Chapter 1

"_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
faint, passing aromas from the wet earth and the salt sea and the
blossoming gardens. For on the shore of the East River the gardens still
sloped down, even to below Peck Slip; and behind old Trinity the
apple-trees blossomed like bridal nosegays, the pear-trees rose in
immaculate pyramids, and here and there cows were coming up heavily to
the scattered houses; the lazy, intermitting tinkle of their bells
giving a pleasant notice of their approach to the waiting
milking-women.

In the city the business of the day was over; but at the open doors of
many of the shops, little groups of apprentices in leather aprons were
talking, and on the broad steps of the City Hall a number of
grave-looking men were slowly separating after a very satisfactory civic
session. They had been discussing the marvellous increase of the export
trade of New York; and some vision of their city's future greatness may
have appeared to them, for they held themselves with the lofty and
confident air of wealthy merchants and "members of his Majesty's Council
for the Province of New York."

[Illustration: Joris Van Heemskirk]

They were all noticeable men, but Joris Van Heemskirk specially so. His
bulk was so great that it seemed as if he must have been built up: it
was too much to expect that he had ever been a baby. He had a fair,
ruddy face, and large, firm eyes, and a mouth that was at once strong
and sweet. And he was also very handsomely dressed. The long, stiff
skirts of his dark-blue coat were lined with satin, his breeches were
black velvet, his ruffles edged with Flemish lace, his shoes clasped
with silver buckles, his cocked hat made of the finest beaver.

With his head a little forward, and his right arm across his back, he
walked slowly up Wall Street into Broadway, and then took a
north-westerly direction toward the river-bank. His home was on the
outskirts of the city, but not far away; and his face lightened as he
approached it. It was a handsome house, built of yellow bricks, two
stories high, with windows in the roof, and gables sending up sharp
points skyward. There were weather-cocks on the gables, and little round
holes below the weather-cocks, and small iron cranes below the holes,
and little windows below the cranes,--all perfectly useless, but also
perfectly picturesque and perfectly Dutch. The rooms were large and
airy, and the