it to Miss Van Hoosen. Any other lady
would have asked her if he was a relative, just for the pleasure of
setting her down a little. I did not."

"You might easily have asked Yanna. She has no false pride."

"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 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 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
himsel