ce
Chapter heading
"Sir, you are very uncivil"
"Listen to me, thy father!"
He took his solitary tea
On the steps of the houses
Tail-piece
Chapter heading
"Katherine, I am in great earnest"
"In the interim, at your service"
"Why do you wait?"
The swords of both men sprung from their hands
Tail-piece
Chapter heading
Oh, how she wept!
"O Bram! is he dead?"
The streets were noisy with hawkers
Katherine was close to his side
Tail-piece
Chapter heading
In its satin depths
Katherine knelt by Richard's side
"I am faint"
"Don't trouble yourself to come down"
"Listen to me!"
Tail-piece
Chapter heading
They stood together over the budding snowdrops
His whole air and attitude had expressed delight
"I am going to take the air this afternoon"
"I will go with you, Richard"
Tail-piece
Chapter heading
"Madam, I come not on courtesy"
"O mother, my sister Katherine!"
"Oh, my cheeny, my cheeny!"
Plain and dark were her garments
Tail-piece
Chapter heading
Katherine stood with her child in her arms
The garden next fell under Katherine's care
"Thou has a grandson of thy own name"
Plate old and new
"Make me not to remember the past"
With a great sob Bram laid his head against her breast
Chapter heading
She spread out all her finery
All kinds of frivolity and amusement
"Dick, I am angry at you"
She was softly singing to the drowsy child
Chapter heading
She was stretched upon a sofa
She stood in the gray light by the window
Chapter heading
She knelt speechless and motionless
Jane lifted her apron to her eyes
"O Richard, my lover, my husband!"
Chapter heading
"One night in Rome, in a moment, the thing was altered,"
"I must draw my sword again"
"We have closed his Majesty's custom-house forever"
"I am reading the Word"
He was standing on the step of his high counting-desk.
Chapter heading
Lysbet and Catherine were unpacking
He marshalled the six children in front of him
The City Hall
He swung a great axe
Lysbet's hands gave it to them
Tail-piece

THE BOW OF ORANGE RIBBON

[Illustration: May in New York one hundred and twenty-one years ago]

I.

"_Love, that old song, of which the world is never weary_."

It was one of those beautiful, lengthening days, when May was pressing
back with both hands the shades of the morning and the evening; May in
New York one hundred and twenty-one years ago, and yet the May of A.D.
1886,--the same clear air and wind, the same rarefied freshness, full of
fai