“Now, Harry, you have exhausted my patience. We will have no more of this ‘Yanna’ nonsense, if you please. I have had as much Van Hoosen as I can endure.”
“My dear mother, your husband is a Van Hoosen. Ask father if it is not so. Father, and Rose, and I are descended from the daughter of the first American Peter Van Hoosen; and Yanna is descended from his 110 son. That is all the difference. We are the same family.”
“Do not be absurd!”
“Ask father.”
“I do think you might have a little pity for me. I am suffering in every nerve. I am trembling, and faint, and utterly worn out, both in mind and body; and then you come and wound me in my dearest loves and hopes; stab after stab. But I am only your loving, foolish mother! I am not Yanna! and—and——” Then she rose, looking steadily at Harry the while. And she really was ill and suffering. Distress, physical and mental, was written on every feature; her eyes were tearless, but full of anguish; and she was hardly able to stand when she rose to her feet. What could Harry do? His anger vanished. His sense of injustice vanished. He went to his mother and comforted her with kisses. He supported her to her room, and so left her, once more absolutely mistress of the situation. But all night long, whether he was asleep or awake, his heart kept up the same longing, pitiful cry of “Yanna! Yanna!”
Yanna was even more miserable. Peter wondered at her fretfulness, until she told him that Harry Filmer had called to say “Good-bye.” She told him with a slight air of injury, and Peter felt that much talk on the subject would then be unwise. He could have reminded her that to those who suffer patiently the suffering is less; but the indulgent love and wisdom of the good old man taught him that there are occasions when it is better to leave the wounded to the strength of silence than to offer them the balm of sympathy. So he listened quietly, while she wished she had been more sure of herself—more sure that Harry was wrong—more 111 sure that she was absolutely right—that she had been more considerate of their different educations—more patient of his shortcomings. All her reproaches of herself tacitly included her father, but Peter knew it was not yet the time to defend himself. He made no reply to her querulous accusations and regretful wishes until she said:
“I trust that when we act foolishly and turn our backs on happiness God will not condemn us to our own choice. I wonder if I pray to God to send me once more the good I refused, if He will hear me?”
“We must never pray merely selfish prayers, Yanna,” answered Peter sadly. “God might be angry enough to grant us our prayers. It is better to say, ‘Thy will be done.’”
Then she rose up hastily and went out of the room, but still more hastily returned, and lifting her father’s head—which was bowed upon his hands—said: “My dear, dear father! My precious father!” And Peter stood up then, and kissed her, and blessed her, and said: “Let the light of His Countenance be upon you, my dearest!”
Was she happy then? Ah, no! Her heart was wounded all over. She felt as if it were bleeding. As she entered her room the picture of the thorn-crowned Saviour met her eyes, and she went close to it, and looked thoughtfully at the Man of Sorrows. Resignation, mournful and simple, yet full of lofty heroism, spoke to her; and the personality of which it was the ideal seemed to fill the room; but she was not comforted. She undressed herself slowly, feeling at length the tears she had so long restrained dropping upon her fingers as they trembled about their duty.