Such reflections, blended with pet names and apologies to his horse, brought him in sight of the Van Heemskirk house, and he instantly felt how good his grandmother’s sympathy would be.  He saw her at the door, leaning over the upper-half and watching his approach.

“I knew it was thee!” she cried; “always, the clatter of thy horse’s hoofs says plainly to me, ‘Grand-moth-er! grand-moth-er! grand-moth-er!’ Now, then, what is the matter with thee?  Disappointed, wert thou last night?”

“No—­but this morning I have been badly used; and I am angry at it.”  Then he told her all the circumstances of his visit to Richmond Hill, and she listened patiently, as was her way with all complainers.

“In too great haste art thou,” were her first words.  “No worse I think of Cornelia, because a little she draws back.  To want, and to have thy want, that has been the way with thee all thy life long.  Even thy sword and the battlefield were not denied thee; but a woman’s love!—­that is to be won.  Little wouldst thou value it, lightly wouldst thou hold it, if it were thine for the wishing.  Thy mother has taught thee to expect too much.”

“And my grandmother?”

“That is so.  A very foolish old woman is thy grandmother.  Too much she loves thee, or she had not sent thee to Arenta’s last night with her best ivory winders.”

“Oh, Arenta is a very darling!  Had she been present this morning, she had taken the starch out of all our fine talk and fine manners.  We should have chattered like the swallows about pleasant homely things; and left title-making to graver fools.”

“If, now, thou had fallen in love with Arenta, it had been a good thing.”

“If I had not seen Cornelia, I might have adored Arenta—­but, then, Arenta has already a lover.”

“So?  And pray who is it?”

“Of all men in the world, the gay, handsome Frenchman, Athanase Tounnerre, a member of the French embassy.  How a girl so plainly Dutch can endure the creature confounds me.”

“Stop a little.  The grandmother of Arenta was French.  Very well I remember her—­a girl all alive, from head to foot; never still.  Thy grandfather used to say, ‘In her veins is quick-silver, not blood,’ And, too soon, she wore away her life; Arenta’s mother was but a baby, when she died.”

“Ah!  So it is!  We are the past, as well as the present.  As for myself—­”

“Thou art thy father over again; only sweeter, and better—­that is the Dutch in thee—­the happy, easy-going Dutch—­if only thou wert not so lazy.”

“That is the English in me—­the self-indulgent, masterful English.  So then, Arenta, being partly French, back to the French she goes.  ’Tis passing strange.”

“Of this, art thou sure?”

“I have listened to the man.  Every one has.  He wears Arenta’s name on his sleeve.  He drinks her health in all companies.  He will talk to any stranger he meets, for an hour at a time, about his ‘fair Arenta.’  I can but wonder at the fellow.  It is inconceivable to me; for though I am passionately taken with Cornelia Moran, I hide her close in my heart.  I should want to strike any man who breathed her name.  Yet it is said of Athanase de Tounnerre that he paid a visit to every one he knew, in order to tell them of his felicity.”