quite sure.  In too great a hurry are you.  Miss Moran may not love you.  She may refuse ever to love you.  Her mind you have not asked.  Beside this, in his family her father may not wish you.  A very proud man is Doctor John.”