“George Hyde.”

It was not more than eight o’clock in the morning when he wrote this letter, and as soon as possible he despatched a swift messenger with it to Cornelia.  He hoped that she would receive it soon after the Doctor had left his home for his usual round of professional visits; then she might possibly write to him at once, and if so, he would get the letter very soon after he reached the city.

Probably Madame Hyde divined something of the importance and tenor of a missive sent in such a hurry of anxious love, so early in the day, but she showed neither annoyance nor curiosity regarding it.  In the first place, she knew that opposition would only strengthen whatever resolve her son had made; in the second place, she was conscious of a singular restlessness of her own spirit.  She was apprehending change, and she could think of no change but that call to leave her home and her native land which she so much dreaded.  If this event happened, then the affairs of Joris would assume an entirely different aspect.  He would be obliged to leave everything which now interested him, and he could not live without interests; very well, then, he would be compelled to accept such as a new Fate thrown into his new life.  She had a great faith in circumstances.  She knew that in the long run every one wrote beneath that potent word, “Your obedient servant.”  Circumstances would either positively deny all her son’s hopes, or they would so powerfully aid them that opposition would be useless; and she mentally bowed herself to an influence so powerful and perhaps so favourable.

“Joris, my dear one,” she said, as they rose from the breakfast table; “Joris, I think there is a letter from your father.  To the city you must go as soon as you can, for I have had a restless night, full of feeling it has been.”

“You should not go to bed to feel, mother.  Night is the time for sleep.”

“And for dreams, and for many good things to come, that come not in the day.  Yes, indeed, the nighttime of the body is the daytime of the soul.”

Then Joris smiled and kissing her, said, “I am going at once.  If there is a letter I will send a quick rider with it.”

“But come thyself.”

“That I cannot.”  “But why, then?”

“To-morrow, I will tell you.”

“That is well.  Into thy mother’s heart drop all thy joys and sorrows.  Thine are mine.”  And she kissed him, and he went away glad and hopeful and full of tender love for the mother who understood him so sympathetically.  He stood up in his stirrups to wave her a last adieu, and then he said to himself, “How fortunate I am about women!  Could I have a sweeter, lovelier mistress?  No!  Mother?  No!  Grandmother?  No!  Friend?  No!  Cornelia, mother, grandmother, Madame Jacobus, all of them just what I love and need, sweet souls between me and the angels.”