Van Ariens and his son Rem turned silently away.  A great and evident depression had suddenly taken the place of their assumed satisfaction.  “I am going to the Swamp office,” said Rem after a few moments’ silence, “there is something to be done there.”

“That is well,” answered Peter.  “To my Cousin Deborah I will give some charges about the silver, and then I will follow you.”

Both men were glad to be alone.  They had outworn emotion and knew instinctively that some common duty was the best restorer.  The same feeling affected, in one way or another, all the watchers of this destiny.  Women whose household work was belated, whose children were strayed, who had used up their nervous strength in waiting and feeling, were now cross and inclined to belittle the affair and to be angry at Arenta and themselves for their lost day.  And men, young and old, all went back to their ledgers and counters and manufacturing with a sense of lassitude and dejection.

Peter had nearly reached his own house when he met Doctor Moran.  The doctor was more irritable than depressed.  He looked at his friend and said sharply, “You have a fever, Van Ariens.  Go to bed and sleep.”

“To work I will go.  That is the best thing to do.  My house has no comfort in it.  Like a milliner’s or a mercer’s store it has been for many weeks.  Well, then, my Cousin Deborah is at work there, and in a little while—­a little while—­” He suddenly stopped and looked at the doctor with brimming eyes.  In that moment he understood that no putting to rights could ever make his home the same.  His little saucy, selfish, but dearly loved Arenta would come there no more; and he found not one word that could express the tide of sorrow rising in his heart.  Doctor John understood.  He remained quiet, silent, clasping Van Ariens’ hand until the desolate father with a great effort blurted out—­

“She is gone!—­and smiling, also, she went.”

“It is the curse of Adam,” answered Doctor Moran bitterly—­“to bring up daughters, to love them, to toil and save and deny ourselves for them, and then to see some strange man, of whom we have no certain knowledge, carry them off captive to his destiny and his desires.  ’Tis a thankless portion to be a father—­a bitter pleasure.”

“Well, then, to be a mother is worse.”

“Who can tell that?  Women take for compensations things that do not deceive a father.  And, also, they have one grand promise to help them bear loss and disappointment—­the assurance of the Holy Scripture that they shall have salvation through child-bearing.  And I, who have seen so much of family love and life, can tell you that this promise is all many a mother has for her travail and sorrowful love.”

“It is enough.  Pray God that we miss not of that reward some share,” and with a motion of adieu he turned into his house.  Very thoughtfully the Doctor went on to William Street where he had a patient,—­a young girl of about Arenta’s age—­very ill.  A woman opened the door—­a woman weeping bitterly.