in a silver-stiff frame; her complexion was yellow and waxen; her dark-grey eyes were full of tears and peered painfully through that misty haze. Her figure was bent in the dark stuff dress; her legs seemed to move with difficulty; and her stooping body was almost deformed. She was holding Henri’s hand. . . .
“Constance,” the old woman began; and her trembling hands were raised as though for an embrace.
“Here is your grandson,” said Constance, stiffly.
She pushed Addie a little nearer. The boy looked out of his steady eyes, which were the eyes of Henri and of the old man, and said:
“How do you do, Grandpapa and Grandmamma?”
In the large, sombre room, his voice sounded dull and yet firm. The old woman and the old man looked at the boy; and there was an oppressive silence. They looked at the boy, and they were so struck with amazement that they could not find a word to say. The old woman had taken Henri’s hand again; and the tears flowed from her eyes. Henri’s jaws grated and he shuddered, nervously:
“That’s my boy,” he said.
“So that is Adriaan,” said the old woman, trembling, and her embrace, which had not reached Constance, now closed upon the child. He kissed her in his turn; and then the old man also embraced him and the child kissed him back.
“Hendrik,” said the old woman. “Hendrik,
