“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.”