"Pray then what else? You let a young man love you--you let him tell you so--you tell him 'yes, I love you' and then when he says marry me, you say, 'no.' Such ways I call bad, very bad! Not worthy of my Joris are you, and so then, I am glad you said 'no.'" "I do not understand you." "Neither did you understand my Joris--a great mistake he made--and he did not understand you; and I do not understand such ways of the girls of this day. They are shameless, and I am ashamed for you." "Madame, you are very rude." "And very false are you." "I am not false." "My Joris told me so. Truth itself is Joris. He would not lie. He would not deceive." "If your grandson told you I had deceived him, and refused to marry him,--let it be so. I have no wish to contradict your grandson." "That you cannot do. I am ashamed--" "Madame, I wish you good morning;" and with these words Cornelia left the store. Her cheeks were burning; the old lady's angry voice was in her ears, she felt the eyes of every one in the store upon her, and she was indignant and mortified at a meeting so inopportune. Her heart had also received a new stab; and she had not at the moment any philosophy to meet it. Joris had evidently told his grandmother exactly what the old lady affirmed. She had not a doubt of that, but why? Why had he lied about her? Was there no other way out of his entanglement with her? She walked home in a hurry, and as soon as possible shut herself in her room to consider this fresh wrong and injustice. She could arrive at only one conclusion--Annie's most unexpected appearance had happened immediately after his proposal to herself. He was pressed for time, his grandparents would be especially likely to embarrass him concerning her claims, and of course the quickest and surest way to prevent questioning on the matter, was to tell them that she had refused him. That fact would close their mouths in sympathy for his disappointment, and there would be no further circumstances to clear up. It was the only explanation of madame's attitude that was possible, and she was compelled to accept it, much as it humiliated her. And then after it had been accepted and sorrowed over, there came back to her those deeper assurances, those soul assertions, which she could not either examine or define, but which she felt compelled to receive--He loves me! I feel it! It is not his fault! I must not think wrong of him. There was still Madame Jacobus to hope for. She was so shrewd and so kindly, that Cornelia felt certain of her sympathy and wise advice. But month after month passed away and madame's house remained empty and forlorn-looking. Now and then there came short fateful letters from Arenta, and Van Ariens--utterly miserable--visited them frequently that he might be comforted with their assurances of his child's ability to manage the very worst circumstances in which she could be placed.