summaryrefslogtreecommitdiff
path: root/299-h/299-h.htm
blob: f47273b44b5b7147f247a602485262a3f60e778e (plain) 
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003
1004
1005
1006
1007
1008
1009
1010
1011
1012
1013
1014
1015
1016
1017
1018
1019
1020
1021
1022
1023
1024
1025
1026
1027
1028
1029
1030
1031
1032
1033
1034
1035
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053
1054
1055
1056
1057
1058
1059
1060
1061
1062
1063
1064
1065
1066
1067
1068
1069
1070
1071
1072
1073
1074
1075
1076
1077
1078
1079
1080
1081
1082
1083
1084
1085
1086
1087
1088
1089
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094
1095
1096
1097
1098
1099
1100
1101
1102
1103
1104
1105
1106
1107
1108
1109
1110
1111
1112
1113
1114
1115
1116
1117
1118
1119
1120
1121
1122
1123
1124
1125
1126
1127
1128
1129
1130
1131
1132
1133
1134
1135
1136
1137
1138
1139
1140
1141
1142
1143
1144
1145
1146
1147
1148
1149
1150
1151
1152
1153
1154
1155
1156
1157
1158
1159
1160
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181
1182
1183
1184
1185
1186
1187
1188
1189
1190
1191
1192
1193
1194
1195
1196
1197
1198
1199
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224
1225
1226
1227
1228
1229
1230
1231
1232
1233
1234
1235
1236
1237
1238
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258
1259
1260
1261
1262
1263
1264
1265
1266
1267
1268
1269
1270
1271
1272
1273
1274
1275
1276
1277
1278
1279
1280
1281
1282
1283
1284
1285
1286
1287
1288
1289
1290
1291
1292
1293
1294
1295
1296
1297
1298
1299
1300
1301
1302
1303
1304
1305
1306
1307
1308
1309
1310
1311
1312
1313
1314
1315
1316
1317
1318
1319
1320
1321
1322
1323
1324
1325
1326
1327
1328
1329
1330
1331
1332
1333
1334
1335
1336
1337
1338
1339
1340
1341
1342
1343
1344
1345
1346
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365
1366
1367
1368
1369
1370
1371
1372
1373
1374
1375
1376
1377
1378
1379
1380
1381
1382
1383
1384
1385
1386
1387
1388
1389
1390
1391
1392
1393
1394
1395
1396
1397
1398
1399
1400
1401
1402
1403
1404
1405
1406
1407
1408
1409
1410
1411
1412
1413
1414
1415
1416
1417
1418
1419
1420
1421
1422
1423
1424
1425
1426
1427
1428
1429
1430
1431
1432
1433
1434
1435
1436
1437
1438
1439
1440
1441
1442
1443
1444
1445
1446
1447
1448
1449
1450
1451
1452
1453
1454
1455
1456
1457
1458
1459
1460
1461
1462
1463
1464
1465
1466
1467
1468
1469
1470
1471
1472
1473
1474
1475
1476
1477
1478
1479
1480
1481
1482
1483
1484
1485
1486
1487
1488
1489
1490
1491
1492
1493
1494
1495
1496
1497
1498
1499
1500
1501
1502
1503
1504
1505
1506
1507
1508
1509
1510
1511
1512
1513
1514
1515
1516
1517
1518
1519
1520
1521
1522
1523
1524
1525
1526
1527
1528
1529
1530
1531
1532
1533
1534
1535
1536
1537
1538
1539
1540
1541
1542
1543
1544
1545
1546
1547
1548
1549
1550
1551
1552
1553
1554
1555
1556
1557
1558
1559
1560
1561
1562
1563
1564
1565
1566
1567
1568
1569
1570
1571
1572
1573
1574
1575
1576
1577
1578
1579
1580
1581
1582
1583
1584
1585
1586
1587
1588
1589
1590
1591
1592
1593
1594
1595
1596
1597
1598
1599
1600
1601
1602
1603
1604
1605
1606
1607
1608
1609
1610
1611
1612
1613
1614
1615
1616
1617
1618
1619
1620
1621
1622
1623
1624
1625
1626
1627
1628
1629
1630
1631
1632
1633
1634
1635
1636
1637
1638
1639
1640
1641
1642
1643
1644
1645
1646
1647
1648
1649
1650
1651
1652
1653
1654
1655
1656
1657
1658
1659
1660
1661
1662
1663
1664
1665
1666
1667
1668
1669
1670
1671
1672
1673
1674
1675
1676
1677
1678
1679
1680
1681
1682
1683
1684
1685
1686
1687
1688
1689
1690
1691
1692
1693
1694
1695
1696
1697
1698
1699
1700
1701
1702
1703
1704
1705
1706
1707
1708
1709
1710
1711
1712
1713
1714
1715
1716
1717
1718
1719
1720
1721
1722
1723
1724
1725
1726
1727
1728
1729
1730
1731
1732
1733
1734
1735
1736
1737
1738
1739
1740
1741
1742
1743
1744
1745
1746
1747
1748
1749
1750
1751
1752
1753
1754
1755
1756
1757
1758
1759
1760
1761
1762
1763
1764
1765
1766
1767
1768
1769
1770
1771
1772
1773
1774
1775
1776
1777
1778
1779
1780
1781
1782
1783
1784
1785
1786
1787
1788
1789
1790
1791
1792
1793
1794
1795
1796
1797
1798
1799
1800
1801
1802
1803
1804
1805
1806
1807
1808
1809
1810
1811
1812
1813
1814
1815
1816
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1826
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
1834
1835
1836
1837
1838
1839
1840
1841
1842
1843
1844
1845
1846
1847
1848
1849
1850
1851
1852
1853
1854
1855
1856
1857
1858
1859
1860
1861
1862
1863
1864
1865
1866
1867
1868
1869
1870
1871
1872
1873
1874
1875
1876
1877
1878
1879
1880
1881
1882
1883
1884
1885
1886
1887
1888
1889
1890
1891
1892
1893
1894
1895
1896
1897
1898
1899
1900
1901
1902
1903
1904
1905
1906
1907
1908
1909
1910
1911
1912
1913
1914
1915
1916
1917
1918
1919
1920
1921
1922
1923
1924
1925
1926
1927
1928
1929
1930
1931
1932
1933
1934
1935
1936
1937
1938
1939
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1954
1955
1956
1957
1958
1959
1960
1961
1962
1963
1964
1965
1966
1967
1968
1969
1970
1971
1972
1973
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
2024
2025
2026
2027
2028
2029
2030
2031
2032
2033
2034
2035
2036
2037
2038
2039
2040
2041
2042
2043
2044
2045
2046
2047
2048
2049
2050
2051
2052
2053
2054
2055
2056
2057
2058
2059
2060
2061
2062
2063
2064
2065
2066
2067
2068
2069
2070
2071
2072
2073
2074
2075
2076
2077
2078
2079
2080
2081
2082
2083
2084
2085
2086
2087
2088
2089
2090
2091
2092
2093
2094
2095
2096
2097
2098
2099
2100
2101
2102
2103
2104
2105
2106
2107
2108
2109
2110
2111
2112
2113
2114
2115
2116
2117
2118
2119
2120
2121
2122
2123
2124
2125
2126
2127
2128
2129
2130
2131
2132
2133
2134
2135
2136
2137
2138
2139
2140
2141
2142
2143
2144
2145
2146
2147
2148
2149
2150
2151
2152
2153
2154
2155
2156
2157
2158
2159
2160
2161
2162
2163
2164
2165
2166
2167
2168
2169
2170
2171
2172
2173
2174
2175
2176
2177
2178
2179
2180
2181
2182
2183
2184
2185
2186
2187
2188
2189
2190
2191
2192
2193
2194
2195
2196
2197
2198
2199
2200
2201
2202
2203
2204
2205
2206
2207
2208
2209
2210
2211
2212
2213
2214
2215
2216
2217
2218
2219
2220
2221
2222
2223
2224
2225
2226
2227
2228
2229
2230
2231
2232
2233
2234
2235
2236
2237
2238
2239
2240
2241
2242
2243
2244
2245
2246
2247
2248
2249
2250
2251
2252
2253
2254
2255
2256
2257
2258
2259
2260
2261
2262
2263
2264
2265
2266
2267
2268
2269
2270
2271
2272
2273
2274
2275
2276
2277
2278
2279
2280
2281
2282
2283
2284
2285
2286
2287
2288
2289
2290
2291
2292
2293
2294
2295
2296
2297
2298
2299
2300
2301
2302
2303
2304
2305
2306
2307
2308
2309
2310
2311
2312
2313
2314
2315
2316
2317
2318
2319
2320
2321
2322
2323
2324
2325
2326
2327
2328
2329
2330
2331
2332
2333
2334
2335
2336
2337
2338
2339
2340
2341
2342
2343
2344
2345
2346
2347
2348
2349
2350
2351
2352
2353
2354
2355
2356
2357
2358
2359
2360
2361
2362
2363
2364
2365
2366
2367
2368
2369
2370
2371
2372
2373
2374
2375
2376
2377
2378
2379
2380
2381
2382
2383
2384
2385
2386
2387
2388
2389
2390
2391
2392
2393
2394
2395
2396
2397
2398
2399
2400
2401
2402
2403
2404
2405
2406
2407
2408
2409
2410
2411
2412
2413
2414
2415
2416
2417
2418
2419
2420
2421
2422
2423
2424
2425
2426
2427
2428
2429
2430
2431
2432
2433
2434
2435
2436
2437
2438
2439
2440
2441
2442
2443
2444
2445
2446
2447
2448
2449
2450
2451
2452
2453
2454
2455
2456
2457
2458
2459
2460
2461
2462
2463
2464
2465
2466
2467
2468
2469
2470
2471
2472
2473
2474
2475
2476
2477
2478
2479
2480
2481
2482
2483
2484
2485
2486
2487
2488
2489
2490
2491
2492
2493
2494
2495
2496
2497
2498
2499
2500
2501
2502
2503
2504
2505
2506
2507
2508
2509
2510
2511
2512
2513
2514
2515
2516
2517
2518
2519
2520
2521
2522
2523
2524
2525
2526
2527
2528
2529
2530
2531
2532
2533
2534
2535
2536
2537
2538
2539
2540
2541
2542
2543
2544
2545
2546
2547
2548
2549
2550
2551
2552
2553
2554
2555
2556
2557
2558
2559
2560
2561
2562
2563
2564
2565
2566
2567
2568
2569
2570
2571
2572
2573
2574
2575
2576
2577
2578
2579
2580
2581
2582
2583
2584
2585
2586
2587
2588
2589
2590
2591
2592
2593
2594
2595
2596
2597
2598
2599
2600
2601
2602
2603
2604
2605
2606
2607
2608
2609
2610
2611
2612
2613
2614
2615
2616
2617
2618
2619
2620
2621
2622
2623
2624
2625
2626
2627
2628
2629
2630
2631
2632
2633
2634
2635
2636
2637
2638
2639
2640
2641
2642
2643
2644
2645
2646
2647
2648
2649
2650
2651
2652
2653
2654
2655
2656
2657
2658
2659
2660
2661
2662
2663
2664
2665
2666
2667
2668
2669
2670
2671
2672
2673
2674
2675
2676
2677
2678
2679
2680
2681
2682
2683
2684
2685
2686
2687
2688
2689
2690
2691
2692
2693
2694
2695
2696
2697
2698
2699
2700
2701
2702
2703
2704
2705
2706
2707
2708
2709
2710
2711
2712
2713
2714
2715
2716
2717
2718
2719
2720
2721
2722
2723
2724
2725
2726
2727
2728
2729
2730
2731
2732
2733
2734
2735
2736
2737
2738
2739
2740
2741
2742
2743
2744
2745
2746
2747
2748
2749
2750
2751
2752
2753
2754
2755
2756
2757
2758
2759
2760
2761
2762
2763
2764
2765
2766
2767
2768
2769
2770
2771
2772
2773
2774
2775
2776
2777
2778
2779
2780
2781
2782
2783
2784
2785
2786
2787
2788
2789
2790
2791
2792
2793
2794
2795
2796
2797
2798
2799
2800
2801
2802
2803
2804
2805
2806
2807
2808
2809
2810
2811
2812
2813
2814
2815
2816
2817
2818
2819
2820
2821
2822
2823
2824
2825
2826
2827
2828
2829
2830
2831
2832
2833
2834
2835
2836
2837
2838
2839
2840
2841
2842
2843
2844
2845
2846
2847
2848
2849
2850
2851
2852
2853
2854
2855
2856
2857
2858
2859
2860
2861
2862
2863
2864
2865
2866
2867
2868
2869
2870
2871
2872
2873
2874
2875
2876
2877
2878
2879
2880
2881
2882
2883
2884
2885
2886
2887
2888
2889
2890
2891
2892
2893
2894
2895
2896
2897
2898
2899
2900
2901
2902
2903
2904
2905
2906
2907
2908
2909
2910
2911
2912
2913
2914
2915
2916
2917
2918
2919
2920
2921
2922
2923
2924
2925
2926
2927
2928
2929
2930
2931
2932
2933
2934
2935
2936
2937
2938
2939
2940
2941
2942
2943
2944
2945
2946
2947
2948
2949
2950
2951
2952
2953
2954
2955
2956
2957
2958
2959
2960
2961
2962
2963
2964
2965
2966
2967
2968
2969
2970
2971
2972
2973
2974
2975
2976
2977
2978
2979
2980
2981
2982
2983
2984
2985
2986
2987
2988
2989
2990
2991
2992
2993
2994
2995
2996
2997
2998
2999
3000
3001
3002
3003
3004
3005
3006
3007
3008
3009
3010
3011
3012
3013
3014
3015
3016
3017
3018
3019
3020
3021
3022
3023
3024
3025
3026
3027
3028
3029
3030
3031
3032
3033
3034
3035
3036
3037
3038
3039
3040
3041
3042
3043
3044
3045
3046
3047
3048
3049
3050
3051
3052
3053
3054
3055
3056
3057
3058
3059
3060
3061
3062
3063
3064
3065
3066
3067
3068
3069
3070
3071
3072
3073
3074
3075
3076
3077
3078
3079
3080
3081
3082
3083
3084
3085
3086
3087
3088
3089
3090
3091
3092
3093
3094
3095
3096
3097
3098
3099
3100
3101
3102
3103
3104
3105
3106
3107
3108
3109
3110
3111
3112
3113
3114
3115
3116
3117
3118
3119
3120
3121
3122
3123
3124
3125
3126
3127
3128
3129
3130
3131
3132
3133
3134
3135
3136
3137
3138
3139
3140
3141
3142
3143
3144
3145
3146
3147
3148
3149
3150
3151
3152
3153
3154
3155
3156
3157
3158
3159
3160
3161
3162
3163
3164
3165
3166
3167
3168
3169
3170
3171
3172
3173
3174
3175
3176
3177
3178
3179
3180
3181
3182
3183
3184
3185
3186
3187
3188
3189
3190
3191
3192
3193
3194
3195
3196
3197
3198
3199
3200
3201
3202
3203
3204
3205
3206
3207
3208
3209
3210
3211
3212
3213
3214
3215
3216
3217
3218
3219
3220
3221
3222
3223
3224
3225
3226
3227
3228
3229
3230
3231
3232
3233
3234
3235
3236
3237
3238
3239
3240
3241
3242
3243
3244
3245
3246
3247
3248
3249
3250
3251
3252
3253
3254
3255
3256
3257
3258
3259
3260
3261
3262
3263
3264
3265
3266
3267
3268
3269
3270
3271
3272
3273
3274
3275
3276
3277
3278
3279
3280
3281
3282
3283
3284
3285
3286
3287
3288
3289
3290
3291
3292
3293
3294
3295
3296
3297
3298
3299
3300
3301
3302
3303
3304
3305
3306
3307
3308
3309
3310
3311
3312
3313
3314
3315
3316
3317
3318
3319
3320
3321
3322
3323
3324
3325
3326
3327
3328
3329
3330
3331
3332
3333
3334
3335
3336
3337
3338
3339
3340
3341
3342
3343
3344
3345
3346
3347
3348
3349
3350
3351
3352
3353
3354
3355
3356
3357
3358
3359
3360
3361
3362
3363
3364
3365
3366
3367
3368
3369
3370
3371
3372
3373
3374
3375
3376
3377
3378
3379
3380
3381
3382
3383
3384
3385
3386
3387
3388
3389
3390
3391
3392
3393
3394
3395
3396
3397
3398
3399
3400
3401
3402
3403
3404
3405
3406
3407
3408
3409
3410
3411
3412
3413
3414
3415
3416
3417
3418
3419
3420
3421
3422
3423
3424
3425
3426
3427
3428
3429
3430
3431
3432
3433
3434
3435
3436
3437
3438
3439
3440
3441
3442
3443
3444
3445
3446
3447
3448
3449
3450
3451
3452
3453
3454
3455
3456
3457
3458
3459
3460
3461
3462
3463
3464
3465
3466
3467
3468
3469
3470
3471
3472
3473
3474
3475
3476
3477
3478
3479
3480
3481
3482
3483
3484
3485
3486
3487
3488
3489
3490
3491
3492
3493
3494
3495
3496
3497
3498
3499
3500
3501
3502
3503
3504
3505
3506
3507
3508
3509
3510
3511
3512
3513
3514
3515
3516
3517
3518
3519
3520
3521
3522
3523
3524
3525
3526
3527
3528
3529
3530
3531
3532
3533
3534
3535
3536
3537
3538
3539
3540
3541
3542
3543
3544
3545
3546
3547
3548
3549
3550
3551
3552
3553
3554
3555
3556
3557
3558
3559
3560
3561
3562
3563
3564
3565
3566
3567
3568
3569
3570
3571
3572
3573
3574
3575
3576
3577
3578
3579
3580
3581
3582
3583
3584
3585
3586
3587
3588
3589
3590
3591
3592
3593
3594
3595
3596
3597
3598
3599
3600
3601
3602
3603
3604
3605
3606
3607
3608
3609
3610
3611
3612
3613
3614
3615
3616
3617
3618
3619
3620
3621
3622
3623
3624
3625
3626
3627
3628
3629
3630
3631
3632
3633
3634
3635
3636
3637
3638
3639
3640
3641
3642
3643
3644
3645
3646
3647
3648
3649
3650
3651
3652
3653
3654
3655
3656
3657
3658
3659
3660
3661
3662
3663
3664
3665
3666
3667
3668
3669
3670
3671
3672
3673
3674
3675
3676
3677
3678
3679
3680
3681
3682
3683
3684
3685
3686
3687
3688
3689
3690
3691
3692
3693
3694
3695
3696
3697
3698
3699
3700
3701
3702
3703
3704
3705
3706
3707
3708
3709
3710
3711
3712
3713
3714
3715
3716
3717
3718
3719
3720
3721
3722
3723
3724
3725
3726
3727
3728
3729
3730
3731
3732
3733
3734
3735
3736
3737
3738
3739
3740
3741
3742
3743
3744
3745
3746
3747
3748
3749
3750
3751
3752
3753
3754
3755
3756
3757
3758
3759
3760
3761
3762
3763
3764
3765
3766
3767
3768
3769
3770
3771
3772
3773
3774
3775
3776
3777
3778
3779
3780
3781
3782
3783
3784
3785
3786
3787
3788
3789
3790
3791
3792
3793
3794
3795
3796
3797
3798
3799
3800
3801
3802
3803
3804
3805
3806
3807
3808
3809
3810
3811
3812
3813
3814
3815
3816
3817
3818
3819
3820
3821
3822
3823
3824
3825
3826
3827
3828
3829
3830
3831
3832
3833
3834
3835
3836
3837
3838
3839
3840
3841
3842
3843
3844
3845
3846
3847
3848
3849
3850
3851
3852
3853
3854
3855
3856
3857
3858
3859
3860
3861
3862
3863
3864
3865
3866
3867
3868
3869
3870
3871
3872
3873
3874
3875
3876
3877
3878
3879
3880
3881
3882
3883
3884
3885
3886
3887
3888
3889
3890
3891
3892
3893
3894
3895
3896
3897
3898
3899
3900
3901
3902
3903
3904
3905
3906
3907
3908
3909
3910
3911
3912
3913
3914
3915
3916
3917
3918
3919
3920
3921
3922
3923
3924
3925
3926
3927
3928
3929
3930
3931
3932
3933
3934
3935
3936
3937
3938
3939
3940
3941
3942
3943
3944
3945
3946
3947
3948
3949
3950
3951
3952
3953
3954
3955
3956
3957
3958
3959
3960
3961
3962
3963
3964
3965
3966
3967
3968
3969
3970
3971
3972
3973
3974
3975
3976
3977
3978
3979
3980
3981
3982
3983
3984
3985
3986
3987
3988
3989
3990
3991
3992
3993
3994
3995
3996
3997
3998
3999
4000
4001
4002
4003
4004
4005
4006
4007
4008
4009
4010
4011
4012
4013
4014
4015
4016
4017
4018
4019
4020
4021
4022
4023
4024
4025
4026
4027
4028
4029
4030
4031
4032
4033
4034
4035
4036
4037
4038
4039
4040
4041
4042
4043
4044
4045
4046
4047
4048
4049
4050
4051
4052
4053
4054
4055
4056
4057
4058
4059
4060
4061
4062
4063
4064
4065
4066
4067
4068
4069
4070
4071
4072
4073
4074
4075
4076
4077
4078
4079
4080
4081
4082
4083
4084
4085
4086
4087
4088
4089
4090
4091
4092
4093
4094
4095
4096
4097
4098
4099
4100
4101
4102
4103
4104
4105
4106
4107
4108
4109
4110
4111
4112
4113
4114
4115
4116
4117
4118
4119
4120
4121
4122
4123
4124
4125
4126
4127
4128
4129
4130
4131
4132
4133
4134
4135
4136
4137
4138
4139
4140
4141
4142
4143
4144
4145
4146
4147
4148
4149
4150
4151
4152
4153
4154
4155
4156
4157
4158
4159
4160
4161
4162
4163
4164
4165
4166
4167
4168
4169
4170
4171
4172
4173
4174
4175
4176
4177
4178
4179
4180
4181
4182
4183
4184
4185
4186
4187
4188
4189
4190
4191
4192
4193
4194
4195
4196
4197
4198
4199
4200
4201
4202
4203
4204
4205
4206
4207
4208
4209
4210
4211
4212
4213
4214
4215
4216
4217
4218
4219
4220
4221
4222
4223
4224
4225
4226
4227
4228
4229
4230
4231
4232
4233
4234
4235
4236
4237
4238
4239
4240
4241
4242
4243
4244
4245
4246
4247
4248
4249
4250
4251
4252
4253
4254
4255
4256
4257
4258
4259
4260
4261
4262
4263
4264
4265
4266
4267
4268
4269
4270
4271
4272
4273
4274
4275
4276
4277
4278
4279
4280
4281
4282
4283
4284
4285
4286
4287
4288
4289
4290
4291
4292
4293
4294
4295
4296
4297
4298
4299
4300
4301
4302
4303
4304
4305
4306
4307
4308
4309
4310
4311
4312
4313
4314
4315
4316
4317
4318
4319
4320
4321
4322
4323
4324
4325
4326
4327
4328
4329
4330
4331
4332
4333
4334
4335
4336
4337
4338
4339
4340
4341
4342
4343
4344
4345
4346
4347
4348
4349
4350
4351
4352
4353
4354
4355
4356
4357
4358
4359
4360
4361
4362
4363
4364
4365
4366
4367
4368
4369
4370
4371
4372
4373
4374
4375
4376
4377
4378
4379
4380
4381
4382
4383
4384
4385
4386
4387
4388
4389
4390
4391
4392
4393
4394
4395
4396
4397
4398
4399
4400
4401
4402
4403
4404
4405
4406
4407
4408
4409
4410
4411
4412
4413
4414
4415
4416
4417
4418
4419
4420
4421
4422
4423
4424
4425
4426
4427
4428
4429
4430
4431
4432
4433
4434
4435
4436
4437
4438
4439
4440
4441
4442
4443
4444
4445
4446
4447
4448
4449
4450
4451
4452
4453
4454
4455
4456
4457
4458
4459
4460
4461
4462
4463
4464
4465
4466
4467
4468
4469
4470
4471
4472
4473
4474
4475
4476
4477
4478
4479
4480
4481
4482
4483
4484
4485
4486
4487
4488
4489
4490
4491
4492
4493
4494
4495
4496
4497
4498
4499
4500
4501
4502
4503
4504
4505
4506
4507
4508
4509
4510
4511
4512
4513
4514
4515
4516
4517
4518
4519
4520
4521
4522
4523
4524
4525
4526
4527
4528
4529
4530
4531
4532
4533
4534
4535
4536
4537
4538
4539
4540
4541
4542
4543
4544
4545
4546
4547
4548
4549
4550
4551
4552
4553
4554
4555
4556
4557
4558
4559
4560
4561
4562
4563
4564
4565
4566
4567
4568
4569
4570
4571
4572
4573
4574
4575
4576
4577
4578
4579
4580
4581
4582
4583
4584
4585
4586
4587
4588
4589
4590
4591
4592
4593
4594
4595
4596
4597
4598
4599
4600
4601
4602
4603
4604
4605
4606
4607
4608
4609
4610
4611
4612
4613
4614
4615
4616
4617
4618
4619
4620
4621
4622
4623
4624
4625
4626
4627
4628
4629
4630
4631
4632
4633
4634
4635
4636
4637
4638
4639
4640
4641
4642
4643
4644
4645
4646
4647
4648
4649
4650
4651
4652
4653
4654
4655
4656
4657
4658
4659
4660
4661
4662
4663
4664
4665
4666
4667
4668
4669
4670
4671
4672
4673
4674
4675
4676
4677
4678
4679
4680
4681
4682
4683
4684
4685
4686
4687
4688
4689
4690
4691
4692
4693
4694
4695
4696
4697
4698
4699
4700
4701
4702
4703
4704
4705
4706
4707
4708
4709
4710
4711
4712
4713
4714
4715
4716
4717
4718
4719
4720
4721
4722
4723
4724
4725
4726
4727
4728
4729
4730
4731
4732
4733
4734
4735
4736
4737
4738
4739
4740
4741
4742
4743
4744
4745
4746
4747
4748
4749
4750
4751
4752
4753
4754
4755
4756
4757
4758
4759
4760
4761
4762
4763
4764
4765
4766
4767
4768
4769
4770
4771
4772
4773
4774
4775
4776
4777
4778
4779
4780
4781
4782
4783
4784
4785
4786
4787
4788
4789
4790
4791
4792
4793
4794
4795
4796
4797
4798
4799
4800
4801
4802
4803
4804
4805
4806
4807
4808
4809
4810
4811
4812
4813
4814
4815
4816
4817
4818
4819
4820
4821
4822
4823
4824
4825
4826
4827
4828
4829
4830
4831
4832
4833
4834
4835
4836
4837
4838
4839
4840
4841
4842
4843
4844
4845
4846
4847
4848
4849
4850
4851
4852
4853
4854
4855
4856
4857
4858
4859
4860
4861
4862
4863
4864
4865
4866
4867
4868
4869
4870
4871
4872
4873
4874
4875
4876
4877
4878
4879
4880
4881
4882
4883
4884
4885
4886
4887
4888
4889
4890
4891
4892
4893
4894
4895
4896
4897
4898
4899
4900
4901
4902
4903
4904
4905
4906
4907
4908
4909
4910
4911
4912
4913
4914
4915
4916
4917
4918
4919
4920
4921
4922
4923
4924
4925
4926
4927
4928
4929
4930
4931
4932
4933
4934
4935
4936
4937
4938
4939
4940
4941
4942
4943
4944
4945
4946
4947
4948
4949
4950
4951
4952
4953
4954
4955
4956
4957
4958
4959
4960
4961
4962
4963
4964
4965
4966
4967
4968
4969
4970
4971
4972
4973
4974
4975
4976
4977
4978
4979
4980
4981
4982
4983
4984
4985
4986
4987
4988
4989
4990
4991
4992
4993
4994
4995
4996
4997
4998
4999
5000
5001
5002
5003
5004
5005
5006
5007
5008
5009
5010
5011
5012
5013
5014
5015
5016
5017
5018
5019
5020
5021
5022
5023
5024
5025
5026
5027
5028
5029
5030
5031
5032
5033
5034
5035
5036
5037
5038
5039
5040
5041
5042
5043
5044
5045
5046
5047
5048
5049
5050
5051
5052
5053
5054
5055
5056
5057
5058
5059
5060
5061
5062
5063
5064
5065
5066
5067
5068
5069
5070
5071
5072
5073
5074
5075
5076
5077
5078
5079
5080
5081
5082
5083
5084
5085
5086
5087
5088
5089
5090
5091
5092
5093
5094
5095
5096
5097
5098
5099
5100
5101
5102
5103
5104
5105
5106
5107
5108
5109
5110
5111
5112
5113
5114
5115
5116
5117
5118
5119
5120
5121
5122
5123
5124
5125
5126
5127
5128
5129
5130
5131
5132
5133
5134
5135
5136
5137
5138
5139
5140
5141
5142
5143
5144
5145
5146
5147
5148
5149
5150
5151
5152
5153
5154
5155
5156
5157
5158
5159
5160
5161
5162
5163
5164
5165
5166
5167
5168
5169
5170
5171
5172
5173
5174
5175
5176
5177
5178
5179
5180
5181
5182
5183
5184
5185
5186
5187
5188
5189
5190
5191
5192
5193
5194
5195
5196
5197
5198
5199
5200
5201
5202
5203
5204
5205
5206
5207
5208
5209
5210
5211
5212
5213
5214
5215
5216
5217
5218
5219
5220
5221
5222
5223
5224
5225
5226
5227
5228
5229
5230
5231
5232
5233
5234
5235
5236
5237
5238
5239
5240
5241
5242
5243
5244
5245
5246
5247
5248
5249
5250
5251
5252
5253
5254
5255
5256
5257
5258
5259
5260
5261
5262
5263
5264
5265
5266
5267
5268
5269
5270
5271
5272
5273
5274
5275
5276
5277
5278
5279
5280
5281
5282
5283
5284
5285
5286
5287
5288
5289
5290
5291
5292
5293
5294
5295
5296
5297
5298
5299
5300
5301
5302
5303
5304
5305
5306
5307
5308
5309
5310
5311
5312
5313
5314
5315
5316
5317
5318
5319
5320
5321
5322
5323
5324
5325
5326
5327
5328
5329
5330
5331
5332
5333
5334
5335
5336
5337
5338
5339
5340
5341
5342
5343
5344
5345
5346
5347
5348
5349
5350
5351
5352
5353
5354
5355
5356
5357
5358
5359
5360
5361
5362
5363
5364
5365
5366
5367
5368
5369
5370
5371
5372
5373
5374
5375
5376
5377
5378
5379
5380
5381
5382
5383
5384
5385
5386
5387
5388
5389
5390
5391
5392
5393
5394
5395
5396
5397
5398
5399
5400
5401
5402
5403
5404
5405
5406
5407
5408
5409
5410
5411
5412
5413
5414
5415
5416
5417
5418
5419
5420
5421
5422
5423
5424
5425
5426
5427
5428
5429
5430
5431
5432
5433
5434
5435
5436
5437
5438
5439
5440
5441
5442
5443
5444
5445
5446
5447
5448
5449
5450
5451
5452
5453
5454
5455
5456
5457
5458
5459
5460
5461
5462
5463
5464
5465
5466
5467
5468
5469
5470
5471
5472
5473
5474
5475
5476
5477
5478
5479
5480
5481
5482
5483
5484
5485
5486
5487
5488
5489
5490
5491
5492
5493
5494
5495
5496
5497
5498
5499
5500
5501
5502
5503
5504
5505
5506
5507
5508
5509
5510
5511
5512
5513
5514
5515
5516
5517
5518
5519
5520
5521
5522
5523
5524
5525
5526
5527
5528
5529
5530
5531
5532
5533
5534
5535
5536
5537
5538
5539
5540
5541
5542
5543
5544
5545
5546
5547
5548
5549
5550
5551
5552
5553
5554
5555
5556
5557
5558
5559
5560
5561
5562
5563
5564
5565
5566
5567
5568
5569
5570
5571
5572
5573
5574
5575
5576
5577
5578
5579
5580
5581
5582
5583
5584
5585
5586
5587
5588
5589
5590
5591
5592
5593
5594
5595
5596
5597
5598
5599
5600
5601
5602
5603
5604
5605
5606
5607
5608
5609
5610
5611
5612
5613
5614
5615
5616
5617
5618
5619
5620
5621
5622
5623
5624
5625
5626
5627
5628
5629
5630
5631
5632
5633
5634
5635
5636
5637
5638
5639
5640
5641
5642
5643
5644
5645
5646
5647
5648
5649
5650
5651
5652
5653
5654
5655
5656
5657
5658
5659
5660
5661
5662
5663
5664
5665
5666
5667
5668
5669
5670
5671
5672
5673
5674
5675
5676
5677
5678
5679
5680
5681
5682
5683
5684
5685
5686
5687
5688
5689
5690
5691
5692
5693
5694
5695
5696
5697
5698
5699
5700
5701
5702
5703
5704
5705
5706
5707
5708
5709
5710
5711
5712
5713
5714
5715
5716
5717
5718
5719
5720
5721
5722
5723
5724
5725
5726
5727
5728
5729
5730
5731
5732
5733
5734
5735
5736
5737
5738
5739
5740
5741
5742
5743
5744
5745
5746
5747
5748
5749
5750
5751
5752
5753
5754
5755
5756
5757
5758
5759
5760
5761
5762
5763
5764
5765
5766
5767
5768
5769
5770
5771
5772
5773
5774
5775
5776
5777
5778
5779
5780
5781
5782
5783
5784
5785
5786
5787
5788
5789
5790
5791
5792
5793
5794
5795
5796
5797
5798
5799
5800
5801
5802
5803
5804
5805
5806
5807
5808
5809
5810
5811
5812
5813
5814
5815
5816
5817
5818
5819
5820
5821
5822
5823
5824
5825
5826
5827
5828
5829
5830
5831
5832
5833
5834
5835
5836
5837
5838
5839
5840
5841
5842
5843
5844
5845
5846
5847
5848
5849
5850
5851
5852
5853
5854
5855
5856
5857
5858
5859
5860
5861
5862
5863
5864
5865
5866
5867
5868
5869
5870
5871
5872
5873
5874
5875
5876
5877
5878
5879
5880
5881
5882
5883
5884
5885
5886
5887
5888
5889
5890
5891
5892
5893
5894
5895
5896
5897
5898
5899
5900
5901
5902
5903
5904
5905
5906
5907
5908
5909
5910
5911
5912
5913
5914
5915
5916
5917
5918
5919
5920
5921
5922
5923
5924
5925
5926
5927
5928
5929
5930
5931
5932
5933
5934
5935
5936
5937
5938
5939
5940
5941
5942
5943
5944
5945
5946
5947
5948
5949
5950
5951
5952
5953
5954
5955
5956
5957
5958
5959
5960
5961
5962
5963
5964
5965
5966
5967
5968
5969
5970
5971
5972
5973
5974
5975
5976
5977
5978
5979
5980
5981
5982
5983
5984
5985
5986
5987
5988
5989
5990
5991
5992
5993
5994
5995
5996
5997
5998
5999
6000
6001
6002
6003
6004
6005
6006
6007
6008
6009
6010
6011
6012
6013
6014
6015
6016
6017
6018
6019
6020
6021
6022
6023
6024
6025
6026
6027
6028
6029
6030
6031
6032
6033
6034
6035
6036
6037
6038
6039
6040
6041
6042
6043
6044
6045
6046
6047
6048
6049
6050
6051
6052
6053
6054
6055
6056
6057
6058
6059
6060
6061
6062
6063
6064
6065
6066
6067
6068
6069
6070
6071
6072
6073
6074
6075
6076
6077
6078
6079
6080
6081
6082
6083
6084
6085
6086
6087
6088
6089
6090
6091
6092
6093
6094
6095
6096
6097
6098
6099
6100
6101
6102
6103
6104
6105
6106
6107
6108
6109
6110
6111
6112
6113
6114
6115
6116
6117
6118
6119
6120
6121
6122
6123
6124
6125
6126
6127
6128
6129
6130
6131
6132
6133
6134
6135
6136
6137
6138
6139
6140
6141
6142
6143
6144
6145
6146
6147
6148
6149
6150
6151
6152
6153
6154
6155
6156
6157
6158
6159
6160
6161
6162
6163
6164
6165
6166
6167
6168
6169
6170
6171
6172
6173
6174
6175
6176
6177
6178
6179
6180
6181
6182
6183
6184
6185
6186
6187
6188
6189
6190
6191
6192
6193
6194
6195
6196
6197
6198
6199
6200
6201
6202
6203
6204
6205
6206
6207
6208
6209
6210
6211
6212
6213
6214
6215
6216
6217
6218
6219
6220
6221
6222
6223
6224
6225
6226
6227
6228
6229
6230
6231
6232
6233
6234
6235
6236
6237
6238
6239
6240
6241
6242
6243
6244
6245
6246
6247
6248
6249
6250
6251
6252
6253
6254
6255
6256
6257
6258
6259
6260
6261
6262
6263
6264
6265
6266
6267
6268
6269
6270
6271
6272
6273
6274
6275
6276
6277
6278
6279
6280
6281
6282
6283
6284
6285
6286
6287
6288
6289
6290
6291
6292
6293
6294
6295
6296
6297
6298
6299
6300
6301
6302
6303
6304
6305
6306
6307
6308
6309
6310
6311
6312
6313
6314
6315
6316
6317
6318
6319
6320
6321
6322
6323
6324
6325
6326
6327
6328
6329
6330
6331
6332
6333
6334
6335
6336
6337
6338
6339
6340
6341
6342
6343
6344
6345
6346
6347
6348
6349
6350
6351
6352
6353
6354
6355
6356
6357
6358
6359
6360
6361
6362
6363
6364
6365
6366
6367
6368
6369
6370
6371
6372
6373
6374
6375
6376
6377
6378
6379
6380
6381
6382
6383
6384
6385
6386
6387
6388
6389
6390
6391
6392
6393
6394
6395
6396
6397
6398
6399
6400
6401
6402
6403
6404
6405
6406
6407
6408
6409
6410
6411
6412
6413
6414
6415
6416
6417
6418
6419
6420
6421
6422
6423
6424
6425
6426
6427
6428
6429
6430
6431
6432
6433
6434
6435
6436
6437
6438
6439
6440
6441
6442
6443
6444
6445
6446
6447
6448
6449
6450
6451
6452
6453
6454
6455
6456
6457
6458
6459
6460
6461
6462
6463
6464
6465
6466
6467
6468
6469
6470
6471
6472
6473
6474
6475
6476
6477
6478
6479
6480
6481
6482
6483
6484
6485
6486
6487
6488
6489
6490
6491
6492
6493
6494
6495
6496
6497
6498
6499
6500
6501
6502
6503
6504
6505
6506
6507
6508
6509
6510
6511
6512
6513
6514
6515
6516
6517
6518
6519
6520
6521
6522
6523
6524
6525
6526
6527
6528
6529
6530
6531
6532
6533
6534
6535
6536
6537
6538
6539
6540
6541
6542
6543
6544
6545
6546
6547
6548
6549
6550
6551
6552
6553
6554
6555
6556
6557
6558
6559
6560
6561
6562
6563
6564
6565
6566
6567
6568
6569
6570
6571
6572
6573
6574
6575
6576
6577
6578
6579
6580
6581
6582
6583
6584
6585
6586
6587
6588
6589
6590
6591
6592
6593
6594
6595
6596
6597
6598
6599
6600
6601
6602
6603
6604
6605
6606
6607
6608
6609
6610
6611
6612
6613
6614
6615
6616
6617
6618
6619
6620
6621
6622
6623
6624
6625
6626
6627
6628
6629
6630
6631
6632
6633
6634
6635
6636
6637
6638
6639
6640
6641
6642
6643
6644
6645
6646
6647
6648
6649
6650
6651
6652
6653
6654
6655
6656
6657
6658
6659
6660
6661
6662
6663
6664
6665
6666
6667
6668
6669
6670
6671
6672
6673
6674
6675
6676
6677
6678
6679
6680
6681
6682
6683
6684
6685
6686
6687
6688
6689
6690
6691
6692
6693
6694
6695
6696
6697
6698
6699
6700
6701
6702
6703
6704
6705
6706
6707
6708
6709
6710
6711
6712
6713
6714
6715
6716
6717
6718
6719
6720
6721
6722
6723
6724
6725
6726
6727
6728
6729
6730
6731
6732
6733
6734
6735
6736
6737
6738
6739
6740
6741
6742
6743
6744
6745
6746
6747
6748
6749
6750
6751
6752
6753
6754
6755
6756
6757
6758
6759
6760
6761
6762
6763
6764
6765
6766
6767
6768
6769
6770
6771
6772
6773
6774
6775
6776
6777
6778
6779
6780
6781
6782
6783
6784
6785
6786
6787
6788
6789
6790
6791
6792
6793
6794
6795
6796
6797
6798
6799
6800
6801
6802
6803
6804
6805
6806
6807
6808
6809
6810
6811
6812
6813
6814
6815
6816
6817
6818
6819
6820
6821
6822
6823
6824
6825
6826
6827
6828
6829
6830
6831
6832
6833
6834
6835
6836
6837
6838
6839
6840
6841
6842
6843
6844
6845
6846
6847
6848
6849
6850
6851
6852
6853
6854
6855
6856
6857
6858
6859
6860
6861
6862
6863
6864
6865
6866
6867
6868
6869
6870
6871
6872
6873
6874
6875
6876
6877
6878
6879
6880
6881
6882
6883
6884
6885
6886
6887
6888
6889
6890
6891
6892
6893
6894
6895
6896
6897
6898
6899
6900
6901
6902
6903
6904
6905
6906
6907
6908
6909
6910
6911
6912
6913
6914
6915
6916
6917
6918
6919
6920
6921
6922
6923
6924
6925
6926
6927
6928
6929
6930
6931
6932
6933
6934
6935
6936
6937
6938
6939
6940
6941
6942
6943
6944
6945
6946
6947
6948
6949
6950
6951
6952
6953
6954
6955
6956
6957
6958
6959
6960
6961
6962
6963
6964
6965
6966
6967
6968
6969
6970
6971
6972
6973
6974
6975
6976
6977
6978
6979
6980
6981
6982
6983
6984
6985
6986
6987
6988
6989
6990
6991
6992
6993
6994
6995
6996
6997
6998
6999
7000
7001
7002
7003
7004
7005
7006
7007
7008
7009
7010
7011
7012
7013
7014
7015
7016
7017
7018
7019
7020
7021
7022
7023
7024
7025
7026
7027
7028
7029
7030
7031
7032
7033
7034
7035
7036
7037
7038
7039
7040
7041
7042
7043
7044
7045
7046
7047
7048
7049
7050
7051
7052
7053
7054
7055
7056
7057
7058
7059
7060
7061
7062
7063
7064
7065
7066
7067
7068
7069
7070
7071
7072
7073
7074
7075
7076
7077
7078
7079
7080
7081
7082
7083
7084
7085
7086
7087
7088
7089
7090
7091
7092
7093
7094
7095
7096
7097
7098
7099
7100
7101
7102
7103
7104
7105
7106
7107
7108
7109
7110
7111
7112
7113
7114
7115
7116
7117
7118
7119
7120
7121
7122
7123
7124
7125
7126
7127
7128
7129
7130
7131
7132
7133
7134
7135
7136
7137
7138
7139
7140
7141
7142
7143
7144
7145
7146
7147
7148
7149
7150
7151
7152
7153
7154
7155
7156
7157
7158
7159
7160
7161
7162
7163
7164
7165
7166
7167
7168
7169
7170
7171
7172
7173
7174
7175
7176
7177
7178
7179
7180
7181
7182
7183
7184
7185
7186
7187
7188
7189
7190
7191
7192
7193
7194
7195
7196
7197
7198
7199
7200
7201
7202
7203
7204
7205
7206
7207
7208
7209
7210
7211
7212
7213
7214
7215
7216
7217
7218
7219
7220
7221
7222
7223
7224
7225
7226
7227
7228
7229
7230
7231
7232
7233
7234
7235
7236
7237
7238
7239
7240
7241
7242
7243
7244
7245
7246
7247
7248
7249
7250
7251
7252
7253
7254
7255
7256
7257
7258
7259
7260
7261
7262
7263
7264
7265
7266
7267
7268
7269
7270
7271
7272
7273
7274
7275
7276
7277
7278
7279
7280
7281
7282
7283
7284
7285
7286
7287
7288
7289
7290
7291
7292
7293
7294
7295
7296
7297
7298
7299
7300
7301
7302
7303
7304
7305
7306
7307
7308
7309
7310
7311
7312
7313
7314
7315
7316
7317
7318
7319
7320
7321
7322
7323
7324
7325
7326
7327
7328
7329
7330
7331
7332
7333
7334
7335
7336
7337
7338
7339
7340
7341
7342
7343
7344
7345
7346
7347
7348
7349
7350
7351
7352
7353
7354
7355
7356
7357
7358
7359
7360
7361
7362
7363
7364
7365
7366
7367
7368
7369
7370
7371
7372
7373
7374
7375
7376

<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>

<!DOCTYPE html
   PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
   "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" >

<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en">
  <head>
    <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" />
    <title>
      Tales from Two Hemispheres, by Hjalmar Hjorth Boysen
    </title>
    <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve">

    body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify}
    P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; }
    H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; }
    hr  { width: 50%; text-align: center;}
    .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; }
    blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;}
    .mynote    {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;}
    .toc       { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;}
    .toc2      { margin-left: 20%;}
    div.fig    { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; }
    div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; }
    .figleft   {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;}
    .figright  {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;}
    .pagenum   {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal;
               margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%;
               text-align: right;}
    pre        { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;}

</style>
  </head>
  <body>
<pre xml:space="preserve">

Project Gutenberg's Tales From Two Hemispheres, by Hjalmar Hjorth Boysen

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: Tales From Two Hemispheres

Author: Hjalmar Hjorth Boysen

Release Date: July 12, 2008 [EBook #299]
Last Updated: October 18, 2016

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM TWO HEMISPHERES ***




Produced by Charles Keller, and David Widger





</pre>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <h1>
      TALES FROM TWO HEMISPHERES
    </h1>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      By Hjalmar Hjorth Boysen
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      1877
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p class="toc">
        <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>TALES FROM TWO HEMISPHERES.</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> THE MAN WHO LOST HIS NAME. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> II. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> III. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> IV. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> V. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> VI. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> VII. </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> THE STORY OF AN OUTCAST. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> II. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> III. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> IV. </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> II. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> III. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> IV. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> V. </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> A SCIENTIFIC VAGABOND. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> I. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> II. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> III. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> IV. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> V. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> VI. </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> TRULS, THE NAMELESS. </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> ASATHOR&rsquo;S VENGEANCE. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> I. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> II. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> III. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> IV. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> V. </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_FOOT"> Footnotes: </a>
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <h1>
      TALES FROM TWO HEMISPHERES.
    </h1>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      THE MAN WHO LOST HIS NAME.
    </h2>
    <p>
      ON the second day of June, 186&mdash;, a young Norseman, Halfdan Bjerk by
      name, landed on the pier at Castle Garden. He passed through the straight
      and narrow gate where he was asked his name, birthplace, and how much
      money he had,&mdash;at which he grew very much frightened.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And your destination?&rdquo;&mdash;demanded the gruff-looking functionary at
      the desk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;America,&rdquo; said the youth, and touched his hat politely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you think I have time for joking?&rdquo; roared the official, with an oath.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Norseman ran his hand through his hair, smiled his timidly
      conciliatory smile, and tried his best to look brave; but his hand
      trembled and his heart thumped away at an alarmingly quickened tempo.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Put him down for Nebraska!&rdquo; cried a stout red-cheeked individual
      (inwrapped in the mingled fumes of tobacco and whisky) whose function it
      was to open and shut the gate.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There ain&rsquo;t many as go to Nebraska.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right, Nebraska.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The gate swung open and the pressure from behind urged the timid traveler
      on, while an extra push from the gate-keeper sent him flying in the
      direction of a board fence, where he sat down and tried to realize that he
      was now in the land of liberty.
    </p>
    <p>
      Halfdan Bjerk was a tall, slender-limbed youth of very delicate frame; he
      had a pair of wonderfully candid, unreflecting blue eyes, a smooth, clear,
      beardless face, and soft, wavy light hair, which was pushed back from his
      forehead without parting. His mouth and chin were well cut, but their
      lines were, perhaps, rather weak for a man. When in repose, the ensemble
      of his features was exceedingly pleasing and somehow reminded one of
      Correggio&rsquo;s St. John. He had left his native land because he was an ardent
      republican and was abstractly convinced that man, generically and
      individually, lives more happily in a republic than in a monarchy. He had
      anticipated with keen pleasure the large, freely breathing life he was to
      lead in a land where every man was his neighbor&rsquo;s brother, where no
      senseless traditions kept a jealous watch over obsolete systems and
      shrines, and no chilling prejudice blighted the spontaneous blossoming of
      the soul.
    </p>
    <p>
      Halfdan was an only child. His father, a poor government official, had
      died during his infancy, and his mother had given music lessons, and kept
      boarders, in order to gain the means to give her son what is called a
      learned education. In the Latin school Halfdan had enjoyed the reputation
      of being a bright youth, and at the age of eighteen, he had entered the
      university under the most promising auspices. He could make very fair
      verses, and play all imaginable instruments with equal ease, which made
      him a favorite in society. Moreover, he possessed that very old-fashioned
      accomplishment of cutting silhouettes; and what was more, he could draw
      the most charmingly fantastic arabesques for embroidery patterns, and he
      even dabbled in portrait and landscape painting. Whatever he turned his
      hand to, he did well, in fact, astonishingly well for a dilettante, and
      yet not well enough to claim the title of an artist. Nor did it ever occur
      to him to make such a claim. As one of his fellow-students remarked in a
      fit of jealousy, &ldquo;Once when Nature had made three geniuses, a poet, a
      musician, and a painter, she took all the remaining odds and ends and
      shook them together at random and the result was Halfdan Bjerk.&rdquo; This
      agreeable melange of accomplishments, however, proved very attractive to
      the ladies, who invited the possessor to innumerable afternoon
      tea-parties, where they drew heavy drafts on his unflagging patience, and
      kept him steadily engaged with patterns and designs for embroidery,
      leather flowers, and other dainty knickknacks. And in return for all his
      exertions they called him &ldquo;sweet&rdquo; and &ldquo;beautiful,&rdquo; and applied to him many
      other enthusiastic adjectives seldom heard in connection with masculine
      names. In the university, talents of this order gained but slight
      recognition, and when Halfdan had for three years been preparing himself
      in vain for the examen philosophicum, he found himself slowly and
      imperceptibly drifting into the ranks of the so-called studiosi perpetui,
      who preserve a solemn silence at the examination tables, fraternize with
      every new generation of freshmen, and at last become part of the fixed
      furniture of their Alma Mater. In the larger American colleges, such men
      are mercilessly dropped or sent to a Divinity School; but the European
      universities, whose tempers the centuries have mellowed, harbor in their
      spacious Gothic bosoms a tenderer heart for their unfortunate sons. There
      the professors greet them at the green tables with a good-humored smile of
      recognition; they are treated with gentle forbearance, and are allowed to
      linger on, until they die or become tutors in the families of remote
      clergymen, where they invariably fall in love with the handsomest
      daughter, and thus lounge into a modest prosperity.
    </p>
    <p>
      If this had been the fate of our friend Bjerk, we should have dismissed
      him here with a confident &ldquo;vale&rdquo; on his life&rsquo;s pilgrimage. But,
      unfortunately, Bjerk was inclined to hold the government in some way
      responsible for his own poor success as a student, and this, in connection
      with an aesthetic enthusiasm for ancient Greece, gradually convinced him
      that the republic was the only form of government under which men of his
      tastes and temperament were apt to flourish. It was, like everything that
      pertained to him, a cheerful, genial conviction, without the slightest
      tinge of bitterness. The old institutions were obsolete, rotten to the
      core, he said, and needed a radical renovation. He could sit for hours of
      an evening in the Students&rsquo; Union, and discourse over a glass of mild
      toddy, on the benefits of universal suffrage and trial by jury, while the
      picturesqueness of his language, his genial sarcasms, or occasional witty
      allusions would call forth uproarious applause from throngs of admiring
      freshmen. These were the sunny days in Halfdan&rsquo;s career, days long to be
      remembered. They came to an abrupt end when old Mrs. Bjerk died, leaving
      nothing behind her but her furniture and some trifling debts. The son, who
      was not an eminently practical man, underwent long hours of misery in
      trying to settle up her affairs, and finally in a moment of extreme
      dejection sold his entire inheritance in a lump to a pawnbroker (reserving
      for himself a few rings and trinkets) for the modest sum of 250 dollars
      specie. He then took formal leave of the Students&rsquo; Union in a brilliant
      speech, in which he traced the parallelisms between the lives of Pericles
      and Washington,&mdash;in his opinion the two greatest men the world had
      ever seen,&mdash;expounded his theory of democratic government, and
      explained the causes of the rapid rise of the American Republic. The next
      morning he exchanged half of his worldly possessions for a ticket to New
      York, and within a few days set sail for the land of promise, in the far
      West.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      II.
    </h2>
    <p>
      From Castle Garden, Halfdan made his way up through Greenwich street,
      pursued by a clamorous troop of confidence men and hotel runners.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Kommen Sie mit mir. Ich bin auch Deutsch,&rdquo; cried one. &ldquo;Voila, voila, je
      parle Francais,&rdquo; shouted another, seizing hold of his valise. &ldquo;Jeg er
      Dansk. Tale Dansk,&rdquo; <a href="#linknote-1" name="linknoteref-1"
       id="linknoteref-1"><small>1</small></a> roared a third, with an accent
      which seriously impeached his truthfulness. In order to escape from these
      importunate rascals, who were every moment getting bolder, he threw
      himself into the first street-car which happened to pass; he sat down,
      gazed out of the windows and soon became so thoroughly absorbed in the
      animated scenes which moved as in a panorama before his eyes, that he
      quite forgot where he was going. The conductor called for fares, and
      received an English shilling, which, after some ineffectual expostulation,
      he pocketed, but gave no change. At last after about an hour&rsquo;s journey,
      the car stopped, the conductor called out &ldquo;Central Park,&rdquo; and Halfdan woke
      up with a start. He dismounted with a timid, deliberate step, stared in
      dim bewilderment at the long rows of palatial residences, and a chill
      sense of loneliness crept over him. The hopeless strangeness of everything
      he saw, instead of filling him with rapture as he had once anticipated,
      Sent a cold shiver to his heart. It is a very large affair, this world of
      ours&mdash;a good deal larger than it appeared to him gazing out upon it
      from his snug little corner up under the Pole; and it was as unsympathetic
      as it was large; he suddenly felt what he had never been aware of before&mdash;that
      he was a very small part of it and of very little account after all. He
      staggered over to a bench at the entrance to the park, and sat long
      watching the fine carriages as they dashed past him; he saw the handsome
      women in brilliant costumes laughing and chatting gayly; the apathetic
      policemen promenading in stoic dignity up and down upon the smooth
      pavements; the jauntily attired nurses, whom in his Norse innocence he
      took for mothers or aunts of the children, wheeling baby-carriages which
      to Norse eyes seemed miracles of dainty ingenuity, under the shady crowns
      of the elm-trees. He did not know how long he had been sitting there, when
      a little bright-eyed girl with light kid gloves, a small blue parasol and
      a blue polonaise, quite a lady of fashion en miniature, stopped in front
      of him and stared at him in shy wonder. He had always been fond of
      children, and often rejoiced in their affectionate ways and confidential
      prattle, and now it suddenly touched him with a warm sense of human
      fellowship to have this little daintily befrilled and crisply starched
      beauty single him out for notice among the hundreds who reclined in the
      arbors, or sauntered to and fro under the great trees.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is your name, my little girl?&rdquo; he asked, in a tone of friendly
      interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Clara,&rdquo; answered the child, hesitatingly; then, having by another look
      assured herself of his harmlessness, she added: &ldquo;How very funny you
      speak!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said, stooping down to take he tiny begloved hand. &ldquo;I do not
      speak as well as you do, yet; but I shall soon learn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Clara looked puzzled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How old are you?&rdquo; she asked, raising her parasol, and throwing back her
      head with an air of superiority.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am twenty-four years old.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She began to count half aloud on her fingers: &ldquo;One, two, three, four,&rdquo;
       but, before she reached twenty, she lost her patience.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Twenty-four,&rdquo; she exclaimed, &ldquo;that is a great deal. I am only seven, and
      papa gave me a pony on my birthday. Have you got a pony?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; I have nothing but what is in this valise, and you know I could not
      very well get a pony into it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Clara glanced curiously at the valise and laughed; then suddenly she grew
      serious again, put her hand into her pocket and seemed to be searching
      eagerly for something. Presently she hauled out a small porcelain doll&rsquo;s
      head, then a red-painted block with letters on it, and at last a penny.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you want them?&rdquo; she said, reaching him her treasures in both hands.
      &ldquo;You may have them all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Before he had time to answer, a shrill, penetrating voice cried out:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, gracious! child, what are you doing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And the nurse, who had been deeply absorbed in &ldquo;The New York Ledger,&rdquo; came
      rushing up, snatched the child away, and retreated as hastily as she had
      come.
    </p>
    <p>
      Halfdan rose and wandered for hours aimlessly along the intertwining roads
      and footpaths. He visited the menageries, admired the statues, took a very
      light dinner, consisting of coffee, sandwiches, and ice, at the Chinese
      Pavilion, and, toward evening, discovered an inviting leafy arbor, where
      he could withdraw into the privacy of his own thoughts, and ponder upon
      the still unsolved problem of his destiny. The little incident with the
      child had taken the edge off his unhappiness and turned him into a more
      conciliatory mood toward himself and the great pitiless world, which
      seemed to take so little notice of him. And he, who had come here with so
      warm a heart and so ardent a will to join in the great work of human
      advancement&mdash;to find himself thus harshly ignored and buffeted about,
      as if he were a hostile intruder! Before him lay the huge unknown city
      where human life pulsated with large, full heart-throbs, where a
      breathless, weird intensity, a cold, fierce passion seemed to be hurrying
      everything onward in a maddening whirl, where a gentle, warm-blooded
      enthusiast like himself had no place and could expect naught but a speedy
      destruction. A strange, unconquerable dread took possession of him, as if
      he had been caught in a swift, strong whirlpool, from which he vainly
      struggled to escape. He crouched down among the foliage and shuddered. He
      could not return to the city. No, no: he never would return. He would
      remain here hidden and unseen until morning, and then he would seek a
      vessel bound for his dear native land, where the great mountains loomed up
      in serene majesty toward the blue sky, where the pine-forests whispered
      their dreamily sympathetic legends, in the long summer twilights, where
      human existence flowed on in calm beauty with the modest aims, small
      virtues, and small vices which were the happiness of modest, idyllic
      souls. He even saw himself in spirit recounting to his astonished
      countrymen the wonderful things he had heard and seen during his foreign
      pilgrimage, and smiled to himself as he imagined their wonder when he
      should tell them about the beautiful little girl who had been the first
      and only one to offer him a friendly greeting in the strange land. During
      these reflections he fell asleep, and slept soundly for two or three
      hours. Once, he seemed to hear footsteps and whispers among the trees, and
      made an effort to rouse himself, but weariness again overmastered him and
      he slept on. At last, he felt himself seized violently by the shoulders,
      and a gruff voice shouted in his ear:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Get up, you sleepy dog.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He rubbed his eyes, and, by the dim light of the moon, saw a Herculean
      policeman lifting a stout stick over his head. His former terror came upon
      him with increased violence, and his heart stood for a moment still, then,
      again, hammered away as if it would burst his sides.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come along!&rdquo; roared the policeman, shaking him vehemently by the collar
      of his coat.
    </p>
    <p>
      In his bewilderment he quite forgot where he was, and, in hurried Norse
      sentences, assured his persecutor that he was a harmless, honest traveler,
      and implored him to release him. But the official Hercules was inexorable.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My valise, my valise;&rdquo; cried Halfdan. &ldquo;Pray let me get my valise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They returned to the place where he had slept, but the valise was nowhere
      to be found. Then, with dumb despair he resigned himself to his fate, and
      after a brief ride on a street-car, found himself standing in a large,
      low-ceiled room; he covered his face with his hands and burst into tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The grand-the happy republic,&rdquo; he murmured, &ldquo;spontaneous blossoming of
      the soul. Alas! I have rooted up my life; I fear it will never blossom.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All the high-flown adjectives he had employed in his parting speech in the
      Students&rsquo; Union, when he paid his enthusiastic tribute to the Grand
      Republic, now kept recurring to him, and in this moment the paradox seemed
      cruel. The Grand Republic, what did it care for such as he? A pair of
      brawny arms fit to wield the pick-axe and to steer the plow it received
      with an eager welcome; for a child-like, loving heart and a generously
      fantastic brain, it had but the stern greeting of the law.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      III.
    </h2>
    <p>
      The next morning, Halfdan was released from the Police Station, having
      first been fined five dollars for vagrancy. All his money, with the
      exception of a few pounds which he had exchanged in Liverpool, he had lost
      with his valise, and he had to his knowledge not a single acquaintance in
      the city or on the whole continent. In order to increase his capital he
      bought some fifty &ldquo;Tribunes,&rdquo; but, as it was already late in the day, he
      hardly succeeded in selling a single copy. The next morning, he once more
      stationed himself on the corner of Murray street and Broadway, hoping in
      his innocence to dispose of the papers he had still on hand from the
      previous day, and actually did find a few customers among the people who
      were jumping in and out of the omnibuses that passed up and down the great
      thoroughfare. To his surprise, however, one of these gentlemen returned to
      him with a very wrathful countenance, shook his fist at him, and
      vociferated with excited gestures something which to Halfdan&rsquo;s ears had a
      very unintelligible sound. He made a vain effort to defend himself; the
      situation appeared so utterly incomprehensible to him, and in his dumb
      helplessness he looked pitiful enough to move the heart of a stone. No
      English phrase suggested itself to him, only a few Norse interjections
      rose to his lips. The man&rsquo;s anger suddenly abated; he picked up the paper
      which he had thrown on the sidewalk, and stood for a while regarding
      Halfdan curiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you a Norwegian?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I came from Norway yesterday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s your name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Halfdan Bjerk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Halfdan Bjerk! My stars! Who would have thought of meeting you here! You
      do not recognize me, I suppose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Halfdan declared with a timid tremor in his voice that he could not at the
      moment recall his features.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I imagine I must have changed a good deal since you saw me,&rdquo; said the
      man, suddenly dropping into Norwegian. &ldquo;I am Gustav Olson, I used to live
      in the same house with you once, but that is long ago now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gustav Olson&mdash;to be sure, he was the porter&rsquo;s son in the house, where
      his mother had once during his childhood, taken a flat. He well remembered
      having clandestinely traded jack-knives and buttons with him, in spite of
      the frequent warnings he had received to have nothing to do with him; for
      Gustav, with his broad freckled face and red hair, was looked upon by the
      genteel inhabitants of the upper flats as rather a disreputable character.
      He had once whipped the son of a colonel who had been impudent to him, and
      thrown a snow-ball at the head of a new-fledged lieutenant, which offenses
      he had duly expiated at a house of correction. Since that time he had
      vanished from Halfdan&rsquo;s horizon. He had still the same broad freckled
      face, now covered with a lusty growth of coarse red beard, the same
      rebellious head of hair, which refused to yield to the subduing influences
      of the comb, the same plebeian hands and feet, and uncouth clumsiness of
      form. But his linen was irreproachable, and a certain dash in his manner,
      and the loud fashionableness of his attire, gave unmistakable evidences of
      prosperity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, Bjerk,&rdquo; said he in a tone of good-fellowship, which was not without
      its sting to the idealistic republican, &ldquo;you must take up a better
      business than selling yesterday&rsquo;s `Tribune.&rsquo; That won&rsquo;t pay here, you
      know. Come along to our office and I will see if something can&rsquo;t be done
      for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I should be sorry to give you trouble,&rdquo; stammered Halfdan, whose
      native pride, even in his present wretchedness, protested against
      accepting a favor from one whom he had been wont to regard as his
      inferior.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nonsense, my boy. Hurry up, I haven&rsquo;t much time to spare. The office is
      only two blocks from here. You don&rsquo;t look as if you could afford to throw
      away a friendly offer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The last words suddenly roused Halfdan from his apathy; for he felt that
      they were true. A drowning man cannot afford to make nice distinctions&mdash;cannot
      afford to ask whether the helping hand that is extended to him be that of
      an equal or an inferior. So he swallowed his humiliation and threaded his
      way through the bewildering turmoil of Broadway, by the side of his
      officious friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      They entered a large, elegantly furnished office, where clerks with sleek
      and severely apathetic countenances stood scribbling at their desks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will have to amuse yourself as best you can,&rdquo; said Olson. &ldquo;Mr. Van
      Kirk will be here in twenty minutes. I haven&rsquo;t time to entertain you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A dreary half hour passed. Then the door opened and a tall, handsome man,
      with a full grayish beard, and a commanding presence, entered and took his
      seat at a desk in a smaller adjoining office. He opened, with great
      dispatch, a pile of letters which lay on the desk before him, called out
      in a sharp, ringing tone for a clerk, who promptly appeared, handed him
      half-a-dozen letters, accompanying each with a brief direction, took some
      clean paper from a drawer and fell to writing. There was something brisk,
      determined, and business-like in his manner, which made it seem very
      hopeless to Halfdan to appear before him as a petitioner. Presently Olson
      entered the private office, closing the door behind him, and a few minutes
      later re-appeared and summoned Halfdan into the chief&rsquo;s presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a Norwegian, I hear,&rdquo; said the merchant, looking around over his
      shoulder at the supplicant, with a preoccupied air. &ldquo;You want work. What
      can you do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      What can you do? A fatal question. But here was clearly no opportunity for
      mental debate. So, summoning all his courage, but feeling nevertheless
      very faint, he answered:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have passed both examen artium and philosophicum, <a href="#linknote-2"
       name="linknoteref-2" id="linknoteref-2"><small>2</small></a> and got my
      laud clear in the former, but in the latter haud on the first point.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Van Kirk wheeled round on his chair and faced the speaker:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is all Greek to me,&rdquo; he said, in a severe tone. &ldquo;Can you keep
      accounts?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. I am afraid not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Keeping accounts was not deemed a classical accomplishment in Norway. It
      was only &ldquo;trade-rats&rdquo; who troubled themselves about such gross things, and
      if our Norseman had not been too absorbed with the problem of his destiny,
      he would have been justly indignant at having such a question put to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you don&rsquo;t know book-keeping?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think not. I never tried it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you may be sure you don&rsquo;t know it. But you must certainly have tried
      your hand at something. Is there nothing you can think of which might help
      you to get a living?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can play the piano&mdash;and&mdash;and the violin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, then. You may come this afternoon to my house. Mr. Olson will
      tell you the address. I will give you a note to Mrs. Van Kirk. Perhaps she
      will engage you as a music teacher for the children. Good morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      IV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      At half-past four o&rsquo;clock in the afternoon, Halfdan found himself standing
      in a large, dimly lighted drawing-room, whose brilliant upholstery,
      luxurious carpets, and fantastically twisted furniture dazzled and
      bewildered his senses. All was so strange, so strange; nowhere a familiar
      object to give rest to the wearied eye. Wherever he looked he saw his
      shabbily attired figure repeated in the long crystal mirrors, and he
      became uncomfortably conscious of his threadbare coat, his uncouth boots,
      and the general incongruity of his appearance. With every moment his
      uneasiness grew; and he was vaguely considering the propriety of a
      precipitate flight, when the rustle of a dress at the farther end of the
      room startled him, and a small, plump lady, of a daintily exquisite form,
      swept up toward him, gave a slight inclination of her head, and sank down
      into an easy-chair:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are Mr. &mdash;&mdash;, the Norwegian, who wishes to give music
      lessons?&rdquo; she said, holding a pair of gold-framed eyeglasses up to her
      eyes, and running over the note which she held in her hand. It read as
      follows:
    </p>
    <p>
      DEAR MARTHA,&mdash;The bearer of this note is a young Norwegian, I forgot
      to ascertain his name, a friend of Olson&rsquo;s. He wishes to teach music. If
      you can help the poor devil and give him something to do, you will oblige,
      Yours, H. V. K.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Van Kirk was evidently, by at least twelve years, her husband&rsquo;s
      junior, and apparently not very far advanced in the forties. Her blonde
      hair, which was freshly crimped, fell lightly over her smooth, narrow
      forehead; her nose, mouth and chin had a neat distinctness of outline; her
      complexion was either naturally or artificially perfect, and her eyes,
      which were of the purest blue, had, owing to their near-sightedness, a
      certain pinched and scrutinizing look. This look, which was without the
      slightest touch of severity, indicating merely a lively degree of
      interest, was further emphasized by three small perpendicular wrinkles,
      which deepened and again relaxed according to the varying intensity of
      observation she bestowed upon the object which for the time engaged her
      attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your name, if you please?&rdquo; said Mrs. Van Kirk, having for awhile measured
      her visitor with a glance of mild scrutiny.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Halfdan Bjerk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Half-dan B&mdash;&mdash;, how do you spell that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;B-j-e-r-k.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;B-jerk. Well, but I mean, what is your name in English?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Halfdan looked blank, and blushed to his ears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish to know,&rdquo; continued the lady energetically, evidently anxious to
      help him out, &ldquo;what your name would mean in plain English. Bjerk, it
      certainly must mean something.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bjerk is a tree&mdash;a birch-tree.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, Birch,&mdash;that is a very respectable name. And your first
      name? What did you say that was?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;H-a-l-f-d-a-n.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Half Dan. Why not a whole Dan and be done with it? Dan Birch, or rather
      Daniel Birch. Indeed, that sounds quite Christian.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As you please, madam,&rdquo; faltered the victim, looking very unhappy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will pardon my straightforwardness, won&rsquo;t you? B-jerk. I could never
      pronounce that, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whatever may be agreeable to you, madam, will be sure to please me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is very well said. And you will find that it always pays to try to
      please me. And you wish to teach music? If you have no objection I will
      call my oldest daughter. She is an excellent judge of music, and if your
      playing meets with her approval, I will engage you, as my husband
      suggests, not to teach Edith, you understand, but my youngest child,
      Clara.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Halfdan bowed assent, and Mrs. Van Kirk rustled out into the hall where
      she rang a bell, and re-entered. A servant in dress-coat appeared, and
      again vanished as noiselessly as he had come. To our Norseman there was
      some thing weird and uncanny about these silent entrances and exits; he
      could hardly suppress a shudder. He had been accustomed to hear the
      clatter of people&rsquo;s heels upon the bare floors, as they approached, and
      the audible crescendo of their footsteps gave one warning, and prevented
      one from being taken by surprise. While absorbed in these reflections, his
      senses must have been dormant; for just then Miss Edith Van Kirk entered,
      unheralded by anything but a hovering perfume, the effect of which was to
      lull him still deeper into his wondering abstraction.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Birch,&rdquo; said Mrs. Van Kirk, &ldquo;this is my daughter Miss Edith,&rdquo; and as
      Halfdan sprang to his feet and bowed with visible embarrassment, she
      continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Edith, this is Mr. Daniel Birch, whom your father has sent here to know
      if he would be serviceable as a music teacher for Clara. And now, dear,
      you will have to decide about the merits of Mr. Birch. I don&rsquo;t know enough
      about music to be anything of a judge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If Mr. Birch will be kind enough to play,&rdquo; said Miss Edith with a
      languidly musical intonation,&rdquo; I shall be happy to listen to him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Halfdan silently signified his willingness and followed the ladies to a
      smaller apartment which was separated from the drawing-room by folding
      doors. The apparition of the beautiful young girl who was walking at his
      side had suddenly filled him with a strange burning and shuddering
      happiness; he could not tear his eyes away from her; she held him as by a
      powerful spell. And still, all the while he had a painful
      sub-consciousness of his own unfortunate appearance, which was thrown into
      cruel relief by her splendor. The tall, lithe magnificence of her form,
      the airy elegance of her toilet, which seemed the perfection of
      self-concealing art, the elastic deliberateness of her step&mdash;all
      wrought like a gentle, deliciously soothing opiate upon the Norseman&rsquo;s
      fancy and lifted him into hitherto unknown regions of mingled misery and
      bliss. She seemed a combination of the most divine contradictions, one
      moment supremely conscious, and in the next adorably child-like and
      simple, now full of arts and coquettish innuendoes, then again naïve,
      unthinking and almost boyishly blunt and direct; in a word, one of those
      miraculous New York girls whom abstractly one may disapprove of, but in
      the concrete must abjectly adore. This easy predominance of the masculine
      heart over the masculine reason in the presence of an impressive woman,
      has been the motif of a thousand tragedies in times past, and will inspire
      a thousand more in times to come.
    </p>
    <p>
      Halfdan sat down at the grand piano and played Chopin&rsquo;s Nocturne in G
      major, flinging out that elaborate filigree of sound with an impetuosity
      and superb ABANDON which caused the ladies to exchange astonished glances
      behind his back. The transitions from the light and ethereal texture of
      melody to the simple, more concrete theme, which he rendered with delicate
      shadings of articulation, were sufficiently startling to impress even a
      less cultivated ear than that of Edith Van Kirk, who had, indeed,
      exhausted whatever musical resources New York has to offer. And she was
      most profoundly impressed. As he glided over the last pianissimo notes
      toward the two concluding chords (an ending so characteristic of Chopin)
      she rose and hurried to his side with a heedless eagerness, which was more
      eloquent than emphatic words of praise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Won&rsquo;t you please repeat this passage?&rdquo; she said, humming the air with
      soft modulations; &ldquo;I have always regarded the monotonous repetition of
      this strain&rdquo; (and she indicated it lightly by a few touches of the keys)
      &ldquo;as rather a blemish of an otherwise perfect composition. But as you play
      it, it is anything but monotonous. You put into this single phrase a more
      intense meaning and a greater variety of thought than I ever suspected it
      was capable of expressing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is my favorite composition,&rdquo; answered he, modestly. &ldquo;I have bestowed
      more thought upon it than upon anything I have ever played, unless perhaps
      it be the one in G minor, which, with all its difference of mood and
      phraseology, expresses an essentially kindred thought.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear Mr. Birch,&rdquo; exclaimed Mrs. Van Kirk, whom his skillful employment
      of technical terms (in spite of his indifferent accent) had impressed even
      more than his rendering of the music,&mdash;&ldquo;you are a comsummate{sic}
      artist, and we shall deem it a great privilege if you will undertake to
      instruct our child. I have listened to you with profound satisfaction.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Halfdan acknowledged the compliment by a bow and a blush, and repeated the
      latter part of the nocturne according to Edith&rsquo;s request.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now,&rdquo; resumed Edith, &ldquo;may I trouble you to play the G minor, which
      has even puzzled me more than the one you have just played.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It ought really to have been played first,&rdquo; replied Halfdan. &ldquo;It is far
      intenser in its coloring and has a more passionate ring, but its
      conclusion does not seem to be final. There is no rest in it, and it seems
      oddly enough to be a mere transition into the major, which is its proper
      supplement and completes the fragmentary thought.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mother and daughter once more telegraphed wondering looks at each other,
      while Halfdan plunged into the impetuous movements of the minor nocturne,
      which he played to the end with ever-increasing fervor and animation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Birch,&rdquo; said Edith, as he arose from the piano with a flushed face,
      and the agitation of the music still tingling through his nerves. &ldquo;You are
      a far greater musician than you seem to be aware of. I have not been
      taking lessons for some time, but you have aroused all my musical
      ambition, and if you will accept me too, as a pupil, I shall deem it a
      favor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hardly know if I can teach you anything,&rdquo; answered he, while his eyes
      dwelt with keen delight on her beautiful form. &ldquo;But in my present position
      I can hardly afford to decline so flattering an offer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You mean to say that you would decline it if you were in a position to do
      so,&rdquo; said she, smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, only that I should question my convenience more closely.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, never mind. I take all the responsibility. I shall cheerfully consent
      to being imposed upon by you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Van Kirk in the mean while had been examining the contents of a
      fragrant Russia-leather pocket-book, and she now drew out two crisp
      ten-dollar notes, and held them out toward him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I prefer to make sure of you by paying you in advance,&rdquo; said she, with a
      cheerfully familiar nod, and a critical glance at his attire, the meaning
      of which he did not fail to detect. &ldquo;Somebody else might make the same
      discovery that we have made to-day, and outbid us. And we do not want to
      be cheated out of our good fortune in having been the first to secure so
      valuable a prize.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You need have no fear on that score, madam,&rdquo; retorted Halfdan, with a
      vivid blush, and purposely misinterpreting the polite subterfuge. &ldquo;You may
      rely upon my promise. I shall be here again, as soon as you wish me to
      return.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, if you please, we shall look for you to-morrow morning at ten
      o&rsquo;clock.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Mrs. Van Kirk hesitatingly folded up her notes and replaced them in
      her pocket-book.
    </p>
    <p>
      To our idealist there was something extremely odious in this sudden offer
      of money. It was the first time any one had offered to pay him, and it
      seemed to put him on a level with a common day-laborer. His first impulse
      was to resent it as a gratuitous humiliation, but a glance at Mrs. Van
      Kirk&rsquo;s countenance, which was all aglow with officious benevolence,
      re-assured him, and his indignation died away.
    </p>
    <p>
      That same afternoon Olson, having been informed of his friend&rsquo;s good
      fortune, volunteered a loan of a hundred dollars, and accompanied him to a
      fashionable tailor, where he underwent a pleasing metamorphosis.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      V.
    </h2>
    <p>
      In Norway the ladies dress with the innocent purpose of protecting
      themselves against the weather; if this purpose is still remotely present
      in the toilets of American women of to-day, it is, at all events,
      sufficiently disguised to challenge detection, very much like a primitive
      Sanscrit root in its French and English derivatives. This was the
      reflection which was uppermost in Halfdan&rsquo;s mind as Edith, ravishing to
      behold in the airy grace of her fragrant morning toilet, at the appointed
      time took her seat at his side before the piano. Her presence seemed so
      intense, so all-absorbing, that it left no thought for the music. A woman,
      with all the spiritual mysteries which that name implies, had always
      appeared to him rather a composite phenomenon, even apart from those
      varied accessories of dress, in which as by an inevitable analogy, she
      sees fit to express the inner multiformity of her being. Nevertheless,
      this former conception of his, when compared to that wonderful complexity
      of ethereal lines, colors, tints and half-tints which go to make up the
      modern New York girl, seemed inexpressibly simple, almost what plain
      arithmetic must appear to a man who has mastered calculus.
    </p>
    <p>
      Edith had opened one of those small red-covered volumes of Chopin where
      the rich, wondrous melodies lie peacefully folded up like strange exotic
      flowers in an herbarium. She began to play the fantasia impromtu, which
      ought to be dashed off at a single &ldquo;heat,&rdquo; whose passionate impulse
      hurries it on breathlessly toward its abrupt finale. But Edith toiled
      considerably with her fingering, and blurred the keen edges of each swift
      phrase by her indistinct articulation. And still there was a sufficiently
      ardent intention in her play to save it from being a failure. She made a
      gesture of disgust when she had finished, shut the book, and let her hands
      drop crosswise in her lap.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I only wanted to give you a proof of my incapacity,&rdquo; she said, turning
      her large luminous gaze upon her instructor, &ldquo;in order to make you duly
      appreciate what you have undertaken. Now, tell me truly and honestly, are
      you not discouraged?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not by any means,&rdquo; replied he, while the rapture of her presence rippled
      through his nerves, &ldquo;you have fire enough in you to make an admirable
      musician. But your fingers, as yet, refuse to carry out your fine
      intentions. They only need discipline.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And do you suppose you can discipline them? They are a fearfully
      obstinate set, and cause me infinite mortification.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would you allow me to look at your hand?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She raised her right hand, and with a sort of impulsive heedlessness let
      it drop into his. An exclamation of surprise escaped him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you will pardon me,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;it is a superb hand&mdash;a hand
      capable of performing miracles&mdash;musical miracles I mean. Only look
      here&rdquo;&mdash;(and he drew the fore and second fingers apart)&mdash;&ldquo;so
      firmly set in the joint and still so flexible. I doubt if Liszt himself
      can boast a finer row of fingers. Your hands will surely not prevent you
      from becoming a second Von Bulow, which to my mind means a good deal more
      than a second Liszt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, that is quite enough,&rdquo; she exclaimed, with an incredulous
      laugh; &ldquo;you have done bravely. That at all events throws the whole burden
      of responsibility upon myself, if I do not become a second somebody. I
      shall be perfectly satisfied, however, if you can only make me as good a
      musician as you are yourself, so that I can render a not too difficult
      piece without feeling all the while that I am committing sacrilege in
      mutilating the fine thoughts of some great composer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are too modest; you do not&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, I am not modest,&rdquo; she interrupted him with an impetuosity which
      startled him. &ldquo;I beg of you not to persist in paying me compliments. I get
      too much of that cheap article elsewhere. I hate to be told that I am
      better than I know I am. If you are to do me any good by your instruction,
      you must be perfectly sincere toward me, and tell me plainly of my
      short-comings. I promise you beforehand that I shall never be offended.
      There is my hand. Now, is it a bargain?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His fingers closed involuntarily over the soft beautiful hand, and once
      more the luxury of her touch sent a thrill of delight through him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have not been insincere,&rdquo; he murmured, &ldquo;but I shall be on my guard in
      future, even against the appearance of insincerity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And when I play detestably, you will say so, and not smooth it over with
      unmeaning flatteries?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will try.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, then we shall get on well together. Do not imagine that this
      is a mere feminine whim of mine. I never was more in earnest. Men, and I
      believe foreigners, to a greater degree than Americans, have the idea that
      women must be treated with gentle forbearance; that their follies, if they
      are foolish, must be glossed over with some polite name. They exert
      themselves to the utmost to make us mere playthings, and, as such,
      contemptible both in our own eyes and in theirs. No sincere respect can
      exist where the truth has to be avoided. But the majority of American
      women are made of too stern a stuff to be dealt with in that way. They
      feel the lurking insincerity even where politeness forbids them to show
      it, and it makes them disgusted both with themselves, and with the
      flatterer. And now you must pardon me for having spoken so plainly to you
      on so short an acquaintance; but you are a foreigner, and it may be an act
      of friendship to initiate you as soon as possible into our ways and
      customs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He hardly knew what to answer. Her vehemence was so sudden, and the
      sentiments she had uttered so different from those which he had habitually
      ascribed to women, that he could only sit and gaze at her in mute
      astonishment. He could not but admit that in the main she had judged him
      rightly, and that his own attitude and that of other men toward her sex,
      were based upon an implied assumption of superiority.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am afraid I have shocked you,&rdquo; she resumed, noticing the startled
      expression of his countenance. &ldquo;But really it was quite inevitable, if we
      were at all to understand each other. You will forgive me, won&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forgive!&rdquo; stammered he, &ldquo;I have nothing to forgive. It was only your
      merciless truthfulness which startled me. I rather owe you thanks, if you
      will allow me to be grateful to you. It seems an enviable privilege.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now,&rdquo; interrupted Edith, raising her forefinger in playful threat,
      &ldquo;remember your promise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The lesson was now continued without further interruption. When it was
      finished, a little girl, with her hair done up in curl-papers, and a very
      stiffly starched dress, which stood out on all sides almost horizontally,
      entered, accompanied by Mrs. Van Kirk. Halfdan immediately recognized his
      acquaintance from the park, and it appeared to him a good omen that this
      child, whose friendly interest in him had warmed his heart in a moment
      when his fortunes seemed so desperate, should continue to be associated
      with his life on this new continent. Clara was evidently greatly impressed
      by the change in his appearance, and could with difficulty be restrained
      from commenting upon it.
    </p>
    <p>
      She proved a very apt scholar in music, and enjoyed the lessons the more
      for her cordial liking of her teacher.
    </p>
    <p>
      It will be necessary henceforth to omit the less significant details in
      the career of our friend &ldquo;Mr. Birch.&rdquo; Before a month was past, he had
      firmly established himself in the favor of the different members of the
      Van Kirk family. Mrs. Van Kirk spoke of him to her lady visitors as &ldquo;a
      perfect jewel,&rdquo; frequently leaving them in doubt as to whether he was a
      cook or a coachman. Edith apostrophized him to her fashionable friends as
      &ldquo;a real genius,&rdquo; leaving a dim impression upon their minds of flowing
      locks, a shiny velvet jacket, slouched hat, defiant neck-tie and a general
      air of disreputable pretentiousness. Geniuses of the foreign type were
      never, in the estimation of fashionable New York society, what you would
      call &ldquo;exactly nice,&rdquo; and against prejudices of this order no amount of
      argument will ever prevail. Clara, who had by this time discovered that
      her teacher possessed an inexhaustible fund of fairy stories, assured her
      playmates across the street that he was &ldquo;just splendid,&rdquo; and frequently
      invited them over to listen to his wonderful tales. Mr. Van Kirk himself,
      of course, was non-committal, but paid the bills unmurmuringly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Halfdan in the meanwhile was vainly struggling against his growing passion
      for Edith; but the more he rebelled the more hopelessly he found himself
      entangled in its inextricable net. The fly, as long as it keeps quiet in
      the spider&rsquo;s web, may for a moment forget its situation; but the least
      effort to escape is apt to frustrate itself and again reveal the imminent
      peril. Thus he too &ldquo;kicked against the pricks,&rdquo; hoped, feared, rebelled
      against his destiny, and again, from sheer weariness, relapsed into a
      dull, benumbed apathy. In spite of her friendly sympathy, he never felt so
      keenly his alienism as in her presence. She accepted the spontaneous
      homage he paid her, sometimes with impatience, as something that was
      really beneath her notice; at other times she frankly recognized it,
      bantered him with his &ldquo;Old World chivalry,&rdquo; which would soon evaporate in
      the practical American atmosphere, and called him her Viking, her knight
      and her faithful squire. But it never occurred to her to regard his
      devotion in a serious light, and to look upon him as a possible lover had
      evidently never entered her head. As their intercourse grew more intimate,
      he had volunteered to read his favorite poets with her, and had gradually
      succeeded in imparting to her something of his own passionate liking for
      Heine and Björnson. She had in return called his attention to the works of
      American authors who had hitherto been little more than names to him, and
      they had thus managed to be of mutual benefit to each other, and to spend
      many a pleasant hour during the long winter afternoons in each other&rsquo;s
      company. But Edith had a very keen sense of humor, and could hardly
      restrain her secret amusement when she heard him reading Longfellow&rsquo;s
      &ldquo;Psalm of Life&rdquo; and Poe&rsquo;s &ldquo;Raven&rdquo; (which had been familiar to her from her
      babyhood), often with false accent, but always with intense enthusiasm.
      The reflection that he had had no part of his life in common with her,&mdash;that
      he did not love the things which she loved,&mdash;could not share her
      prejudices (and women have a feeling akin to contempt for a man who does
      not respond to their prejudices)&mdash;removed him at times almost beyond
      the reach of her sympathy. It was interesting enough as long as the
      experience was novel, to be thus unconsciously exploring another person&rsquo;s
      mind and finding so many strange objects there; but after a while the
      thing began to assume an uncomfortably serious aspect, and then there
      seemed to be something almost terrible about it. At such times a call from
      a gentleman of her own nation, even though he were one of the placidly
      stupid type, would be a positive relief; she could abandon herself to the
      secure sense of being at home; she need fear no surprises, and in the
      smooth shallows of their talk there were no unsuspected depths to excite
      and to baffle her ingenuity. And, again, reverting in her thought to
      Halfdan, his conversational brilliancy would almost repel her, as
      something odious and un-American, the cheap result of outlandish birth and
      unrepublican education. Not that she had ever valued republicanism very
      highly; she was one of those who associated politics with noisy vulgarity
      in speech and dress, and therefore thanked fortune that women were
      permitted to keep aloof from it. But in the presence of this alien she
      found herself growing patriotic; that much-discussed abstraction, which we
      call our country (and which is nothing but the aggregate of all the slow
      and invisible influences which go toward making up our own being), became
      by degrees a very palpable and intelligible fact to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Frequently while her American self was thus loudly asserting itself, Edith
      inflicted many a cruel wound upon her foreign adorer. Once,&mdash;it was
      the Fourth of July, more than a year after Halfdan&rsquo;s arrival, a number of
      young ladies and gentlemen, after having listened to a patriotic oration,
      were invited in to an informal luncheon. While waiting, they naturally
      enough spent their time in singing national songs, and Halfdan&rsquo;s clear
      tenor did good service in keeping the straggling voices together. When
      they had finished, Edith went up to him and was quite effusive in her
      expressions of gratitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sure we ought all to be very grateful to you, Mr. Birch,&rdquo; she said,
      &ldquo;and I, for my part, can assure you that I am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Grateful? Why?&rdquo; demanded Halfdan, looking quite unhappy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For singing OUR national songs, of course. Now, won&rsquo;t you sing one of
      your own, please? We should all be so delighted to hear how a Swedish&mdash;or
      Norwegian, is it?&mdash;national song sounds.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Mr. Birch, DO sing a Swedish song,&rdquo; echoed several voices.
    </p>
    <p>
      They, of course, did not even remotely suspect their own cruelty. He had,
      in his enthusiasm for the day allowed himself to forget that he was not
      made of the same clay as they were, that he was an exile and a stranger,
      and must ever remain so, that he had no right to share their joy in the
      blessing of liberty. Edith had taken pains to dispel the happy illusion,
      and had sent him once more whirling toward his cold native Pole. His
      passion came near choking him, and, to conceal his impetuous emotion, he
      flung himself down on the piano-stool, and struck some introductory chords
      with perhaps a little superfluous emphasis. Suddenly his voice burst out
      into the Swedish national anthem, &ldquo;Our Land, our Land, our Fatherland,&rdquo;
       and the air shook and palpitated with strong martial melody. His
      indignation, his love and his misery, imparted strength to his voice, and
      its occasional tremble in the PIANO passages was something more than an
      artistic intention. He was loudly applauded as he arose, and the young
      ladies thronged about him to ask if he &ldquo;wouldn&rsquo;t please write out the
      music for them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus month after month passed by, and every day brought its own misery.
      Mrs. Van Kirk&rsquo;s patronizing manners, and ostentatious kindness, often
      tested his patience to the utmost. If he was guilty of an innocent
      witticism or a little quaintness of expression, she always assumed it to
      be a mistake of terms and corrected him with an air of benign superiority.
      At times, of course, her corrections were legitimate, as for instance,
      when he spoke of WEARING a cane, instead of CARRYING one, but in nine
      cases out of ten the fault lay in her own lack of imagination and not in
      his ignorance of English. On such occasions Edith often took pity on him,
      defended him against her mother&rsquo;s criticism, and insisted that if this or
      that expression was not in common vogue, that was no reason why it should
      not be used, as it was perfectly grammatical, and, moreover, in keeping
      with the spirit of the language. And he, listening passively in admiring
      silence to her argument, thanked her even for the momentary pain because
      it was followed by so great a happiness. For it was so sweet to be
      defended by Edith, to feel that he and she were standing together side by
      side against the outer world. Could he only show her in the old heroic
      manner how much he loved her! Would only some one that was dear to her
      die, so that he, in that breaking down of social barriers which follows a
      great calamity, might comfort her in her sorrow. Would she then, perhaps,
      weeping, lean her wonderful head upon his breast, feeling but that he was
      a fellow-mortal, who had a heart that was loyal and true, and forgetting,
      for one brief instant, that he was a foreigner. Then, to touch that
      delicate Elizabethan frill which wound itself so daintily about Edith&rsquo;s
      neck&mdash;what inconceivable rapture! But it was quite impossible. It
      could never be. These were selfish thoughts, no doubt, but they were a
      lover&rsquo;s selfishness, and, as such, bore a close kinship to all that is
      purest and best in human nature.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is one of the tragic facts of this life, that a relation so unequal as
      that which existed between Halfdan and Edith, is at all possible. As for
      Edith, I must admit that she was well aware that her teacher was in love
      with her. Women have wonderfully keen senses for phenomena of that kind,
      and it is an illusion if any one imagines, as our Norseman did, that he
      has locked his secret securely in the hidden chamber of his heart. In
      fleeting intonations, unconscious glances and attitudes, and through a
      hundred other channels it will make its way out, and the bereaved jailer
      may still clasp his key in fierce triumph, never knowing that he has been
      robbed. It was of course no fault of Edith&rsquo;s that she had become possessed
      of Halfdan&rsquo;s heart-secret. She regarded it as on the whole rather an
      absurd affair, and prized it very lightly. That a love so strong and yet
      so humble, so destitute of hope and still so unchanging, reverent and
      faithful, had something grand and touching in it, had never occurred to
      her. It is a truism to say that in our social code the value of a man&rsquo;s
      character is determined by his position; and fine traits in a foreigner
      (unless he should happen to be something very great) strike us rather as
      part of a supposed mental alienism, and as such, naturally suspicious. It
      is rather disgraceful than otherwise to have your music teacher in love
      with you, and critical friends will never quite banish the suspicion that
      you have encouraged him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Edith had, in her first delight at the discovery of Halfdan&rsquo;s talent,
      frankly admitted him to a relation of apparent equality. He was a man of
      culture, had the manners and bearing of a gentleman, and had none of those
      theatrical airs which so often raise a sort of invisible wall between
      foreigners and Americans. Her mother, who loved to play the patron,
      especially to young men, had invited him to dinner-parties and introduced
      him to their friends, until almost every one looked upon him as a protege
      of the family. He appeared so well in a parlor, and had really such a
      distinguished presence, that it was a pleasure to look at him. He was
      remarkably free from those obnoxious traits which generalizing American
      travelers have led us to believe were inseparable from foreign birth; his
      finger-nails were in no way conspicuous; he did not, as a French count, a
      former adorer of Edith&rsquo;s, had done, indulge an unmasculine taste for
      diamond rings (possibly because he had none); his politeness was
      unobtrusive and subdued, and of his accent there was just enough left to
      give an agreeable color of individuality to his speech. But, for all that,
      Edith could never quite rid herself of the impression that he was
      intensely un-American. There was a certain idyllic quiescence about him, a
      child-like directness and simplicity, and a total absence of &ldquo;push,&rdquo; which
      were startlingly at variance with the spirit of American life. An American
      could never have been content to remain in an inferior position without
      trying, in some way, to better his fortunes. But Halfdan could stand still
      and see, without the faintest stirring of envy, his plebeian friend Olson,
      whose education and talents could bear no comparison with his own, rise
      rapidly above him, and apparently have no desire to emulate him. He could
      sit on a cricket in a corner, with Clara on his lap, and two or three
      little girls nestling about him, and tell them fairy stories by the hour,
      while his kindly face beamed with innocent happiness. And if Clara, to
      coax him into continuing the entertainment, offered to kiss him, his
      measure of joy was full. This fair child, with her affectionate ways, and
      her confiding prattle, wound herself ever more closely about his homeless
      heart, and he clung to her with a touching devotion. For she was the only
      one who seemed to be unconscious of the difference of blood, who had not
      yet learned that she was an American and he&mdash;a foreigner.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      VI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Three years had passed by and still the situation was unchanged. Halfdan
      still taught music and told fairy stories to the children. He had a good
      many more pupils now than three years ago, although he had made no effort
      to solicit patronage, and had never tried to advertise his talent by what
      he regarded as vulgar and inartistic display. But Mrs. Van Kirk, who had
      by this time discovered his disinclination to assert himself, had been
      only the more active; had &ldquo;talked him up&rdquo; among her aristocratic friends;
      had given musical soirees, at which she had coaxed him to play the
      principal role, and had in various other ways exerted herself in his
      behalf. It was getting to be quite fashionable to admire his quiet,
      unostentatious style of playing, which was so far removed from the noisy
      bravado and clap-trap then commonly in vogue. Even professional musicians
      began to indorse him, and some, who had discovered that &ldquo;there was money
      in him,&rdquo; made him tempting offers for a public engagement. But, with
      characteristic modesty, he distrusted their verdict; his sensitive nature
      shrank from anything which had the appearance of self-assertion or
      display.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Edith&mdash;ah, if it had not been for Edith he might have found
      courage to enter at the door of fortune, which was now opened ajar. That
      fame, if he should gain it, would bring him any nearer to her, was a
      thought that was alien to so unworldly a temperament as his. And any
      action that had no bearing upon his relation to her, left him cold&mdash;seemed
      unworthy of the effort. If she had asked him to play in public; if she had
      required of him to go to the North Pole, or to cut his own throat, I
      verily believe he would have done it. And at last Edith did ask him to
      play. She and Olson had plotted together, and from the very friendliest
      motives agreed to play into each other&rsquo;s hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you only WOULD consent to play,&rdquo; said she, in her own persuasive way,
      one day as they had finished their lesson, &ldquo;we should all be so happy.
      Only think how proud we should be of your success, for you know there is
      nothing you can&rsquo;t do in the way of music if you really want to.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you really think so?&rdquo; exclaimed he, while his eyes suddenly grew large
      and luminous.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed I do,&rdquo; said Edith, emphatically.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And if&mdash;if I played well,&rdquo; faltered he, &ldquo;would it really please
      you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course it would,&rdquo; cried Edith, laughing; &ldquo;how can you ask such a
      foolish question?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because I hardly dared to believe it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now listen to me,&rdquo; continued the girl, leaning forward in her chair, and
      beaming all over with kindly officiousness; &ldquo;now for once you must be
      rational and do just what I tell you. I shall never like you again if you
      oppose me in this, for I have set my heart upon it; you must promise
      beforehand that you will be good and not make any objection. Do you hear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Edith assumed this tone toward him, she might well have made him
      promise to perform miracles. She was too intent upon her benevolent scheme
      to heed the possible inferences which he might draw from her sudden
      display of interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you promise?&rdquo; repeated she, eagerly, as he hesitated to answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I promise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, you must not be surprised; but mamma and I have made arrangements
      with Mr. S&mdash;&mdash; that you are to appear under his auspices at a
      concert which is to be given a week from to-night. All our friends are
      going, and we shall take up all the front seats, and I have already told
      my gentlemen friends to scatter through the audience, and if they care
      anything for my favor, they will have to applaud vigorously.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Halfdan reddened up to his temples, and began to twist his watch-chain
      nervously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must have small confidence in my ability,&rdquo; he murmured, &ldquo;since you
      resort to precautions like these.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But my dear Mr. Birch,&rdquo; cried Edith, who was quick to discover that she
      had made a mistake, &ldquo;it is not kind in you to mistrust me in that way. If
      a New York audience were as highly cultivated in music as you are, I admit
      that my precautions would be superfluous. But the papers, you know, will
      take their tone from the audience, and therefore we must make use of a
      little innocent artifice to make sure of it. Everything depends upon the
      success of your first public appearance, and if your friends can in this
      way help you to establish the reputation which is nothing but your right,
      I am sure you ought not to bind their hands by your foolish sensitiveness.
      You don&rsquo;t know the American way of doing things as well as I do, therefore
      you must stand by your promise, and leave everything to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was impossible not to believe that anything Edith chose to do was above
      reproach. She looked so bewitching in her excited eagerness for his
      welfare that it would have been inhuman to oppose her. So he meekly
      succumbed, and began to discuss with her the programme for the concert.
    </p>
    <p>
      During the next week there was hardly a day that he did not read some
      startling paragraph in the newspapers about &ldquo;the celebrated Scandinavian
      pianist,&rdquo; whose appearance at S&mdash;&mdash; Hall was looked forward to
      as the principal event of the coming season. He inwardly rebelled against
      the well-meant exaggerations; but as he suspected that it was Edith&rsquo;s
      influence which was in this way asserting itself in his behalf, he set his
      conscience at rest and remained silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      The evening of the concert came at last, and, as the papers stated the
      next morning, &ldquo;the large hall was crowded to its utmost capacity with a
      select and highly appreciative audience.&rdquo; Edith must have played her part
      of the performance skillfully, for as he walked out upon the stage, he was
      welcomed with an enthusiastic burst of applause, as if he had been a
      world-renowned artist. At Edith&rsquo;s suggestion, her two favorite nocturnes
      had been placed first upon the programme; then followed one of those
      ballads of Chopin, whose rhythmic din and rush sweep onward, beleaguering
      the ear like eager, melodious hosts, charging in thickening ranks and
      columns, beating impetuous retreats, and again uniting with one grand
      emotion the wide-spreading army of sound for the final victory. Besides
      these, there was one of Liszt&rsquo;s &ldquo;Rhapsodies Hongroises,&rdquo; an impromptu by
      Schubert, and several orchestral pieces; but the greater part of the
      programme was devoted to Chopin, because Halfdan, with his great, hopeless
      passion laboring in his breast, felt that he could interpret Chopin better
      than he could any other composer. He carried his audience by storm. As he
      retired to the dressing-room, after having finished the last piece, his
      friends, among whom Edith and Mrs. Van Kirk were the most conspicuous,
      thronged about him, showering their praises and congratulations upon him.
      They insisted with much friendly urging upon taking him home in their
      carriage; Clara kissed him, Mrs. Van Kirk introduced him to her lady
      acquaintances as &ldquo;our friend, Mr. Birch,&rdquo; and Edith held his hand so long
      in hers that he came near losing his presence of mind and telling her then
      and there that he loved her. As his eyes rested on her, they became
      suddenly suffused with tears, and a vast bewildering happiness vibrated
      through his frame. At last he tore himself away and wandered aimlessly
      through the long, lonely streets. Why could he not tell Edith that he
      loved her? Was there any disgrace in loving? This heavenly passion which
      so suddenly had transfused his being, and year by year deadened the
      substance of his old self, creating in its stead something new and wild
      and strange which he never could know, but still held infinitely dear&mdash;had
      it been sent to him merely as a scourge to test his capacity for
      suffering?
    </p>
    <p>
      Once, while he was a child, his mother had told him that somewhere in this
      wide world there lived a maiden whom God had created for him, and for him
      alone, and when he should see her, he should love her, and his life should
      thenceforth be all for her. It had hardly occurred to him, then, to
      question whether she would love him in return, it had appeared so very
      natural that she should. Now he had found this maiden, and she had been
      very kind to him; but her kindness had been little better than cruelty,
      because he had demanded something more than kindness. And still he had
      never told her of his love. He must tell her even this very night while
      the moon rode high in the heavens and all the small differences between
      human beings seemed lost in the vast starlit stillness. He knew well that
      by the relentless glare of the daylight his own insignificance would be
      cruelly conspicuous in the presence of her splendor; his scruples would
      revive, and his courage fade.
    </p>
    <p>
      The night was clear and still. A clock struck eleven in some church tower
      near by. The Van Kirk mansion rose tall and stately in the moonlight,
      flinging a dense mass of shadow across the street. Up in the third story
      he saw two windows lighted; the curtains were drawn, but the blinds were
      not closed. All the rest of the house was dark. He raised his voice and
      sang a Swedish serenade which seemed in perfect concord with his own mood.
      His clear tenor rose through the silence of the night, and a feeble echo
      flung it back from the mansion opposite:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     <a href="#linknote-3" name="linknoteref-3" id="linknoteref-3">3</a> &ldquo;Star, sweet star, that brightly beamest,
          Glittering on the skies nocturnal,
          Hide thine eye no more from me,
          Hide thine eye no more from me!&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      The curtain was drawn aside, the window cautiously raised, and the outline
      of Edith&rsquo;s beautiful head appeared dark and distinct against the light
      within. She instantly recognized him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must go away, Mr. Birch,&rdquo; came her voice in an anxious whisper out of
      the shadow. &ldquo;Pray go away. You will wake up the people.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her words were audible enough, but they failed to convey any meaning to
      his excited mind. Once more his voice floated upward to her opened window:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;And I yearn to reach thy dwelling,
       Yearn to rise from earth&rsquo;s fierce turmoil;
       Sweetest star upward to thee,
       Yearn to rise, bright star to thee.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear Mr. Birch,&rdquo; she whispered once more in tones of distress. &ldquo;Pray DO
      go away. Or perhaps,&rdquo; she interrupted herself &ldquo;&mdash;wait one moment and
      I will come down.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Presently the front door was noiselessly opened, and Edith&rsquo;s tall, lithe
      form, dressed in a white flowing dress, and with her blonde hair rolling
      loosely over her shoulders, appeared for an instant, and then again
      vanished. With one leap Halfdan sprang up the stairs and pushed through
      the half-opened door. Edith closed the door behind him, then with rapid
      steps led the way to the back parlor where the moon broke feebly through
      the bars of the closed shutters.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now Mr. Birch,&rdquo; she said, seating herself upon a lounge, &ldquo;you may explain
      to me what this unaccountable behavior of yours means. I should hardly
      think I had deserved to be treated in this way by you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Halfdan was utterly bewildered; a nervous fit of trembling ran through
      him, and he endeavored in vain to speak. He had been prepared for
      passionate reproaches, but this calm severity chilled him through, and he
      could only gasp and tremble, but could utter no word in his defense.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose you are aware,&rdquo; continued Edith, in the same imperturbable
      manner, &ldquo;that if I had not interrupted you, the policeman would have heard
      you, and you would have been arrested for street disturbance. Then
      to-morrow we should have seen it in all the newspapers, and I should have
      been the laughing-stock of the whole town.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      No, surely he had never thought of it in that light; the idea struck him
      as entirely new. There was a long pause. A cock crowed with a drowsy
      remoteness in some neighboring yard, and the little clock on the
      mantel-piece ticked on patiently in the moonlit dusk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you have nothing to say,&rdquo; resumed Edith, while the stern indifference
      in her voice perceptibly relaxed, &ldquo;then I will bid you good-night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She arose, and with a grand sweep of her drapery, moved toward the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Edith,&rdquo; cried he, stretching his hands despairingly after her, &ldquo;you
      must not leave me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She paused, tossed her hair back with her hands, and gazed at him over her
      shoulder. He threw himself on his knees, seized the hem of her dress, and
      pressed it to his lips. It was a gesture of such inexpressible humility
      that even a stone would have relented.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not be foolish, Mr. Birch,&rdquo; she said, trying to pull her dress away
      from him. &ldquo;Get up, and if you have anything rational to say to me, I will
      stay and listen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; he whispered, hoarsely, &ldquo;I shall be rational. Only do not
      leave me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She again sank down wearily upon the lounge, and looked at him in
      expectant silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Edith,&rdquo; pleaded he in the same hoarse, passionate undertone, &ldquo;have
      pity on me, and do not despise me. I love you&mdash;oh&mdash;if you would
      but allow me to die for you, I should be the happiest of men.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Again he shuddered, and stood long gazing at her with a mute, pitiful
      appeal. A tear stole into Edith&rsquo;s eye and trickled down over her cheek.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Mr. Birch,&rdquo; she murmured, while a sigh shook her bosom, &ldquo;I am sorry&mdash;very
      sorry that this misfortune has happened to you. You have deserved a better
      fate than to love me&mdash;to love a woman who can never give you anything
      in return for what you give her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never?&rdquo; he repeated mournfully, &ldquo;never?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, never! You have been a good friend to me, and as such I value you
      highly, and I had hoped that you would always remain so. But I see that it
      cannot be. It will perhaps be best for you henceforth not to see me, at
      least not until&mdash;pardon the expression&mdash;you have outlived this
      generous folly. And now, you know, you will need me no more. You have made
      a splendid reputation, and if you choose to avail yourself of it, your
      fortune is already made. I shall always rejoice to hear of your success,
      and&mdash;and if you should ever need a FRIEND, you must come to no one
      but me. I know that these are feeble words, Mr. Birch, and if they seem
      cold to you, you must pardon me. I can say nothing more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They were indeed feeble words, although most cordially spoken. He tried to
      weigh them, to measure their meaning, but his mind was as if benumbed, and
      utterly incapable of thought. He walked across the floor, perhaps only to
      do something, not feeling where he trod, but still with an absurd
      sensation that he was taking immoderately long steps. Then he stopped
      abruptly, wrung his hands, and gazed at Edith. And suddenly, like a flash
      in a vacuum, the thought shot through his brain that he had seen this very
      scene somewhere&mdash;in a dream, in a remote childhood, in a previous
      existence, he did not know when or where. It seemed strangely familiar,
      and in the next instant strangely meaningless and unreal. The walls, the
      floor&mdash;everything began to move, to whirl about him; he struck his
      hands against his forehead, and sank down into a damask-covered
      easy-chair. With a faint cry of alarm, Edith sprang up, seized a bottle of
      cologne which happened to be within reach, and knelt down at his side. She
      put her arm around his neck, and raised his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Birch, dear Mr. Birch,&rdquo; she cried, in a frightened whisper, &ldquo;for
      God&rsquo;s sake come to yourself! O God, what have I done?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She blew the eau-de-cologne into his face, and, as he languidly opened his
      eyes, he felt the touch of her warm hand upon his cheeks and his forehead.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank heaven! he is better,&rdquo; she murmured, still continuing to bathe his
      temples. &ldquo;How do you feel now, Mr. Birch?&rdquo; she added, in a tone of anxious
      inquiry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, it was an unpardonable weakness,&rdquo; he muttered, without
      changing his attitude. &ldquo;Do not trouble yourself about me. I shall soon be
      well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was so sweet to be conscious of her gentle ministry, that it required a
      great effort, an effort of conscience, to rouse him once more, as his
      strength returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Had you not better stay?&rdquo; she asked, as he rose to put on his overcoat.
      &ldquo;I will call one of the servants and have him show you a room. We will say
      to-morrow morning that you were taken ill, and nobody will wonder.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no,&rdquo; he responded, energetically. &ldquo;I am perfectly strong now.&rdquo; But he
      still had to lean on a chair, and his face was deathly pale.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Farewell, Miss Edith,&rdquo; he said; and a tender sadness trembled in his
      voice. &ldquo;Farewell. We shall&mdash;probably&mdash;never meet again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not speak so,&rdquo; she answered, seizing his hand. &ldquo;You will try to forget
      this, and you will still be great and happy. And when fortune shall again
      smile upon you, and&mdash;and&mdash;you will be content to be my friend,
      then we shall see each other as before.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no,&rdquo; he broke forth, with a sudden hoarseness. &ldquo;It will never be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He walked toward the door with the motions of one who feels death in his
      limbs; then stopped once more and his eyes lingered with inexpressible
      sadness on the wonderful, beloved form which stood dimly outlined before
      him in the twilight. Then Edith&rsquo;s measure of misery, too, seemed full.
      With the divine heedlessness which belongs to her sex, she rushed up
      toward him, and remembering only that he was weak and unhappy, and that he
      suffered for her sake, she took his face between her hands and kissed him.
      He was too generous a man to misinterpret the act; so he whispered but
      once more: &ldquo;Farewell,&rdquo; and hastened away.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      VII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      After that eventful December night, America was no more what it had been
      to Halfdan Bjerk. A strange torpidity had come over him; every rising day
      gazed into his eyes with a fierce unmeaning glare. The noise of the street
      annoyed him and made him childishly fretful, and the solitude of his own
      room seemed still more dreary and depressing. He went mechanically through
      the daily routine of his duties as if the soul had been taken out of his
      work, and left his life all barrenness and desolation. He moved restlessly
      from place to place, roamed at all times of the day and night through the
      city and its suburbs, trying vainly to exhaust his physical strength;
      gradually, as his lethargy deepened into a numb, helpless despair, it
      seemed somehow to impart a certain toughness to his otherwise delicate
      frame. Olson, who was now a junior partner in the firm of Remsen, Van Kirk
      and Co., stood by him faithfully in these days of sorrow. He was never
      effusive in his sympathy, but was patiently forbearing with his friend&rsquo;s
      whims and moods, and humored him as if he had been a sick child intrusted
      to his custody. That Edith might be the moving cause of Olson&rsquo;s kindness
      was a thought which, strangely enough, had never occurred to Halfdan.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last, when spring came, the vacancy of his mind was suddenly invaded
      with a strong desire to revisit his native land. He disclosed his plan to
      Olson, who, after due deliberation and several visits to the Van Kirk
      mansion, decided that the pleasure of seeing his old friends and the
      scenes of his childhood might push the painful memories out of sight, and
      renew his interest in life. So, one morning, while the May sun shone with
      a soft radiance upon the beautiful harbor, our Norseman found himself
      standing on the deck of a huge black-hulled Cunarder, shivering in spite
      of the warmth, and feeling a chill loneliness creeping over him at the
      sight of the kissing and affectionate leave-takings which were going on
      all around him. Olson was running back and forth, attending to his
      baggage; but he himself took no thought, and felt no more responsibility
      than if he had been a helpless child. He half regretted that his own wish
      had prevailed, and was inclined to hold his friend responsible for it; and
      still he had not energy enough to protest now when the journey seemed
      inevitable. His heart still clung to the place which held the corpse of
      his ruined life, as a man may cling to the spot which hides his beloved
      dead.
    </p>
    <p>
      About two weeks later Halfdan landed in Norway. He was half reluctant to
      leave the steamer, and the land of his birth excited no emotion in his
      breast. He was but conscious of a dim regret that he was so far away from
      Edith. At last, however, he betook himself to a hotel, where he spent the
      afternoon sitting with half-closed eyes at a window, watching listlessly
      the drowsy slow-pulsed life which dribbled languidly through the narrow
      thoroughfare. The noisy uproar of Broadway chimed remotely in his ears,
      like the distant roar of a tempest-tossed sea, and what had once been a
      perpetual annoyance was now a sweet memory. How often with Edith at his
      side had he threaded his way through the surging crowds that pour, on a
      fine afternoon, in an unceasing current up and down the street between
      Union and Madison Squares. How friendly, and sweet, and gracious, Edith
      had been at such times; how fresh her voice, how witty and animated her
      chance remarks when they stopped to greet a passing acquaintance; and,
      above all, how inspiring the sight of her heavenly beauty. Now that was
      all past. Perhaps he should never see Edith again.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day he sauntered through the city, meeting some old friends, who
      all seemed changed and singularly uninteresting. They were all engaged or
      married, and could talk of nothing but matrimony, and their prospects of
      advancement in the Government service. One had an influential uncle who
      had been a chum of the present minister of finance; another based his
      hopes of future prosperity upon the family connections of his betrothed,
      and a third was waiting with a patient perseverance, worthy of a better
      cause, for the death or resignation of an antiquated chef-de-bureau,
      which, according to the promise of some mighty man, would open a position
      for him in the Department of Justice. All had the most absurd theories
      about American democracy, and indulged freely in prophecies of coming
      disasters; but about their own government they had no opinion whatever. If
      Halfdan attempted to set them right, they at once grew excited and
      declamatory; their opinions were based upon conviction and a charming
      ignorance of facts, and they were not to be moved. They knew all about
      Tweed and the Tammany Ring, and believed them to be representative
      citizens of New York, if not of the United States; but of Charles Sumner
      and Carl Schurz they had never heard. Halfdan, who, in spite of his
      misfortunes in the land of his adoption, cherished a very tender feeling
      for it, was often so thoroughly aroused at the foolish prejudices which
      everywhere met him, that his torpidity gradually thawed away, and he began
      to look more like his former self.
    </p>
    <p>
      Toward autumn he received an invitation to visit a country clergyman in
      the North, a distant relative of his father&rsquo;s, and there whiled away his
      time, fishing and shooting, until winter came. But as Christmas drew near,
      and the day wrestled feebly with the all-conquering night, the old sorrow
      revived. In the darkness which now brooded over land and sea, the thoughts
      needed no longer be on guard against themselves; they could roam far and
      wide as they listed. Where was Edith now, the sweet, the wonderful Edith?
      Was there yet the same dancing light in her beautiful eyes, the same
      golden sheen in her hair, the same merry ring in her voice? And had she
      not said that when he was content to be only her friend, he might return
      to her, and she would receive him in the old joyous and confiding way?
      Surely there was no life to him apart from her: why should he not be her
      friend? Only a glimpse of her lovely face&mdash;ah, it was worth a
      lifetime; it would consecrate an age of misery, a glimpse of Edith&rsquo;s face.
      Thus ran his fancies day by day, and the night only lent a deeper
      intensity to the yearnings of the day. He walked about as in a dream,
      seeing nothing, heeding nothing, while this one strong desire&mdash;to see
      Edith once more&mdash;throbbed and throbbed with a slow, feverish
      perseverance within him. Edith&mdash;Edith, the very name had a strange,
      potent fascination. Every thought whispered &ldquo;Edith,&rdquo;&mdash;his pulse beat
      &ldquo;Edith,&rdquo;&mdash;and his heart repeated the beloved name. It was his
      pulse-beat,&mdash;his heartbeat,&mdash;his life-beat.
    </p>
    <p>
      And one morning as he stood absently looking at his fingers against the
      light&mdash;and they seemed strangely wan and transparent&mdash;the
      thought at last took shape. It rushed upon him with such vehemence, that
      he could no more resist it. So he bade the clergyman good-bye, gathered
      his few worldly goods together and set out for Bergen. There he found an
      English steamer which carried him to Hull, and a few weeks later, he was
      once more in New York.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was late one evening in January that a tug-boat arrived and took the
      cabin passengers ashore. The moon sailed tranquilly over the deep blue
      dome of the sky, the stars traced their glittering paths of light from the
      zenith downward, and it was sharp, bitter cold. Northward over the river
      lay a great bank of cloud, dense, gray and massive, the spectre of the
      coming snow-storm. There it lay so huge and fantastically human, ruffling
      itself up, as fowls do, in defense against the cold. Halfdan walked on at
      a brisk rate&mdash;strange to say, all the street-cars he met went the
      wrong way&mdash;startling every now and then some precious memory, some
      word or look or gesture of Edith&rsquo;s which had hovered long over those
      scenes, waiting for his recognition. There was the great jewel-store where
      Edith had taken him so often to consult his taste whenever a friend of
      hers was to be married. It was there that they had had an amicable quarrel
      over that bronze statue of Faust which she had found beautiful, while he,
      with a rudeness which seemed now quite incomprehensible, had insisted that
      it was not. And when he had failed to convince her, she had given him her
      hand in token of reconciliation&mdash;and Edith had a wonderful way of
      giving her hand, which made any one feel that it was a peculiar privilege
      to press it&mdash;and they had walked out arm in arm into the animated,
      gas-lighted streets, with a delicious sense of snugness and security,
      being all the more closely united for their quarrel. Here, farther up the
      avenue, they had once been to a party, and he had danced for the first
      time in his life with Edith. Here was Delmonico&rsquo;s, where they had had such
      fascinating luncheons together; where she had got a stain on her dress,
      and he had been forced to observe that her dress was then not really a
      part of herself, since it was a thing that could not be stained. Her dress
      had always seemed to him as something absolute and final, exalted above
      criticism, incapable of improvement.
    </p>
    <p>
      As I have said, Halfdan walked briskly up the avenue, and it was something
      after eleven when he reached the house which he sought. The great
      cloud-bank in the north had then begun to expand and stretched its long
      misty arms eastward and westward over the heavens. The windows on the
      ground-floor were dark, but the sleeping apartments in the upper stories
      were lighted. In Edith&rsquo;s room the inside shutters were closed, but one of
      the windows was a little down at the top. And as he stood gazing with
      tremulous happiness up to that window, a stanza from Heine which he and
      Edith had often read together, came into his head. It was the story of the
      youth who goes to the Madonna at Kevlar and brings her as a votive
      offering a heart of wax, that she may heal him of his love and his sorrow.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;I bring this waxen image,
       The image of my heart,
       Heal thou my bitter sorrow,
       And cure my deadly smart!&rdquo; <a href="#linknote-4" name="linknoteref-4"
       id="linknoteref-4">4</a>
</pre>
    <p>
      Then came the thought that for him, too, as for the poor youth of Cologne,
      there was healing only in death. And still in this moment he was so near
      Edith, should see her perhaps, and the joy at this was stronger than all
      else, stronger even than death. So he sat down beside the steps of the
      mansion opposite, where there was some shelter from the wind, and waited
      patiently till Edith should close her window. He was cold, perhaps, but,
      if so, he hardly knew it, for the near joy of seeing her throbbed warmly
      in his veins. Ah, there&mdash;the blinds were thrown open; Edith, in all
      the lithe magnificence of her wonderful form, stood out clear and
      beautiful against the light within; she pushed up the lower window in
      order to reach the upper one, and for a moment leaned out over the sill.
      Once more her wondrous profile traced itself in strong relief against the
      outer gloom. There came a cry from the street below, a feeble involuntary
      one, but still distinctly audible. Edith peered anxiously out into the
      darkness, but the darkness had grown denser and she could see nothing. The
      window was fastened, the shutters closed, and the broad pathway of light
      which she had flung out upon the night had vanished.
    </p>
    <p>
      Halfdan closed his eyes trying to retain the happy vision. Yes, there she
      stood still, and there was a heavenly smile upon her lips&mdash;ugh, he
      shivered&mdash;the snow swept in a wild whirl up the street. He wrapped
      his plaid more closely about him, and strained his eyes to catch one more
      glimpse of the beloved Edith. Ah, yes; there she was again; she came
      nearer and nearer, and she touched his cheek, gently, warily smiling all
      the while with a strange wistful smile which was surely not Edith&rsquo;s.
      There, she bent over him,&mdash;touched him again,&mdash;how cold her
      hands were; the touch chilled him to the heart. The snow had now begun to
      fall in large scattered flakes, whirling fitfully through the air,
      following every chance gust of wind, but still falling, falling, and
      covering the earth with its white, death-like shroud.
    </p>
    <p>
      But surely&mdash;there was Edith again,&mdash;how wonderful!&mdash;in a
      long snow-white robe, grave and gracious, still with the wistful smile on
      her lips. See, she beckons to him with her hand, and he rises to follow,
      but something heavy clings to his feet and he cannot stir from the spot.
      He tries to cry for help, but he cannot,&mdash;can only stretch out his
      hands to her, and feel very unhappy that he cannot follow her. But now she
      pauses in her flight, turns about, and he sees that she wears a myrtle
      garland in her hair like a bride. She comes toward him, her countenance
      all radiant with love and happiness, and she stoops down over him and
      speaks:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come; they are waiting for us. I will follow thee in life and in death,
      wherever thou goest. Come,&rdquo; repeats Edith, &ldquo;they have long been waiting.
      They are all here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he imagines he knows who they all are, although he has never heard of
      them, nor can he recall their names.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But&mdash;but,&rdquo; he stammers, &ldquo;I&mdash;I&mdash;am a foreigner &rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It appeared then that for some reason this was an insurmountable
      objection. And Edith&rsquo;s happiness dies out of her beautiful face, and she
      turns away weeping.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Edith, beloved!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then she is once more at his side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou art no more a foreigner to me, beloved. Whatever thou art, I am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And she presses her lips to his&mdash;it was the sweetest kiss of his life&mdash;the
      kiss of death.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next morning, as Edith, after having put the last touch to her toilet,
      threw the shutters open, a great glare of sun-smitten snow burst upon her
      and for a moment blinded her eyes. On the sidewalk opposite, half a dozen
      men with snow-shovels in their hands and a couple of policeman had
      congregated, and, judging by their manner, were discussing some object of
      interest. Presently they were joined by her father, who had just finished
      his breakfast and was on his way to the office. Now he stooped down and
      gazed at something half concealed in the snow, then suddenly started back,
      and as she caught a glimpse of his face, she saw that it was ghastly
      white. A terrible foreboding seized her. She threw a shawl about her
      shoulders and rushed down-stairs. In the hall she was met by her father,
      who was just entering, followed by four men, carrying something between
      them. She well knew what it was. She would fain have turned away, but she
      could not: grasping her father&rsquo;s arm and pressing it hard, she gazed with
      blank, frightened eyes at the white face, the lines of which Death had so
      strangely emphasized. The snow-flakes which hung in his hair had touched
      him with their sudden age, as if to bridge the gulf between youth and
      death. And still he was beautiful&mdash;the clear brow, the peaceful,
      happy indolence, the frozen smile which death had perpetuated. Smiling, he
      had departed from the earth which had no place for him, and smiling
      entered the realm where, among the many mansions, there is, perhaps, also
      one for a gentle, simple-hearted enthusiast.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      THE STORY OF AN OUTCAST.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THERE was an ancient feud between the families; and Bjarne Blakstad was
      not the man to make it up, neither was Hedin Ullern. So they looked
      askance at each other whenever they met on the highway, and the one took
      care not to cross the other&rsquo;s path. But on Sundays, when the church-bells
      called the parishioners together, they could not very well avoid seeing
      each other on the church-yard; and then, one day, many years ago, when the
      sermon had happened to touch Bjarne&rsquo;s heart, he had nodded to Hedin and
      said: &ldquo;Fine weather to-day;&rdquo; and Hedin had returned the nod and answered:
      &ldquo;True is that.&rdquo; &ldquo;Now I have done my duty before God and men,&rdquo; thought
      Bjarne, &ldquo;and it is his turn to take the next step.&rdquo; &ldquo;The fellow is proud,&rdquo;
       said Hedin to himself, &ldquo;and he wants to show off his generosity. But I
      know the wolf by his skin, even if he has learned to bleat like a
      ewe-lamb.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      What the feud really was about, they had both nearly forgotten. All they
      knew was that some thirty years ago there had been a quarrel between the
      pastor and the parish about the right of carrying arms to the church. And
      then Bjarne&rsquo;s father had been the spokesman of the parish, while Hedin&rsquo;s
      grandsire had been a staunch defender of the pastor. There was a rumor,
      too, that they had had a fierce encounter somewhere in the woods, and that
      the one had stabbed the other with a knife; but whether that was really
      true, no one could tell.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bjarne was tall and grave, like the weather-beaten fir-trees in his
      mast-forest. He had a large clean-shaven face, narrow lips, and small
      fierce eyes. He seldom laughed, and when he did, his laugh seemed even
      fiercer than his frown. He wore his hair long, as his fathers had done,
      and dressed in the styles of two centuries ago; his breeches were clasped
      with large silver buckles at the knees, and his red jerkin was gathered
      about his waist with a leathern girdle. He loved everything that was old,
      in dress as well as in manners, took no newspapers, and regarded railroads
      and steamboats as inventions of the devil. Bjarne had married late in
      life, and his marriage had brought him two daughters, Brita and Grimhild.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hedin Ullern was looked upon as an upstart. He could only count three
      generations back, and he hardly knew himself how his grandfather had
      earned the money that had enabled him to buy a farm and settle down in the
      valley. He had read a great deal, and was well informed on the politics of
      the day; his name had even been mentioned for storthingsmand, or member of
      parliament from the district, and it was the common opinion, that if
      Bjarne Blakstad had not so vigorously opposed him, he would have been
      elected, being the only &ldquo;cultivated&rdquo; peasant in the valley. Hedin was no
      unwelcome guest in the houses of gentlefolks, and he was often seen at the
      judge&rsquo;s and the pastor&rsquo;s omber parties. And for all this Bjarne Blakstad
      only hated him the more. Hedin&rsquo;s wife, Thorgerda, was fair-haired, tall
      and stout, and it was she who managed the farm, while her husband read his
      books, and studied politics in the newspapers; but she had a sharp tongue
      and her neighbors were afraid of her. They had one son, whose name was
      Halvard.
    </p>
    <p>
      Brita Blakstad, Bjarne&rsquo;s eldest daughter, was a maid whom it was a joy to
      look upon. They called her &ldquo;Glitter-Brita,&rdquo; because she was fond of rings
      and brooches, and everything that was bright; while she was still a child,
      she once took the old family bridal-crown out from the storehouse and
      carried it about on her head. &ldquo;Beware of that crown, child,&rdquo; her father
      had said to her, &ldquo;and wear it not before the time. There is not always
      blessing in the bridal silver.&rdquo; And she looked wonderingly up into his
      eyes and answered: &ldquo;But it glitters, father;&rdquo; and from that time forth
      they had named her Glitter-Brita.
    </p>
    <p>
      And Glitter-Brita grew up to be a fair and winsome maiden, and wherever
      she went the wooers flocked on her path. Bjarne shook his head at her, and
      often had harsh words upon his lips, when he saw her braiding
      field-flowers into her yellow tresses or clasping the shining brooches to
      her bodice; but a look of hers or a smile would completely disarm him. She
      had a merry way of doing things which made it all seem like play; but work
      went rapidly from her hands, while her ringing laughter echoed through the
      house, and her sunny presence made it bright in the dusky ancestral halls.
      In her kitchen the long rows of copper pots and polished kettles shone
      upon the walls, and the neatly scoured milk-pails stood like soldiers on
      parade about the shelves under the ceiling. Bjarne would often sit for
      hours watching her, and a strange spring-feeling would steal into his
      heart. He felt a father&rsquo;s pride in her stately growth and her rich womanly
      beauty. &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; he would say to himself, &ldquo;she has the pure blood in her
      veins and, as true as I live, the farm shall be hers.&rdquo; And then, quite
      contrary to his habits, he would indulge in a little reverie, imagining
      the time when he, as an aged man, should have given the estate over into
      her hands, and seeing her as a worthy matron preside at the table, and
      himself rocking his grandchildren on his knee. No wonder, then, that he
      eyed closely the young lads who were beginning to hover about the house,
      and that he looked with suspicion upon those who selected Saturday nights
      for their visits. <a href="#linknote-5" name="linknoteref-5"
       id="linknoteref-5"><small>5</small></a> When Brita was twenty years old,
      however, her father thought that it was time for her to make her choice.
      There were many fine, brave lads in the valley, and, as Bjarne thought,
      Brita would have the good sense to choose the finest and the bravest. So,
      when the winter came, he suddenly flung his doors open to the youth of the
      parish, and began to give parties with ale and mead in the grand old
      style. He even talked with the young men, at times, encouraged them to
      manly sports, and urged them to taste of his home-brewed drinks and to
      tread the spring-dance briskly. And Brita danced and laughed so that her
      hair flew around her and the silver brooches tinkled and rang on her
      bosom. But when the merriment was at an end, and any one of the lads
      remained behind to offer her his hand, she suddenly grew grave, told him
      she was too young, that she did not know herself, and that she had had no
      time as yet to decide so serious a question. Thus the winter passed and
      the summer drew near.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the middle of June, Brita went to the saeter <a href="#linknote-6"
       name="linknoteref-6" id="linknoteref-6"><small>6</small></a> with the
      cattle; and her sister, Grimhild, remained at home to keep house on the
      farm. She loved the life in the mountains; the great solitude sometimes
      made her feel sad, but it was not an unpleasant sadness, it was rather a
      gentle toning down of all the shrill and noisy feelings of the soul. Up
      there, in the heart of the primeval forest, her whole being seemed to
      herself a symphony of melodious whispers with a vague delicious sense of
      remoteness and mystery in them, which she only felt and did not attempt to
      explain. There, those weird legends which, in former days, still held
      their sway in the fancy of every Norsewoman, breathed their secrets into
      her ear, and she felt her nearness and kinship to nature, as at no other
      time.
    </p>
    <p>
      One night, as the sun was low, and a purple bluish smoke hung like a thin
      veil over the tops of the forest, Brita had taken out her knitting and
      seated herself on a large moss-grown stone, on the croft. Her eyes
      wandered over the broad valley which was stretched out below, and she
      could see the red roofs of the Blakstad mansion peeping forth between the
      fir-trees. And she wondered what they were doing down there, whether
      Grimhild had done milking, and whether her father had returned from the
      ford, where it was his habit at this hour to ride with the footmen to
      water the horses. As she sat thus wondering, she was startled by a
      creaking in the dry branches hard by, and lifting her eye, she saw a tall,
      rather clumsily built, young man emerging from the thicket. He had a broad
      but low forehead, flaxen hair which hung down over a pair of dull ox-like
      eyes; his mouth was rather large and, as it was half open, displayed two
      massive rows of shining white teeth. His red peaked cap hung on the back
      of his head and, although it was summer, his thick wadmal vest was
      buttoned close up to his throat; over his right arm he had flung his
      jacket, and in his hand he held a bridle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good evening,&rdquo; said Brita, &ldquo;and thanks for last meeting;&rdquo; although she
      was not sure that she had ever seen him before.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was that bay mare, you know,&rdquo; stammered the man in a half apologetic
      tone, and shook the bridle, as if in further explanation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, you have lost your mare,&rdquo; said the girl, and she could not help
      smiling at his helplessness and his awkward manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, it was the bay mare,&rdquo; answered he, in the same diffident tone; then,
      encouraged by her smile, he straightened himself a little and continued
      rather more fluently: &ldquo;She never was quite right since the time the wolves
      were after her. And then since they took the colt away from her the milk
      has been troubling her, and she hasn&rsquo;t been quite like herself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t seen her anywhere hereabouts,&rdquo; said Brita; &ldquo;you may have to
      wander far, before you get on the track of her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, that is very likely. And I am tired already.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Won&rsquo;t you sit down and rest yourself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He deliberately seated himself in the grass, and gradually gained courage
      to look her straight in the face; and his dull eye remained steadfastly
      fixed on her in a way which bespoke unfeigned surprise and admiration.
      Slowly his mouth broadened into a smile; but his smile had more of sadness
      than of joy in it. She had, from the moment she saw him, been possessed of
      a strangely patronizing feeling toward him. She could not but treat him as
      if he had been a girl or some person inferior to her in station. In spite
      of his large body, the impression he made upon her was that of weakness;
      but she liked the sincerity and kindness which expressed themselves in his
      sad smile and large, honest blue eyes. His gaze reminded her of that of an
      ox, but it had not only the ox&rsquo;s dullness, but also its simplicity and
      good-nature.
    </p>
    <p>
      They sat talking on for a while about the weather, the cattle, and the
      prospects of the crops.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is your name?&rdquo; she asked, at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Halvard Hedinson Ullern.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A sudden shock ran through her at the sound of that name; in the next
      moment a deep blush stole over her countenance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And my name,&rdquo; she said, slowly, &ldquo;is Brita Bjarne&rsquo;s daughter Blakstad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She fixed her eyes upon him, as if to see what effect her words produced.
      But his features wore the same sad and placid expression; and no line in
      his face seemed to betray either surprise or ill-will. Then her sense of
      patronage grew into one of sympathy and pity. &ldquo;He must either be
      weak-minded or very unhappy,&rdquo; thought she, &ldquo;and what right have I then to
      treat him harshly.&rdquo; And she continued her simple, straightforward talk
      with the young man, until he, too, grew almost talkative, and the sadness
      of his smile began to give way to something which almost resembled
      happiness. She noticed the change and rejoiced. At last, when the sun had
      sunk behind the western mountain tops, she rose and bade him good-night;
      in another moment the door of the saeter-cottage closed behind her, and he
      heard her bolting it on the inside. But for a long time he remained
      sitting on the grass, and strange thoughts passed through his head. He had
      quite forgotten his bay mare.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next evening when the milking was done, and the cattle were gathered
      within the saeter enclosure, Brita was again sitting on the large stone,
      looking out over the valley. She felt a kind of companionship with the
      people when she saw the smoke whirling up from their chimneys, and she
      could guess what they were going to have for supper. As she sat there, she
      again heard a creaking in the branches, and Halvard Ullern stood again
      before her, with his jacket on his arm, and the same bridle in his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have not found your bay mare yet?&rdquo; she exclaimed, laughingly. &ldquo;And
      you think she is likely to be in this neighborhood?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; he answered; &ldquo;and I don&rsquo;t care if she isn&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He spread his jacket on the grass, and sat down on the spot where he had
      sat the night before. Brita looked at him in surprise and remained silent;
      she didn&rsquo;t know how to interpret this second visit.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are very handsome,&rdquo; he said, suddenly, with a gravity which left no
      doubt as to his sincerity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you think so?&rdquo; she answered, with a merry laugh. He appeared to her
      almost a child, and it never entered her mind to feel offended. On the
      contrary, she was not sure but that she felt pleased.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have thought of you ever since yesterday,&rdquo; he continued, with the same
      imperturbable manner. &ldquo;And if you were not angry with me, I thought I
      would like to look at you once more. You are so different from other
      folks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God bless your foolish talk,&rdquo; cried Brita, with a fresh burst of
      merriment. &ldquo;No, indeed I am not angry with you; I should just as soon
      think of being angry with&mdash;with that calf,&rdquo; she added for want of
      another comparison.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You think I don&rsquo;t know much,&rdquo; he stammered. &ldquo;And I don&rsquo;t.&rdquo; The sad smile
      again settled on his countenance.
    </p>
    <p>
      A feeling of guilt sent the blood throbbing through her veins. She saw
      that she had done him injustice. He evidently possessed more sense, or at
      least a finer instinct, than she had given him credit for.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Halvard,&rdquo; she faltered, &ldquo;if I have offended you, I assure you I didn&rsquo;t
      mean to do it; and a thousand times I beg your pardon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You haven&rsquo;t offended me, Brita,&rdquo; answered he, blushing like a girl. &ldquo;You
      are the first one who doesn&rsquo;t make me feel that I am not so wise as other
      folks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She felt it her duty to be open and confiding with him in return; and in
      order not to seem ungenerous, or rather to put them on an equal footing by
      giving him also a peep into her heart, she told him about her daily work,
      about the merry parties at her father&rsquo;s house, and about the lusty lads
      who gathered in their halls to dance the Halling and the spring-dance. He
      listened attentively while she spoke, gazing earnestly into her face, but
      never interrupting her. In his turn he described to her in his slow
      deliberate way, how his father constantly scolded him because he was not
      bright, and did not care for politics and newspapers, and how his mother
      wounded him with her sharp tongue by making merry with him, even in the
      presence of the servants and strangers. He did not seem to imagine that
      there was anything wrong in what he said, or that he placed himself in a
      ludicrous light; nor did he seem to speak from any unmanly craving for
      sympathy. His manner was so simple and straightforward that what Brita
      probably would have found strange in another, she found perfectly natural
      in him.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was nearly midnight when they parted{.} She hardly slept at all that
      night, and she was half vexed with herself for the interest she took in
      this simple youth. The next morning her father came up to pay her a visit
      and to see how the flocks were thriving. She understood that it would be
      dangerous to say anything to him about Halvard, for she knew his temper
      and feared the result, if he should ever discover her secret. Therefore,
      she shunned an opportunity to talk with him, and only busied herself the
      more with the cattle and the cooking. Bjarne soon noticed her distraction,
      but, of course, never suspected the cause. Before he left her, he asked
      her if she did not find it too lonely on the saeter, and if it would not
      be well if he sent her one of the maids for a companion. She hastened to
      assure him that that was quite unnecessary; the cattle-boy who was there
      to help her was all the company she wanted. Toward evening, Bjarne
      Blakstad loaded his horses with buckets, filled with cheese and butter,
      and started for the valley. Brita stood long looking after him as he
      descended the rocky slope, and she could hardly conceal from herself that
      she felt relieved, when, at last, the forest hid him from her sight. All
      day she had been walking about with a heavy heart; there seemed to be
      something weighing on her breast, and she could not throw it off. Who was
      this who had come between her and her father? Had she ever been afraid of
      him before, had she been glad to have him leave her? A sudden bitterness
      took possession of her, for in her distress, she gave Halvard the blame
      for all that had happened. She threw herself down on the grass and burst
      into a passionate fit of weeping; she was guilty, wretchedly miserable,
      and all for the sake of one whom she had hardly known for two days. If he
      should come in this moment, she would tell him what he had done toward
      her; and her wish must have been heard, for as she raised her eyes, he
      stood there at her side, the sad feature about his mouth and his great
      honest eyes gazing wonderingly at her. She felt her purpose melt within
      her; he looked so good and so unhappy. Then again came the thought of her
      father and of her own wrong, and the bitterness again revived.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go away,&rdquo; cried she, in a voice half reluctantly tender and half defiant.
      &ldquo;Go away, I say; I don&rsquo;t want to see you any more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will go to the end of the world if you wish it,&rdquo; he answered, with a
      strange firmness.
    </p>
    <p>
      He picked up his jacket which he had dropped on the ground, then turned
      slowly, gave her mother long look, an infinitely sad and hopeless one, and
      went. Her bosom heaved violently&mdash;remorse, affection and filial duty
      wrestled desperately in her heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;why do you go? I did not mean it so. I only wanted&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He paused and returned as deliberately as he had gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      Why should I dwell upon the days that followed&mdash;how her heart grew
      ever more restless, how she would suddenly wake up at nights and see those
      large blue eyes sadly gazing at her, how by turns she would condemn
      herself and him, and how she felt with bitter pain that she was growing
      away from those who had hitherto been nearest and dearest to her. And
      strange to say, this very isolation from her father made her cling only
      the more desperately to him. It seemed to her as if Bjarne had
      deliberately thrown her off; that she herself had been the one who took
      the first step had hardly occurred to her. Alas, her grief was as
      irrational as her love. By what strange devious process of reasoning these
      convictions became settled in her mind, it is difficult to tell. It is
      sufficient to know that she was a woman and that she loved. She even knew
      herself that she was irrational, and this very sense drew her more
      hopelessly into the maze of the labyrinth from which she saw no escape.
    </p>
    <p>
      His visits were as regular as those of the sun. She knew that there was
      only a word of hers needed to banish him from her presence forever. And
      how many times did she not resolve to speak that word? But the word was
      never spoken. At times a company of the lads from the valley would come to
      spend a merry evening at the saeter; but she heeded them not, and they
      soon disappeared. Thus the summer went amid passing moods of joy and
      sorrow. She had long known that he loved her, and when at last his slow
      confession came, it added nothing to her happiness; it only increased her
      fears for the future. They laid many plans together in those days; but
      winter came as a surprise to both, the cattle were removed from the
      mountains, and they were again separated.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bjarne Blakstad looked long and wistfully at his daughter that morning,
      when he came to bring her home. She wore no more rings and brooches, and
      it was this which excited Bjarne&rsquo;s suspicion that everything was not right
      with her. Formerly he was displeased because she wore too many; now he
      grumbled because she wore none.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      II.
    </h2>
    <p>
      The winter was half gone; and in all this time Brita had hardly once seen
      Halvard. Yes, once,&mdash;it was Christmas-day,&mdash;she had ventured to
      peep over to his pew in the church, and had seen him, sitting at his
      father&rsquo;s side, and gazing vacantly out into the empty space; but as he had
      caught her glance, he had blushed, and began eagerly to turn the leaves of
      his hymn-book. It troubled her that he made no effort to see her; many an
      evening she had walked alone down at the river-side, hoping that he might
      come; but it was all in vain. She could not but believe that his father
      must have made some discovery, and that he was watched. In the mean time
      the black cloud thickened over her head; for a secret gnawed at the very
      roots of her heart. It was a time of terrible suspense and suffering&mdash;such
      as a man never knows, such as only a woman can endure. It was almost a
      relief when the cloud burst, and the storm broke loose, as presently it
      did.
    </p>
    <p>
      One Sunday, early in April, Bjarne did not return at the usual hour from
      church. His daughters waited in vain for him with the dinner, and at last
      began to grow uneasy. It was not his habit to keep irregular hours. There
      was a great excitement in the valley just then; the America-fever had
      broken out. A large vessel was lying out in the fjord, ready to take the
      emigrants away; and there was hardly a family that did not mourn the loss
      of some brave-hearted son, or of some fair and cherished daughter. The old
      folks, of course, had to remain behind; and when the children were gone,
      what was there left for them but to lie down and die? America was to them
      as distant as if it were on another planet. The family feeling, too, has
      ever been strong in the Norseman&rsquo;s breast; he lives for his children, and
      seems to live his life over again in them. It is his greatest pride to be
      able to trace his blood back into the days of Sverre and St. Olaf, and
      with the same confidence he expects to see his race spread into the future
      in the same soil where once it has struck root. Then comes the storm from
      the Western seas, wrestles with the sturdy trunk, and breaks it; and the
      shattered branches fly to all the four corners of the heavens. No wonder,
      then, like a tree that has lost its crown, his strength is broken and he
      expects but to smoulder into the earth and die.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bjarne Blakstad, like the sturdy old patriot that he was, had always
      fiercely denounced the America rage; and it was now the hope of his
      daughters that, perhaps, he had stayed behind to remind the restless ones
      among the youth of their duty toward their land, or to frighten some bold
      emigration agent who might have been too loud in his declamations. But it
      was already eight o&rsquo;clock and Bjarne was not yet to be seen. The night was
      dark and stormy; a cold sleet fiercely lashed the window-panes, and the
      wind roared in the chimney. Grimhild, the younger sister, ran restlessly
      out and in and slammed the doors after her. Brita sat tightly pressed up
      against the wall in the darkest corner of the room. Every time the wind
      shook the house she started up; then again seated herself and shuddered.
      Dark forebodings filled her soul.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last,&mdash;the clock had just struck ten,&mdash;there was a noise
      heard in the outer hall. Grimhild sprang to the door and tore it open. A
      tall, stooping figure entered, and by the dress she at once recognized her
      father.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good God,&rdquo; cried she, and ran up to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go away, child,&rdquo; muttered he, in a voice that sounded strangely
      unfamiliar, and he pushed her roughly away. For a moment he stood still,
      then stalked up to the table, and, with a heavy thump, dropped down into a
      chair. There he remained with his elbows resting on his knees, and
      absently staring on the floor. His long hair hung in wet tangles down over
      his face, and the wrinkles about his mouth seemed deeper and fiercer than
      usual. Now and then he sighed, or gave vent to a deep groan. In a while
      his eyes began to wander uneasily about the room; and as they reached the
      corner where Brita was sitting, he suddenly darted up, as if stung by
      something poisonous, seized a brand from the hearth, and rushed toward
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me I did not see it,&rdquo; he broke forth, in a hoarse whisper, seizing
      her by the arm and thrusting the burning brand close up to her face. &ldquo;Tell
      me it is a lie&mdash;a black, poisonous lie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She raised her eyes slowly to his and gazed steadfastly into his face.
      &ldquo;Ah,&rdquo; he continued in the same terrible voice, &ldquo;it was what I told them
      down there at the church&mdash;a lie&mdash;an infernal lie. And I drew
      blood&mdash;blood, I say&mdash;I did&mdash;from the slanderer. Ha, ha, ha!
      What a lusty sprawl that was!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The color came and departed from Brita&rsquo;s cheeks. And still she was
      strangely self possessed. She even wondered at her own calmness. Alas, she
      did not know that it was a calmness that is more terrible than pain, the
      corpse of a forlorn and hopeless heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Child,&rdquo; continued Bjarne, and his voice assumed a more natural tone, &ldquo;why
      dost thou not speak? They have lied about thee, child, because thou art
      fair, they have envied thee.&rdquo; Then, almost imploringly, &ldquo;Open thy mouth,
      Brita, and tell thy father that thou art pure&mdash;pure as the snow,
      child&mdash;my own&mdash;my beautiful child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a long and painful pause, in which the crackling of the brand,
      and the heavy breathing of the old man were the only sounds to break the
      silence. Pale like a marble image stood she before him; no word of excuse,
      no prayer for forgiveness escaped her; only a convulsive quivering of the
      lips betrayed the life that struggled within her. With every moment the
      hope died in Bjarne&rsquo;s bosom. His visage was fearful to behold. Terror and
      fierce indomitable hatred had grimly distorted his features, and his eyes
      burned like fire-coals beneath his bushy brows.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Harlot,&rdquo; he shrieked, &ldquo;harlot!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A cold gust of wind swept through the room. The windows shook, the doors
      flew open, as if touched by a strong invisible hand&mdash;and the old man
      stood alone, holding the flickering brand above his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was after midnight, the wind had abated, but the snow still fell, thick
      and silent, burying paths and fences under its cold white mantle. Onward
      she fled&mdash;onward and ever onward. And whither, she knew not. A cold
      numbness had chilled her senses, but still her feet drove her irresistibly
      onward. A dark current seemed to have seized her, she only felt that she
      was adrift, and she cared not whither it bore her. In spite of the
      stifling dullness which oppressed her, her body seemed as light as air. At
      last,&mdash;she knew not where,&mdash;she heard the roar of the sea
      resounding in her ears, a genial warmth thawed the numbness of her senses,
      and she floated joyfully among the clouds&mdash;among golden, sun-bathed
      clouds. When she opened her eyes, she found herself lying in a comfortable
      bed, and a young woman with a kind motherly face was sitting at her side.
      It was all like a dream, and she made no effort to account for what
      appeared so strange and unaccountable.
    </p>
    <p>
      What she afterward heard was that a fisherman had found her in a
      snow-drift on the strand, and that he had carried her home to his cottage
      and had given her over to the charge of his wife. This was the second day
      since her arrival. They knew who she was, but had kept the doors locked
      and had told no one that she was there. She heard the story of the good
      woman without emotion; it seemed an intolerable effort to think. But on
      the third day, when her child was born, her mind was suddenly aroused from
      its lethargy, and she calmly matured her plans; and for the child&rsquo;s sake
      she resolved to live and to act. That same evening there came a little boy
      with a bundle for her. She opened it and found therein the clothes she had
      left behind, and&mdash;her brooches. She knew that it was her sister who
      had sent them; then there was one who still thought of her with affection.
      And yet her first impulse was to send it all back, or to throw it into the
      ocean; but she looked at her child and forbore.
    </p>
    <p>
      A week passed, and Brita recovered. Of Halvard she had heard nothing. One
      night, as she lay in a half doze, she thought she had Seen a pale,
      frightened face pressed up against the window-pane, and staring fixedly at
      her and her child; but, after all, it might have been merely a dream. For
      her fevered fancy had in these last days frequently beguiled her into
      similar visions. She often thought of him, but, strangely enough, no more
      with bitterness, but with pity. Had he been strong enough to be wicked,
      she could have hated him, but he was weak, and she pitied him. Then it was
      that; one evening, as she heard that the American vessel was to sail at
      daybreak, she took her little boy and wrapped him carefully in her own
      clothes, bade farewell to the good fisherman and his wife, and walked
      alone down to the strand. Huge clouds of fantastic shapes chased each
      other desperately along the horizon, and now and then the slender new moon
      glanced forth from the deep blue gulfs between. She chose a boat at random
      and was about to unmoor it, when she saw the figure of a man tread
      carefully over the stones and hesitatingly approach her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brita,&rdquo; came in a whisper from the strand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who&rsquo;s there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is I. Father knows it all, and he has nearly killed me; and mother,
      too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that what you have come to tell me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I would like to help you some. I have been trying to see you these
      many days.&rdquo; And he stepped close up to the boat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you; I need no help.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Brita,&rdquo; implored he, &ldquo;I have sold my gun and my dog, and everything
      I had, and this is what I have got for it.&rdquo; He stretched out his hand and
      reached her a red handkerchief with something heavy bound up in a corner.
      She took it mechanically, held it in her hand for a moment, then flung it
      far out into the water. A smile of profound contempt and pity passed over
      her countenance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Farewell, Halvard,&rdquo; said she, calmly, and pushed the boat into the water.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Brita,&rdquo; cried he, in despair, &ldquo;what would you have me do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She lifted the child in her arms, then pointed to the vacant seat at her
      side. He understood what she meant, and stood for a moment wavering.
      Suddenly, he covered his face with his hands and burst into tears. Within
      half an hour, Brita boarded the vessel, and as the first red stripe of the
      dawn illumined the horizon, the wind filled the sails, and the ship glided
      westward toward that land where there is a home for them whom love and
      misfortune have exiled.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a long and wearisome voyage. There was an old English clergyman on
      board, who collected curiosities; to him she sold her rings and brooches,
      and thereby obtained more than sufficient money to pay her passage. She
      hardly spoke to any one except her child. Those of her fellow-parishioners
      who knew her, and perhaps guessed her history, kept aloof from her, and
      she was grateful to them that they did. From morning till night, she sat
      in a corner between a pile of deck freight and the kitchen skylight, and
      gazed at her little boy who was lying in her lap. All her hopes, her
      future, and her life were in him. For herself, she had ceased to hope.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can give thee no fatherland, my child,&rdquo; she said to him. &ldquo;Thou shalt
      never know the name of him who gave thee life. Thou and I, we shall
      struggle together, and, as true as there is a God above, who sees us, He
      will not leave either of us to perish. But let us ask no questions, child,
      about that which is past. Thou shalt grow and be strong, and thy mother
      must grow with thee.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      During the third week of the voyage, the English clergyman baptized the
      boy, and she called him Thomas, after the day in the almanac on which he
      was born. He should never know that Norway had been his mother&rsquo;s home;
      therefore she would give him no name which might betray his race. One
      morning, early in the month of June, they hailed land, and the great New
      World lay before them.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      III.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Why should I speak of the ceaseless care, the suffering, and the hard
      toil, which made the first few months of Brita&rsquo;s life on this continent a
      mere continued struggle for existence? They are familiar to every emigrant
      who has come here with a brave heart and an empty purse. Suffice it to say
      that at the end of the second month, she succeeded in obtaining service as
      milkmaid with a family in the neighborhood of New York. With the
      linguistic talent peculiar to her people, she soon learned the English
      language and even spoke it well. From her countrymen, she kept as far away
      as possible, not for her own sake, but for that of her boy; for he was to
      grow great and strong, and the knowledge of his birth might shatter his
      strength and break his courage. For the same reason she also exchanged her
      picturesque Norse costume for that of the people among whom she was
      living. She went commonly by the name of Mrs. Brita, which pronounced in
      the English way, sounded very much like Mrs. Bright, and this at last
      became the name by which she was known in the neighborhood.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus five years passed; then there was a great rage for emigrating to the
      far West, and Brita, with many others, started for Chicago. There she
      arrived in the year 1852, and took up her lodgings with an Irish widow,
      who was living in a little cottage in what was then termed the outskirts
      of the city. Those who saw her in those days, going about the lumber-yards
      and doing a man&rsquo;s work, would hardly have recognized in her the merry
      Glitter-Brita, who in times of old trod the spring-dance so gayly in the
      well-lighted halls of the Blakstad mansion. And, indeed, she was sadly
      changed! Her features had become sharper, and the firm lines about her
      mouth expressed severity, almost sternness. Her clear blue eyes seemed to
      have grown larger, and their glance betrayed secret, ever-watchful care.
      Only her yellow hair had resisted the force of time and sorrow; for it
      still fell in rich and wavy folds over a smooth white forehead. She was,
      indeed, half ashamed of it, and often took pains to force it into a sober,
      matronly hood. Only at nights, when she sat alone talking with her boy,
      she would allow it to escape from its prison; and he would laugh and play
      with it, and in his child&rsquo;s way even wonder at the contrast between her
      stern face and her youthful maidenly tresses.
    </p>
    <p>
      This Thomas, her son, was a strange child. He had a Norseman&rsquo;s taste for
      the fabulous and fantastic, and although he never heard a tale of Necken
      or the Hulder, he would often startle his mother by the most fanciful
      combinations of imagined events, and by bolder personifications than ever
      sprung from the legendary soil of the Norseland. She always took care to
      check him whenever he indulged in these imaginary flights, and he at last
      came to look upon them as something wrong and sinful. The boy, as he grew
      up, often strikingly reminded her of her father, as, indeed, he seemed to
      have inherited more from her own than from Halvard&rsquo;s race. Only the bright
      flaxen hair and his square, somewhat clumsy stature might have told him to
      be the latter&rsquo;s child. He had a hot temper, and often distressed his
      mother by his stubbornness; and then there would come a great burst of
      repentance afterwards, which distressed her still more. For she was afraid
      it might be a sign of weakness. &ldquo;And strong he must be,&rdquo; said she to
      herself, &ldquo;strong enough to overcome all resistance, and to conquer a great
      name for himself, strong enough to bless a mother who brought him into the
      world nameless.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Strange to say, much as she loved this child, she seldom caressed him. It
      was a penance she had imposed upon herself to atone for her guilt. Only at
      times, when she had been sitting up late, and her eyes would fall, as it
      were, by accident upon the little face on the pillow, with the sweet
      unconsciousness of sleep resting upon it like a soft, invisible veil,
      would she suddenly throw herself down over him, kiss him, and whisper
      tender names in his ear, while her tears fell hot and fast on his yellow
      hair and his rosy countenance. Then the child would dream that he was
      sailing aloft over shining forests, and that his mother, beaming with all
      the beauty of her lost youth, flew before him, showering golden flowers on
      his path. These were the happiest moments of Brita&rsquo;s joyless life, and
      even these were not unmixed with bitterness; for into the midst of her joy
      would steal a shy anxious thought which was the more terrible because it
      came so stealthily, so soft-footed and unbidden. Had not this child been
      given her as a punishment for her guilt? Had she then a right to turn
      God&rsquo;s scourge into a blessing? Did she give to God &ldquo;that which belongeth
      unto God,&rdquo; as long as all her hopes, her thoughts, and her whole being
      revolved about this one earthly thing, her son, the child of her sorrow?
      She was not a nature to shrink from grave questions; no, she met them
      boldly, when once they were there, wrestled fiercely with them, was
      defeated, and again with a martyr&rsquo;s zeal rose to renew the combat. God had
      Himself sent her this perplexing doubt and it was her duty to bear His
      burden. Thus ran Brita&rsquo;s reasoning. In the mean while the years slipped
      by, and great changes were wrought in the world about her.
    </p>
    <p>
      The few hundred dollars which Brita had been able to save, during the
      first three years of her stay in Chicago, she had invested in a piece of
      land. In the mean while the city had grown, and in the year 1859 she was
      offered five thousand dollars for her lot; this offer she accepted and
      again bought a small piece of property at a short distance from the city.
      The boy had since his eighth year attended the public school, and had made
      astonishing progress. Every day when school was out, she would meet him at
      the gate, take him by the hand and lead him home. If any of the other boys
      dared to make sport of her, or to tease him for his dependence upon her,
      it was sure to cost that boy a black eye{.} He soon succeeded in
      establishing himself in the respect of his school-mates, for he was the
      strongest boy of his own age, and ever ready to protect and defend the
      weak and defenseless. When Thomas Bright (for that was the name by which
      he was known) was fifteen years old he was offered a position as clerk in
      the office of a lumber-merchant, and with his mother&rsquo;s consent he accepted
      it. He was a fine young lad now, large and well-knit, and with a clear
      earnest countenance. In the evening he would bring home books to read, and
      as it had always been Brita&rsquo;s habit to interest herself in whatever
      interested him, she soon found herself studying and discussing with him
      things which had in former years been far beyond the horizon of her mind.
      She had at his request reluctantly given up her work in the lumber-yards,
      and now spent her days at home, busying herself with sewing and reading
      and such other things as women find to fill up a vacant hour.
    </p>
    <p>
      One evening, when Thomas was in his nineteenth year, he returned from his
      office with a graver face than usual. His mother&rsquo;s quick eye immediately
      saw that something had agitated him, but she forbore to ask.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother,&rdquo; said he at last, &ldquo;who is my father? Is he dead or alive?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God is your father, my son,&rdquo; answered she, tremblingly. &ldquo;If you love me,
      ask me no more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do love you, mother,&rdquo; he said, and gave her a grave look, in which she
      thought she detected a mingling of tenderness and reproach. &ldquo;And it shall
      be as you have said.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was the first time she had had reason to blush before him, and her
      emotion came near overwhelming her; but with a violent effort she stifled
      it, and remained outwardly calm. He began pacing up and down the floor
      with his head bent and his hands on his back. It suddenly occurred to her
      that he was a grown man, and that she could no longer hold the same
      relation to him as his supporter and protector. &ldquo;Alas,&rdquo; thought she, &ldquo;if
      God will but let me remain his mother, I shall bless and thank Him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was the first time this subject had been broached, and it gave rise to
      many a doubt and many a question in the anxious mother&rsquo;s mind. Had she
      been right in concealing from him that which he might justly claim to
      know? What had been her motive in keeping him ignorant of his origin and
      of the land of his birth? She had wished him to grow to the strength of
      manhood, unconscious of guilt, so that he might bear his head upright, and
      look the world fearlessly in the face. And still, had there not in all
      this been a lurking thought of herself, a fear of losing his love, a
      desire to stand pure and perfect in his eye? She hardly dared to answer
      these questions, for, alas, she knew not that even our purest motives are
      but poorly able to bear a searching scrutiny. She began to suspect that
      her whole course with her son had been wrong from the very beginning. Why
      had she not told him the stern truth, even if he should despise her for
      it, even if she should have to stand a blushing culprit in his presence?
      Often, when she heard his footsteps in the hall, as he returned from the
      work of the day, she would man herself up and the words hovered upon her
      lips: &ldquo;Son, thou art a bastard born, a child of guilt, and thy mother is
      an outcast upon the earth.&rdquo; But when she met those calm blue eyes of his,
      saw the unsuspecting frankness of his manner and the hopefulness with
      which he looked to the future, her womanly heart shrank from its duty, and
      she hastened out of the room, threw herself on her bed, and wept. Fiercely
      she wrestled with God in prayer, until she thought that even God had
      deserted her. Thus months passed and years, and the constant care and
      anxiety began to affect her health. She grew pale and nervous, and the
      slightest noise would annoy her. In the mean while, her manner toward the
      young man had become strangely altered, and he soon noticed it, although
      he forbore to speak. She was scrupulously mindful of his comfort,
      anxiously anticipated his wants, and observed toward him an ever vigilant
      consideration, as if he had been her master instead of her son.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Thomas was twenty-two years of age, he was offered a partnership in
      his employer&rsquo;s business, and with every year his prospects brightened. The
      sale of his mother&rsquo;s property brought him a very handsome little fortune,
      which enabled him to build a fine and comfortable house in one of the best
      portions of the city. Thus their outward circumstances were greatly
      improved, and of comfort and luxury Brita had all and more than she had
      ever desired; but her health was broken down, and the physicians declared
      that a year of foreign travel and a continued residence in Italy might
      possibly restore her. At last, Thomas, too, began to urge her, until she
      finally yielded. It was on a bright morning in May that they both started
      for New York, and three days later they took the boat for Europe. What
      countries they were to visit they had hardly decided, but after a brief
      stay in England we find them again on a steamer bound for Norway.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      IV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Warm and gentle as it is, June often comes to the fjord-valleys of Norway
      with the voice and the strength of a giant. The glaciers totter and groan,
      as if in anger at their own weakness, and send huge avalanches of stones
      and ice down into the valleys. The rivers swell and rush with vociferous
      brawl out over the mountainsides, and a thousand tiny brooks join in the
      general clamor, and dance with noisy chatter over the moss-grown
      birch-roots. But later, when the struggle is at an end, and June has
      victoriously seated herself upon her throne, her voice becomes more richly
      subdued and brings rest and comfort to the ear and to the troubled heart.
      It was while the month was in this latter mood that Brita and her son
      entered once more the valley whence, twenty-five years ago, they had fled.
      Many strange, turbulent emotions stirred the mother&rsquo;s bosom, as she saw
      again the great snow-capped mountains, and the calm, green valley, her
      childhood&rsquo;s home, lying so snugly sheltered in their mighty embrace. Even
      Thomas&rsquo;s breast was moved with vaguely sympathetic throbs, as this
      wondrous scene spread itself before him. They soon succeeded in hiring a
      farm-house, about half an hour&rsquo;s walk from Blakstad, and, according to
      Brita&rsquo;s wish, established themselves there for the summer. She had known
      the people well, when she was young, but they never thought of identifying
      her with the merry maid, who had once startled the parish by her sudden
      flight; and she, although she longed to open her heart to them, let no
      word fall to betray her real character. Her conscience accused her of
      playing a false part, but for her son&rsquo;s sake she kept silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, one day,&mdash;it was the second Sunday after their arrival,&mdash;she
      rose early in the morning, and asked Thomas to accompany her on a walk up
      through the valley. There was Sabbath in the air; the soft breath of
      summer, laden with the perfume of fresh leaves and field-flowers, gently
      wafted into their faces. The sun glittered in the dewy grass, the crickets
      sung with a remote voice of wonder, and the air seemed to be half visible,
      and moved in trembling wavelets on the path before them. Resting on her
      son&rsquo;s arm, Brita walked slowly up through the flowering meadows; she
      hardly knew whither her feet bore her, but her heart beat violently, and
      she often was obliged to pause and press her hands against her bosom, as
      if to stay the turbulent emotions.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are not well, mother,&rdquo; said the son. &ldquo;It was imprudent in me to allow
      you to exert yourself in this way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us sit down on this stone,&rdquo; answered she. &ldquo;I shall soon be better. Do
      not look so anxiously at me. Indeed, I am not sick.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He spread his light summer coat on the stone and carefully seated her. She
      lifted her veil and raised her eyes to the large red-roofed mansion, whose
      dark outlines drew themselves dimly on the dusky background of the pine
      forest. Was he still alive, he whose life-hope she had wrecked, he who had
      once driven her out into the night with all but a curse upon his lips? How
      would he receive her, if she were to return? Ah, she knew him, and she
      trembled at the very thought of meeting him. But was not the guilt hers?
      Could she depart from this valley, could she die in peace, without having
      thrown herself at his feet and implored his forgiveness? And there, on the
      opposite side of the valley, lay the home of him who had been the cause of
      all her misery. What had been his fate, and did he still remember those
      long happy summer days, ah! so long, long ago? She had dared to ask no
      questions of the people with whom she lived, but now a sudden weakness had
      overtaken her, and she felt that to-day must decide her fate; she could no
      longer bear this torture of uncertainty. Thomas remained standing at her
      side and looked at her with anxiety and wonder. He knew that she had
      concealed many things from him, but whatever her reasons might be, he was
      confident that they were just and weighty. It was not for him to question
      her about what he might have no right to know. He felt as if he had never
      loved her as in this moment, when she seemed to be most in need of him,
      and an overwhelming tenderness took possession of his heart. He suddenly
      stooped down, took her pale, thin face between his hands and kissed her.
      The long pent-up emotion burst forth in a flood of tears; she buried her
      face in her lap and wept long and silently. Then the church-bells began to
      peal down in the valley, and the slow mighty sound floated calmly and
      solemnly up to them. How many long-forgotten memories of childhood and
      youth did they not wake in her bosom&mdash;memories of the time when the
      merry Glitter-Brita, decked with her shining brooches, wended her way to
      the church among the gayly-dressed lads and maidens of the parish?
    </p>
    <p>
      A cluster of white-stemmed birches threw its shadow over the stone where
      the penitent mother was sitting, and the tall grass on both sides of the
      path nearly hid her from sight. Presently the church-folk began to appear,
      and Brita raised her head and drew her veil down over her face. No one
      passed without greeting the strangers, and the women and maidens,
      according to old fashion, stopped and courtesied. At last, there came an
      old white-haired man, leaning on the arm of a middle-aged woman. His whole
      figure was bent forward, and he often stopped and drew his breath heavily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes, yes,&rdquo; he said, ill a hoarse, broken voice, as he passed before
      them, &ldquo;age is gaining on me fast. I can&rsquo;t move about any more as of old.
      But to church I must this day. God help me! I have done much wrong and
      need to pray for forgiveness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You had better sit down and rest, father,&rdquo; said the woman. &ldquo;Here is a
      stone, and the fine lady, I am sure, will allow a weak old man to sit down
      beside her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thomas rose and made a sign to the old man to take his seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O yes, yes,&rdquo; he went on murmuring, as if talking to himself. &ldquo;Much wrong&mdash;much
      forgiveness. God help us all&mdash;miserable sinners. He who hateth not
      father and mother&mdash;and daughter is not worthy of me. O, yes&mdash;yes&mdash;God
      comfort us all. Help me up, Grimhild. I think I can move on again, now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thomas, of course, did not understand a word of what he said, but seeing
      that he wished to rise, he willingly offered his assistance, supported his
      arm and raised him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks to you, young man,&rdquo; said the peasant. &ldquo;And may God reward your
      kindness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And the two, father and daughter, moved on, slowly and laboriously, as
      they had come. Thomas stood following them with his eyes, until a low,
      half-stifled moan suddenly called him to his mother&rsquo;s side. Her frame
      trembled violently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother, mother,&rdquo; implored he, stooping over her, &ldquo;what has happened? Why
      are you no more yourself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, my son, I can bear it no longer,&rdquo; sobbed she. &ldquo;God forgive me&mdash;thou
      must know it all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He sat down at her side and drew her closely up to him and she hid her
      face on his bosom. There was a long silence, only broken by the loud
      chirruping of the crickets.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My son,&rdquo; she began at last, still hiding her face, &ldquo;thou art a child of
      guilt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That has been no secret to me, mother,&rdquo; answered he, gravely and
      tenderly, &ldquo;since I was old enough to know what guilt was.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She quickly raised her head, and a look of amazement, of joyous surprise,
      shone through the tears that veiled her eyes. She could read nothing but
      filial love and confidence in those grave, manly features, and she saw in
      that moment that all her doubts had been groundless, that her long
      prayerful struggle had been for naught.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I brought thee into the world nameless,&rdquo; she whispered, &ldquo;and thou hast no
      word of reproach for me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With God&rsquo;s help, I am strong enough to conquer a name for myself,
      mother,&rdquo; was his answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the very words of her own secret wish, and upon his lips they
      sounded like a blessed assurance, like a miraculous fulfillment of her
      motherly prayer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Still, another thing, my child,&rdquo; she went on in a more confident voice.
      &ldquo;This is thy native land,&mdash;and the old man who was just sitting here
      at my side was&mdash;my father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And there, in the shadow of the birch-trees, in the summer stillness of
      that hour, she told him the story of her love, of her flight, and of the
      misery of these long, toilsome five and twenty years.
    </p>
    <p>
      Late in the afternoon, Brita and her son were seen returning to the
      farm-house. A calm, subdued happiness beamed from the mother&rsquo;s
      countenance; she was again at peace with the world and herself, and her
      heart was as light as in the days of her early youth. But her bodily
      strength had given out, and her limbs almost refused to support her. The
      strain upon her nerves and the constant effort had hitherto enabled her to
      keep up, but now, when that strain was removed, exhausted nature claimed
      its right. The next day&mdash;she could not leave her bed, and with every
      hour her strength failed. A physician was sent for. He gave medicine, but
      no hope. He shook his head gravely, as he went, and both mother and son
      knew what that meant.
    </p>
    <p>
      Toward evening, Bjarne Blakstad was summoned, and came at once. Thomas
      left the room, as the old man entered, and what passed in that hour
      between father and daughter, only God knows. When the door was again
      opened, Brita&rsquo;s eyes shone with a strange brilliancy, and Bjarne lay on
      his knees before the bed, pressing her hand convulsively between both of
      his.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is my son, father,&rdquo; said she, in a language which her son did not
      understand; and a faint smile of motherly pride and happiness flitted over
      her pale features. &ldquo;I would give him to thee in return for what thou hast
      lost; but God has laid his future in another land.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bjarne rose, grasped his grandson&rsquo;s hand, and pressed it; and two heavy
      tears ran down his furrowed cheeks. &ldquo;Alas,&rdquo; murmured he, &ldquo;my son, that we
      should meet thus.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There they stood, bound together by the bonds of blood, but, alas, there
      lay a world between them.
    </p>
    <p>
      All night they sat together at the dying woman&rsquo;s bedside. Not a word was
      spoken. Toward morning, as the sun stole into the darkened chamber, Brita
      murmured their names, and they laid their hands in hers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God be praised,&rdquo; whispered she, scarcely audibly, &ldquo;I have found you both&mdash;my
      father and my son.&rdquo; A deep pallor spread over her countenance. She was
      dead.
    </p>
    <p>
      Two days later, when the body was laid out, Thomas stood alone in the
      room. The windows were covered with white sheets, and a subdued light fell
      upon the pale, lifeless countenance. Death had dealt gently with her, she
      seemed younger than before, and her light wavy hair fell softly over the
      white forehead. Then there came a middle-aged man, with a dull eye, and a
      broad forehead, and timidly approached the lonely mourner. He walked on
      tip-toe and his figure stooped heavily. For a long while he stood gazing
      at the dead body, then he knelt down at the foot of the coffin, and began
      to sob violently. At last he arose, took two steps toward the young man,
      paused again, and departed silently as he had come. It was Halvard.
    </p>
    <p>
      Close under the wall of the little red-painted church, they dug the grave;
      and a week later her father was laid to rest at his daughter&rsquo;s side.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the fresh winds blew over the Atlantic and beckoned the son to new
      fields of labor in the great land of the future.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING.
    </h2>
    <p>
      RALPH GRIM was born a gentleman. He had the misfortune of coming into the
      world some ten years later than might reasonably have been expected.
      Colonel Grim and his lady had celebrated twelve anniversaries of their
      wedding-day, and had given up all hopes of ever having a son and heir,
      when this late-comer startled them by his unexpected appearance. The only
      previous addition to the family had been a daughter, and she was then ten
      summers old.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph was a very feeble child, and could only with great difficulty be
      persuaded to retain his hold of the slender thread which bound him to
      existence. He was rubbed with whisky, and wrapped in cotton, and given
      mare&rsquo;s milk to drink, and God knows what not, and the Colonel swore a
      round oath of paternal delight when at last the infant stopped gasping in
      that distressing way and began to breathe like other human beings. The
      mother, who, in spite of her anxiety for the child&rsquo;s life, had found time
      to plot for him a career of future magnificence, now suddenly set him
      apart for literature, because that was the easiest road to fame, and
      disposed of him in marriage to one of the most distinguished families of
      the land. She cautiously suggested this to her husband when he came to
      take his seat at her bedside; but to her utter astonishment she found that
      he had been indulging a similar train of thought, and had already destined
      the infant prodigy for the army. She, however, could not give up her
      predilection for literature, and the Colonel, who could not bear to be
      contradicted in his own house, as he used to say, was getting every minute
      louder and more flushed, when, happily, the doctor&rsquo;s arrival interrupted
      the dispute.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Ralph grew up from infancy to childhood, he began to give decided
      promise of future distinction. He was fond of sitting down in a corner and
      sucking his thumb, which his mother interpreted as the sign of that
      brooding disposition peculiar to poets and men of lofty genius. At the age
      of five, he had become sole master in the house. He slapped his sister
      Hilda in the face, or pulled her hair, when she hesitated to obey him,
      tyrannized over his nurse, and sternly refused to go to bed in spite of
      his mother&rsquo;s entreaties. On such occasions, the Colonel would hide his
      face behind his newspaper, and chuckle with delight; it was evident that
      nature had intended his son for a great military commander. As soon as
      Ralph himself was old enough to have any thoughts about his future
      destiny, he made up his mind that he would like to be a pirate. A few
      months later, having contracted an immoderate taste for candy, he
      contented himself with the comparatively humble position of a baker; but
      when he had read &ldquo;Robinson Crusoe,&rdquo; he manifested a strong desire to go to
      sea in the hope of being wrecked on some desolate island. The parents
      spent long evenings gravely discussing these indications of uncommon
      genius, and each interpreted them in his or her own way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is not like any other child I ever knew,&rdquo; said the mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To be sure,&rdquo; responded the father, earnestly. &ldquo;He is a most extraordinary
      child. I was a very remarkable child too, even if I do say it myself; but,
      as far as I remember, I never aspired to being wrecked on an uninhabited
      is land.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Colonel probably spoke the truth; but he forgot to take into account
      that he had never read &ldquo;Robinson Crusoe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Of Ralph&rsquo;s school-days there is but little to report, for, to tell the
      truth, he did not fancy going to school, as the discipline annoyed him.
      The day after his having entered the gymnasium, which was to prepare him
      for the Military Academy, the principal saw him waiting at the gate after
      his class had been dismissed. He approached him, and asked why he did not
      go home with the rest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am waiting for the servant to carry my books,&rdquo; was the boy&rsquo;s answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me your books,&rdquo; said the teacher.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph reluctantly obeyed. That day the Colonel was not a little surprised
      to see his son marching up the street, and every now and then glancing
      behind him with a look of discomfort at the principal, who was following
      quietly in his train, carrying a parcel of school-books. Colonel Grim and
      his wife, divining the teacher&rsquo;s intention, agreed that it was a great
      outrage, but they did not mention the matter to Ralph. Henceforth,
      however, the boy refused to be accompanied by his servant. A week later he
      was impudent to the teacher of gymnastics, who whipped him in return. The
      Colonel&rsquo;s rage knew no bounds; he rode in great haste to the gymnasium,
      reviled the teacher for presuming to chastise HIS son, and committed the
      boy to the care of a private tutor.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the age of sixteen, Ralph went to the capital with the intention of
      entering the Military Academy. He was a tall, handsome youth, slender of
      stature, and carried himself as erect as a candle. He had a light, clear
      complexion of almost feminine delicacy; blonde, curly hair, which he
      always kept carefully brushed; a low forehead, and a straight, finely
      modeled nose. There was an expression of extreme sensitiveness about the
      nostrils, and a look of indolence in the dark-blue eyes. But the ensemble
      of his features was pleasing, his dress irreproachable, and his manners
      bore no trace of the awkward self-consciousness peculiar to his age.
      Immediately on his arrival in the capital he hired a suite of rooms in the
      aristocratic part of the city, and furnished them rather expensively, but
      in excellent taste. From a bosom friend, whom he met by accident in the
      restaurant&rsquo;s pavilion in the park, he learned that a pair of antlers, a
      stuffed eagle, or falcon, and a couple of swords, were indispensable to a
      well-appointed apartment. He accordingly bought these articles at a
      curiosity-shop. During the first weeks of his residence in the city he
      made some feeble efforts to perfect himself in mathematics, in which he
      suspected he was somewhat deficient. But when the same officious friend
      laughed at him, and called him &ldquo;green,&rdquo; he determined to trust to fortune,
      and henceforth devoted himself the more assiduously to the French ballet,
      where he had already made some interesting acquaintances.
    </p>
    <p>
      The time for the examination came; the French ballet did not prove a good
      preparation; Ralph failed. It quite shook him for the time, and he felt
      humiliated. He had not the courage to tell his father; so he lingered on
      from day to day, sat vacantly gazing out of his window, and tried vainly
      to interest himself in the busy bustle down on the street. It provoked him
      that everybody else should be so light-hearted, when he was, or at least
      fancied himself, in trouble. The parlor grew intolerable; he sought refuge
      in his bedroom. There he sat one evening (it was the third day after the
      examination), and stared out upon the gray stone walls which on all sides
      enclosed the narrow court-yard. The round stupid face of the moon stood
      tranquilly dozing like a great Limburger cheese suspended under the sky.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph, at least, could think of a no more fitting simile. But the
      bright-eyed young girl in the window hard by sent a longing look up to the
      same moon, and thought of her distant home on the fjords, where the
      glaciers stood like hoary giants, and caught the yellow moonbeams on their
      glittering shields of snow. She had been reading &ldquo;Ivanhoe&rdquo; all the
      afternoon, until the twilight had overtaken her quite unaware, and now she
      suddenly remembered that she had forgotten to write her German exercise.
      She lifted her face and saw a pair of sad, vacant eyes, gazing at her from
      the next window in the angle of the court. She was a little startled at
      first, but in the next moment she thought of her German exercise and took
      heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know German?&rdquo; she said; then immediately repented that she had
      said it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do,&rdquo; was the answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      She took up her apron and began to twist it with an air of embarrassment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t mean anything,&rdquo; she whispered, at last. &ldquo;I only wanted to know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are very kind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      That answer roused her; he was evidently making sport of her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, if you do, you may write my exercise for me. I have marked
      the place in the book.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And she flung her book over to his window, and he caught it on the edge of
      the sill, just as it was falling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a very strange girl,&rdquo; he remarked, turning over the leaves of the
      book, although it was too dark to read. &ldquo;How old are you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall be fourteen six weeks before Christmas,&rdquo; answered she, frankly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I excuse you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, indeed,&rdquo; cried she, vehemently. &ldquo;You needn&rsquo;t excuse me at all. If you
      don&rsquo;t want to write my exercise, you may send the book back again. I am
      very sorry I spoke to you, and I shall never do it again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you will not get the book back again without the exercise,&rdquo; replied
      he, quietly. &ldquo;Good-night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The girl stood long looking after him, hoping that he would return. Then,
      with a great burst of repentance, she hid her face in her lap, and began
      to cry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, dear, I didn&rsquo;t mean to be rude,&rdquo; she sobbed. &ldquo;But it was Ivanhoe and
      Rebecca who upset me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The next morning she was up before daylight, and waited for two long hours
      in great suspense before the curtain of his window was raised. He greeted
      her politely; threw a hasty glance around the court to see if he was
      observed, and then tossed her book dexterously over into her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have pinned the written exercise to the fly-leaf,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You will
      probably have time to copy it before breakfast.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am ever so much obliged to you,&rdquo; she managed to stammer.
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked so tall and handsome, and grown-up, and her remorse stuck in her
      throat, and threatened to choke her. She had taken him for a boy as he sat
      there in his window the evening before.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the way, what is your name?&rdquo; he asked, carelessly, as he turned to go.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bertha.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, my dear Bertha, I am happy to have made your acquaintance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he again made her a polite bow, and entered his parlor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How provokingly familiar he is,&rdquo; thought she; &ldquo;but no one can deny that
      he is handsome.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The bright roguish face of the young girl haunted Ralph during the whole
      next week. He had been in love at least ten times before, of course; but,
      like most boys, with young ladies far older than himself. He found himself
      frequently glancing over to her window in the hope of catching another
      glimpse of her face; but the curtain was always drawn down, and Bertha
      remained invisible. During the second week, however, she relented, and
      they had many a pleasant chat together. He now volunteered to write all
      her exercises, and she made no objections. He learned that she was the
      daughter of a well-to-do peasant in the sea-districts of Norway (and it
      gave him quite a shock to hear it), and that she was going to school in
      the city, and boarded with an old lady who kept a pension in the house
      adjoining the one in which he lived.
    </p>
    <p>
      One day in the autumn Ralph was surprised by the sudden arrival of his
      father, and the fact of his failure in the examination could no longer be
      kept a secret. The old Colonel flared up at once when Ralph made his
      confession; the large veins upon his forehead swelled; he grew coppery-red
      in his face, and stormed up and down the floor, until his son became
      seriously alarmed; but, to his great relief, he was soon made aware that
      his father&rsquo;s wrath was not turned against him personally, but against the
      officials of the Military Academy who had rejected him. The Colonel took
      it as an insult to his own good name and irreproachable standing as an
      officer; he promptly refused any other explanation, and vainly racked his
      brain to remember if any youthful folly of his could possibly have made
      him enemies among the teachers of the Academy. He at last felt satisfied
      that it was envy of his own greatness and rapid advancement which had
      induced the rascals to take vengeance on his son. Ralph reluctantly
      followed his father back to the country town where the latter was
      stationed, and the fair-haired Bertha vanished from his horizon. His
      mother&rsquo;s wish now prevailed, and he began, in his own easy way, to prepare
      himself for the University. He had little taste for Cicero, and still less
      for Virgil, but with the use of a &ldquo;pony&rdquo; he soon gained sufficient
      knowledge of these authors to be able to talk in a sort of patronizing way
      about them, to the great delight of his fond parents. He took quite a
      fancy, however, to the ode in Horace ending with the lines:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 Dulce ridentem,
 Dulce loquentem,
 Lalagen amabo.
</pre>
    <p>
      And in his thought he substituted for Lalage the fair-haired Bertha, quite
      regardless of the requirements of the metre.
    </p>
    <p>
      To make a long story short, three years later Ralph returned to the
      capital, and, after having worn out several tutors, actually succeeded in
      entering the University.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first year of college life is a happy time to every young man, and
      Ralph enjoyed its processions, its parliamentary gatherings, and its
      leisure, as well as the rest. He was certainly not the man to be
      sentimental over the loss of a young girl whom, moreover, he had only
      known for a few weeks. Nevertheless, he thought of her at odd times, but
      not enough to disturb his pleasure. The standing of his family, his own
      handsome appearance, and his immaculate linen opened to him the best
      houses of the city, and he became a great favorite in society. At lectures
      he was seldom seen, but more frequently in the theatres, where he used to
      come in during the middle of the first act, take his station in front of
      the orchestra box, and eye, through his lorgnettes, by turns, the
      actresses and the ladies of the parquet.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      II.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Two months passed, and then came the great annual ball which the students
      give at the opening of the second semester. Ralph was a man of importance
      that evening; first, because he belonged to a great family; secondly,
      because he was the handsomest man of his year. He wore a large golden star
      on his breast (for his fellow-students had made him a Knight of the Golden
      Boar), and a badge of colored ribbons in his button-hole.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ball was a brilliant affair, and everybody was in excellent spirits,
      especially the ladies. Ralph danced incessantly, twirled his soft
      mustache, and uttered amiable platitudes. It was toward midnight, just as
      the company was moving out to supper, that he caught the glance of a pair
      of dark-blue eyes, which suddenly drove the blood to his cheeks and
      hastened the beating of his heart. But when he looked once more the
      dark-blue eyes were gone, and his unruly heart went on hammering against
      his side. He laid his hand on his breast and glanced furtively at his fair
      neighbor, but she looked happy and unconcerned, for the flavor of the
      ice-cream was delicious. It seemed an endless meal, but, when it was done,
      Ralph rose, led his partner back to the ball-room, and hastily excused
      himself. His glance wandered round the wide hall, seeking the
      well-remembered eyes once more, and, at length, finding them in a remote
      corner, half hid behind a moving wall of promenaders. In another moment he
      was at Bertha&rsquo;s side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must have been purposely hiding yourself, Miss Bertha,&rdquo; said he, when
      the usual greetings were exchanged. &ldquo;I have not caught a glimpse of you
      all this evening, until a few moments ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I have seen you all the while,&rdquo; answered the girl, frankly. &ldquo;I knew
      you at once as I entered the hall.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I had but known that you were here,&rdquo; resumed Ralph, as it were,
      invisibly expanding with an agreeable sense of dignity, &ldquo;I assure you, you
      would have been the very first one I should have sought.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She raised her large grave eyes to his, as if questioning his sincerity;
      but she made no answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good gracious!&rdquo; thought Ralph. &ldquo;She takes things terribly in earnest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You look so serious, Miss Bertha,&rdquo; said he, after a moment&rsquo;s pause. &ldquo;I
      remember you as a bright-eyed, flaxen-haired little girl, who threw her
      German exercise-book to me across the yard, and whose merry laughter still
      rings pleasantly in my memory. I confess I don&rsquo;t find it quite easy to
      identify this grave young lady with my merry friend of three years ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In other words, you are disappointed at not finding me the same as I used
      to be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, not exactly that; but&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ralph paused and looked puzzled. There was something in the earnestness of
      her manner which made a facetious compliment seem grossly inappropriate,
      and in the moment no other escape suggested itself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what?&rdquo; demanded Bertha, mercilessly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you ever lost an old friend?&rdquo; asked he, abruptly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; how so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then,&rdquo; answered he, while his features lighted up with a happy
      inspiration&mdash;&ldquo;then you will appreciate my situation. I fondly
      cherished my old picture of you in my memory. Now I have lost it, and I
      cannot help regretting the loss. I do not mean, however, to imply that
      this new acquaintance&mdash;this second edition of yourself, so to speak&mdash;will
      prove less interesting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She again sent him a grave, questioning look, and began to gaze intently
      upon the stone in her bracelet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose you will laugh at me,&rdquo; began she, while a sudden blush flitted
      over her countenance. &ldquo;But this is my first ball, and I feel as if I had
      rushed into a whirlpool, from which I have, since the first rash plunge
      was made, been vainly trying to escape. I feel so dreadfully forlorn. I
      hardly know anybody here except my cousin, who invited me, and I hardly
      think I know him either.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, since you are irredeemably committed,&rdquo; replied Ralph, as the music,
      after some prefatory flourishes, broke into the delicious rhythm of a
      Strauss waltz, &ldquo;then it is no use struggling against fate. Come, let us
      make the plunge together. Misery loves company.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He offered her his arm, and she arose, somewhat hesitatingly, and
      followed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am afraid,&rdquo; she whispered, as they fell into line with the procession
      that was moving down the long hall, &ldquo;that you have asked me to dance
      merely because I said I felt forlorn. If that is the case, I should prefer
      to be led back to my seat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a base imputation!&rdquo; cried Ralph.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was something so charmingly naïve in this self-depreciation&mdash;
      something so altogether novel in his experience, and, he could not help
      adding, just a little bit countrified. His spirits rose; he began to
      relish keenly his position as an experienced man of the world, and, in the
      agreeable glow of patronage and conscious superiority, chatted with hearty
      ABANDON with his little rustic beauty.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If your dancing is as perfect as your German exercises were,&rdquo; said she,
      laughing, as they swung out upon the floor, &ldquo;then I promise myself a good
      deal of pleasure from our meeting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never fear,&rdquo; answered he, quickly reversing his step, and whirling with
      many a capricious turn away among the thronging couples.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Ralph drove home in his carriage toward morning he briefly summed up
      his impressions of Bertha in the following adjectives: intelligent,
      delightfully unsophisticated, a little bit verdant, but devilish pretty.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some weeks later Colonel Grim received an appointment at the fortress of
      Aggershuus, and immediately took up his residence in the capital. He saw
      that his son cut a fine figure in the highest circles of society, and
      expressed his gratification in the most emphatic terms. If he had known,
      however, that Ralph was in the habit of visiting, with alarming
      regularity, at the house of a plebeian merchant in a somewhat obscure
      street, he would, no doubt, have been more chary of his praise. But the
      Colonel suspected nothing, and it was well for the peace of the family
      that he did not. It may have been cowardice in Ralph that he never
      mentioned Bertha&rsquo;s name to his family or to his aristocratic
      acquaintances; for, to be candid, he himself felt ashamed of the power she
      exerted over him, and by turns pitied and ridiculed himself for pursuing
      so inglorious a conquest. Nevertheless it wounded his egotism that she
      never showed any surprise at seeing him, that she received him with a
      certain frank unceremoniousness, which, however, was very becoming to her;
      that she invariably went on with her work heedless of his presence, and in
      everything treated him as if she had been his equal. She persisted in
      talking with him in a half sisterly fashion about his studies and his
      future career, warned him with great solicitude against some of his
      reprobate friends, of whose merry adventures he had told her; and if he
      ventured to compliment her on her beauty or her accomplishments, she would
      look up gravely from her sewing, or answer him in a way which seemed to
      banish the idea of love-making into the land of the impossible. He was
      constantly tormented by the suspicion that she secretly disapproved of
      him, and that from a mere moral interest in his welfare she was
      conscientiously laboring to make him a better man. Day after day he parted
      from her feeling humiliated, faint-hearted, and secretly indignant both at
      himself and her, and day after day he returned only to renew the same
      experience. At last it became too intolerable, he could endure it no
      longer. Let it make or break, certainty, at all risks, was at least
      preferable to this sickening suspense. That he loved her, he could no
      longer doubt; let his parents foam and fret as much as they pleased; for
      once he was going to stand on his own legs. And in the end, he thought,
      they would have to yield, for they had no son but him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bertha was going to return to her home on the sea-coast in a week. Ralph
      stood in the little low-ceiled parlor, as she imagined, to bid her
      good-bye. They had been speaking of her father, her brothers, and the
      farm, and she had expressed the wish that if he ever should come to that
      part of the country he might pay them a visit. Her words had kindled a
      vague hope in his breast, but in their very frankness and friendly regard
      there was something which slew the hope they had begotten. He held her
      hand in his, and her large confiding eyes shone with an emotion which was
      beautiful, but was yet not love.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you were but a peasant born like myself,&rdquo; said she, in a voice which
      sounded almost tender, &ldquo;then I should like to talk to you as I would to my
      own brother; but&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, not brother, Bertha,&rdquo; cried he, with sudden vehemence; &ldquo;I love you
      better than I ever loved any earthly being, and if you knew how firmly
      this love has clutched at the roots of my heart, you would perhaps&mdash;you
      would at least not look so reproachfully at me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She dropped his hand, and stood for a moment silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sorry that it should have come to this, Mr. Grim,&rdquo; said she, visibly
      struggling for calmness. &ldquo;And I am perhaps more to blame than you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Blame,&rdquo; muttered he, &ldquo;why are you to blame?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because I do not love you; although I sometimes feared that this might
      come. But then again I persuaded myself that it could not be so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He took a step toward the door, laid his hand on the knob, and gazed down
      before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bertha,&rdquo; began he, slowly, raising his head, &ldquo;you have always disapproved
      of me, you have despised me in your heart, but you thought you would be
      doing a good work if you succeeded in making a man of me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You use strong language,&rdquo; answered she, hesitatingly; &ldquo;but there is truth
      in what you say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Again there was a long pause, in which the ticking of the old parlor clock
      grew louder and louder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then,&rdquo; he broke out at last, &ldquo;tell me before we part if I can do nothing
      to gain&mdash;I will not say your love&mdash;but only your regard? What
      would you do if you were in my place?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My advice you will hardly heed, and I do not even know that it would be
      well if you did. But if I were a man in your position, I should break with
      my whole past, start out into the world where nobody knew me, and where I
      should be dependent only upon my own strength, and there I would conquer a
      place for myself, if it were only for the satisfaction of knowing that I
      was really a man. Here cushions are sewed under your arms, a hundred
      invisible threads bind you to a life of idleness and vanity, everybody is
      ready to carry you on his hands, the road is smoothed for you, every stone
      carefully moved out of your path, and you will probably go to your grave
      without having ever harbored one earnest thought, without having done one
      manly deed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ralph stood transfixed, gazing at her with open mouth; he felt a kind of
      stupid fright, as if some one had suddenly seized him by the shoulders and
      shaken him violently. He tried vainly to remove his eyes from Bertha. She
      held him as by a powerful spell. He saw that her face was lighted with an
      altogether new beauty; he noticed the deep glow upon her cheek, the
      brilliancy of her eye, the slight quiver of her lip. But he saw all this
      as one sees things in a half-trance, without attempting to account for
      them; the door between his soul and his senses was closed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know that I have been bold in speaking to you in this way,&rdquo; she said at
      last, seating herself in a chair at the window. &ldquo;But it was yourself who
      asked me. And I have felt all the time that I should have to tell you this
      before we parted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And,&rdquo; answered he, making a strong effort to appear calm, &ldquo;if I follow
      your advice, will you allow me to see you once more before you go?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall remain here another week, and shall, during that time, always be
      ready to receive you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you. Good-bye.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-bye.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ralph carefully avoided all the fashionable thoroughfares; he felt
      degraded before himself, and he had an idea that every man could read his
      humiliation in his countenance. Now he walked on quickly, striking the
      sidewalk with his heels; now, again, he fell into an uneasy, reckless
      saunter, according as the changing moods inspired defiance of his
      sentence, or a qualified surrender. And, as he walked on, the bitterness
      grew within him, and he pitilessly reviled himself for having allowed
      himself to be made a fool of by &ldquo;that little country goose,&rdquo; when he was
      well aware that there were hundreds of women of the best families of the
      land who would feel honored at receiving his attentions. But this sort of
      reasoning he knew to be both weak and contemptible, and his better self
      soon rose in loud rebellion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;After all,&rdquo; he muttered, &ldquo;in the main thing she was right. I am a
      miserable good-for-nothing, a hot-house plant, a poor stick, and if I were
      a woman myself, I don&rsquo;t think I should waste my affections on a man of
      that calibre.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then he unconsciously fell to analyzing Bertha&rsquo;s character, wondering
      vaguely that a person who moved so timidly in social life, appearing so
      diffident, from an ever-present fear of blundering against the established
      forms of etiquette, could judge so quickly, and with such a merciless
      certainty, whenever a moral question, a question of right and wrong, was
      at issue. And, pursuing the same train of thought, he contrasted her with
      himself, who moved in the highest spheres of society as in his native
      element, heedless of moral scruples, and conscious of no loftier motive
      for his actions than the immediate pleasure of the moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Ralph turned the corner of a street, he heard himself hailed from the
      other sidewalk by a chorus of merry voices.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, my dear Baroness,&rdquo; cried a young man, springing across the street and
      grasping Ralph&rsquo;s hand (all his student friends called him the Baroness),
      &ldquo;in the name of this illustrious company, allow me to salute you. But why
      the deuce&mdash;what is the matter with you? If you have the Katzenjammer,
      <a href="#linknote-7" name="linknoteref-7" id="linknoteref-7"><small>7</small></a>
      soda-water is the thing. Come along,&mdash;it&rsquo;s my treat!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The students instantly thronged around Ralph, who stood distractedly
      swinging his cane and smiling idiotically.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not quite well,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;leave me alone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, to be sure, you don&rsquo;t look well,&rdquo; cried a jolly youth, against whom
      Bertha had frequently warned him; &ldquo;but a glass of sherry will soon restore
      you. It would be highly immoral to leave you in this condition without
      taking care of you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ralph again vainly tried to remonstrate; but the end was, that he
      reluctantly followed.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had always been a conspicuous figure in the student world; but that
      night he astonished his friends by his eloquence, his reckless humor, and
      his capacity for drinking. He made a speech for &ldquo;Woman,&rdquo; which bristled
      with wit, cynicism, and sarcastic epigrams. One young man, named Vinter,
      who was engaged, undertook to protest against his sweeping condemnation,
      and declared that Ralph, who was a Universal favorite among the ladies,
      ought to be the last to revile them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;the Baroness should propose to six well-known ladies
      here in this city whom I could mention, I would wager six Johannisbergers,
      and an equal amount of champagne, that every one of them would accept
      him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The others loudly applauded this proposal, and Ralph accepted the wager.
      The letters were written on the spot, and immediately dispatched. Toward
      morning, the merry carousal broke up, and Ralph was conducted in triumph
      to his home.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      III.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Two days later, Ralph again knocked on Bertha&rsquo;s door. He looked paler than
      usual, almost haggard; his immaculate linen was a little crumpled, and he
      carried no cane; his lips were tightly compressed, and his face wore an
      air of desperate resolution.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is done,&rdquo; he said, as he seated himself opposite her. &ldquo;I am going.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Going!&rdquo; cried she, startled at his unusual appearance. &ldquo;How, where?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To America. I sail to-night. I have followed your advice, you see. I have
      cut off the last bridge behind me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Ralph,&rdquo; she exclaimed, in a voice of alarm. &ldquo;Something dreadful must
      have happened. Tell me quick; I must know it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; nothing dreadful,&rdquo; muttered he, smiling bitterly. &ldquo;I have made a
      little scandal, that is all. My father told me to-day to go to the devil,
      if I chose, and my mother gave me five hundred dollars to help me along on
      the way. If you wish to know, here is the explanation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he pulled from his pocket six perfumed and carefully folded notes, and
      threw them into her lap.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you wish me to read them?&rdquo; she asked, with growing surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly. Why not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She hastily opened one note after the other, and read.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Ralph,&rdquo; she cried, springing up from her seat, while her eyes flamed
      with indignation, &ldquo;what does this mean? What have you done?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t think it needed any explanation,&rdquo; replied he, with feigned
      indifference. &ldquo;I proposed to them all, and, you see, they all accepted me.
      I received all these letters to-day. I only wished to know whether the
      whole world regarded me as such a worthless scamp as you told me I was.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She did not answer, but sat mutely staring at him, fiercely crumpling a
      rose-colored note in her hand. He began to feel uncomfortable under her
      gaze, and threw himself about uneasily in his chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said he, at length, rising, &ldquo;I suppose there is nothing more.
      Good-bye.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One moment, Mr. Grim,&rdquo; demanded she, sternly. &ldquo;Since I have already said
      so much, and you have obligingly revealed to me a new side of your
      character, I claim the right to correct the opinion I expressed of you at
      our last meeting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am all attention.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did think, Mr. Grim,&rdquo; began she, breathing hard, and steadying herself
      against the table at which she stood, &ldquo;that you were a very selfish man&mdash;an
      embodiment of selfishness, absolute and supreme, but I did not believe
      that you were wicked.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what convinced you that I was selfish, if I may ask?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What convinced me?&rdquo; repeated she, in a tone of inexpressible contempt.
      &ldquo;When did you ever act from any generous regard for others? What good did
      you ever do to anybody?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You might ask, with equal justice, what good I ever did to myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In a certain sense, yes; because to gratify a mere momentary wish is
      hardly doing one&rsquo;s self good.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I have, at all events, followed the Biblical precept, and treated my
      neighbor very much as I treat myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did think,&rdquo; continued Bertha, without heeding the remark, &ldquo;that you
      were at bottom kind-hearted, but too hopelessly well-bred ever to commit
      an act of any decided complexion, either good or bad. Now I see that I
      have misjudged you, and that you are capable of outraging the most sacred
      feelings of a woman&rsquo;s heart in mere wantonness, or for the sake of
      satisfying a base curiosity, which never could have entered the mind of an
      upright and generous man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The hard, benumbed look in Ralph&rsquo;s face thawed in the warmth of her
      presence, and her words, though stern, touched a secret spring in his
      heart. He made two or three vain attempts to speak, then suddenly broke
      down, and cried:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bertha, Bertha, even if you scorn me, have patience with me, and listen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he told her, in rapid, broken sentences, how his love for her had
      grown from day to day, until he could no longer master it; and how, in an
      unguarded moment, when his pride rose in fierce conflict against his love,
      he had done this reckless deed of which he was now heartily ashamed. The
      fervor of his words touched her, for she felt that they were sincere.
      Large mute tears trembled in her eyelashes as she sat gazing tenderly at
      him, and in the depth of her soul the wish awoke that she might have been
      able to return this great and strong love of his; for she felt that in
      this love lay the germ of a new, of a stronger and better man. She
      noticed, with a half-regretful pleasure, his handsome figure, his
      delicately shaped hands, and the noble cast of his features; an
      overwhelming pity for him rose within her, and she began to reproach
      herself for having spoken so harshly, and, as she now thought, so
      unjustly. Perhaps he read in her eyes the unspoken wish. He seized her
      hand, and his words fell with a warm and alluring cadence upon her ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall not see you for a long time to come, Bertha,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;but if,
      at the end of five or six years your hand is still free, and I return
      another man&mdash;a man to whom you could safely intrust your happiness&mdash;would
      you then listen to what I may have to say to you? For I promise, by all
      that we both hold sacred&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no,&rdquo; interrupted she, hastily. &ldquo;Promise nothing. It would be unjust
      to&mdash;yourself, and perhaps also to me; for a sacred promise is a
      terrible thing, Ralph. Let us both remain free; and, if you return and
      still love me, then come, and I shall receive you and listen to you. And
      even if you have outgrown your love, which is, indeed, more probable, come
      still to visit me wherever I may be, and we shall meet as friends and
      rejoice in the meeting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know best,&rdquo; he murmured. &ldquo;Let it be as you have said.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He arose, took her face between his hands, gazed long and tenderly into
      her eyes, pressed a kiss upon her forehead, and hastened away.
    </p>
    <p>
      That night Ralph boarded the steamer for Hull, and three weeks later
      landed in New York.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      IV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      The first three months of Ralph&rsquo;s sojourn in America were spent in vain
      attempts to obtain a situation. Day after day he walked down Broadway,
      calling at various places of business and night after night he returned to
      his cheerless room with a faint heart and declining spirits. It was, after
      all, a more serious thing than he had imagined, to cut the cable which
      binds one to the land of one&rsquo;s birth. There a hundred subtile influences,
      the existence of which no one suspects until the moment they are
      withdrawn, unite to keep one in the straight path of rectitude, or at
      least of external respectability; and Ralph&rsquo;s life had been all in
      society; the opinion of his fellow-men had been the one force to which he
      implicitly deferred, and the conscience by which he had been wont to test
      his actions had been nothing but the aggregate judgment of his friends. To
      such a man the isolation and the utter irresponsibility of a life among
      strangers was tenfold more dangerous; and Ralph found, to his horror, that
      his character contained innumerable latent possibilities which the
      easygoing life in his home probably never would have revealed to him. It
      often cut him to the quick, when, on entering an office in his daily
      search for employment, he was met by hostile or suspicious glances, or
      when, as it occasionally happened, the door was slammed in his face, as if
      he were a vagabond or an impostor. Then the wolf was often roused within
      him, and he felt a momentary wild desire to become what the people here
      evidently believed him to be. Many a night he sauntered irresolutely about
      the gambling places in obscure streets, and the glare of light, the rude
      shouts and clamors in the same moment repelled and attracted him. If he
      went to the devil, who would care? His father had himself pointed out the
      way to him; and nobody could blame him if he followed the advice. But then
      again a memory emerged from that chamber of his soul which still he held
      sacred; and Bertha&rsquo;s deep-blue eyes gazed upon him with their earnest look
      of tender warning and regret.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the summer was half gone, Ralph had gained many a hard victory over
      himself, and learned many a useful lesson; and at length he swallowed his
      pride, divested himself of his fine clothes, and accepted a position as
      assistant gardener at a villa on the Hudson. And as he stood perspiring
      with a spade in his hand, and a cheap broad-brimmed straw hat on his head,
      he often took a grim pleasure in picturing to himself how his aristocratic
      friends at home would receive him, if he should introduce himself to them
      in this new costume.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;After all, it was only my position they cared for,&rdquo; he reflected,
      bitterly; &ldquo;without my father&rsquo;s name what would I be to them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then, again, there was a certain satisfaction in knowing that, for his
      present situation, humble as it was, he was indebted to nobody but
      himself; and the thought that Bertha&rsquo;s eyes, if they could have seen him
      now would have dwelt upon him with pleasure and approbation, went far to
      console him for his aching back, his sunburned face, and his swollen and
      blistered hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      One day, as Ralph was raking the gravel-walks in the garden, his
      employer&rsquo;s daughter, a young lady of seventeen, came out and spoke to him.
      His culture and refinement of manner struck her with wonder, and she asked
      him to tell her his history; but then he suddenly grew very grave, and she
      forbore pressing him. From that time she attached a kind of romantic
      interest to him, and finally induced her father to obtain him a situation
      that would be more to his taste. And, before winter came, Ralph saw the
      dawn of a new future glimmering before him. He had wrestled bravely with
      fate, and had once more gained a victory. He began the career in which
      success and distinction awaited him, as proof-reader on a newspaper in the
      city. He had fortunately been familiar with the English language before he
      left home, and by the strength of his will he conquered all difficulties.
      At the end of two years he became attached to the editorial staff; new
      ambitious hopes, hitherto foreign to his mind, awoke within him; and with
      joyous tumult of heart he saw life opening its wide vistas before him, and
      he labored on manfully to repair the losses of the past, and to prepare
      himself for greater usefulness in times to come. He felt in himself a
      stronger and fuller manhood, as if the great arteries of the vast
      universal world-life pulsed in his own being. The drowsy, indolent
      existence at home appeared like a dull remote dream from which he had
      awaked, and he blessed the destiny which, by its very sternness, had
      mercifully saved him; he blessed her, too, who, from the very want of love
      for him, had, perhaps, made him worthier of love.
    </p>
    <p>
      The years flew rapidly. Society had flung its doors open to him, and what
      was more, he had found some warm friends, in whose houses he could come
      and go at pleasure. He enjoyed keenly the privilege of daily association
      with high-minded and refined women; their eager activity of intellect
      stimulated him, their exquisite ethereal grace and their delicately
      chiseled beauty satisfied his aesthetic cravings, and the responsive
      vivacity of their nature prepared him ever new surprises. He felt a
      strange fascination in the presence of these women, and the conviction
      grew upon him that their type of womanhood was superior to any he had
      hitherto known. And by way of refuting his own argument, he would draw
      from his pocket-book the photograph of Bertha, which had a secret
      compartment there all to itself, and, gazing tenderly at it, would eagerly
      defend her against the disparaging reflections which the involuntary
      comparison had provoked. And still, how could he help seeing that her
      features, though well molded, lacked animation; that her eye, with its
      deep, trustful glance, was not brilliant, and that the calm earnestness of
      her face, when compared with the bright, intellectual beauty of his
      present friends, appeared pale and simple, like a violet in a bouquet of
      vividly colored roses? It gave him a quick pang, when, at times, he was
      forced to admit this; nevertheless, it was the truth.
    </p>
    <p>
      After six years of residence in America, Ralph had gained a very high
      reputation as a journalist of rare culture and ability, and, in 1867 he
      was sent to the World&rsquo;s Exhibition in Paris, as correspondent of the paper
      on which he had during all these years been employed. What wonder, then,
      that he started for Europe a few weeks before his presence was needed in
      the imperial city, and that he steered his course directly toward the
      fjord valley where Bertha had her home? It was she who had bidden him
      Godspeed when he fled from the land of his birth, and she, too, should
      receive his first greeting on his return.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      V.
    </h2>
    <p>
      The sun had fortified itself behind a citadel of flaming clouds, and the
      upper forest region shone with a strange ethereal glow, while the lower
      plains were wrapped in shadow; but the shadow itself had a strong
      suffusion of color. The mountain peaks rose cold and blue in the distance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph, having inquired his way of the boatman who had landed him at the
      pier, walked rapidly along the beach, with a small valise in his hand, and
      a light summer overcoat flung over his shoulder. Many half-thoughts grazed
      his mind, and ere the first had taken shape, the second, and the third
      came and chased it away. And still they all in some fashion had reference
      to Bertha; for in a misty, abstract way, she filled his whole mind; but
      for some indefinable reason, he was afraid to give free rein to the
      sentiment which lurked in the remoter corners of his soul.
    </p>
    <p>
      Onward he hastened, while his heart throbbed with the quickening tempo of
      mingled expectation and fear. Now and then one of those chill gusts of air
      which seem to be careering about aimlessly in the atmosphere during early
      summer, would strike into his face, and recall him to a keener
      self-consciousness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph concluded, from his increasing agitation, that he must be very near
      Bertha&rsquo;s home. He stopped and looked around him. He saw a large maple at
      the roadside, some thirty steps from where he was standing, and the girl
      who was sitting under it, resting her head in her hand and gazing out over
      the sea, he recognized in an instant to be Bertha. He sprang up on the
      road, not crossing, however, her line of vision, and approached her
      noiselessly from behind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bertha,&rdquo; he whispered.
    </p>
    <p>
      She gave a little joyous cry, sprang up, and made a gesture as if to throw
      herself in his arms; then suddenly checked herself, blushed crimson, and
      moved a step backward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You came so suddenly,&rdquo; she murmured.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Bertha,&rdquo; cried he (and the full bass of his voice rang through her
      very soul), &ldquo;have I gone into exile and waited these many years for so
      cold a welcome?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have changed so much, Ralph,&rdquo; she answered, with that old grave smile
      which he knew so well, and stretched out both her hands toward him. &ldquo;And I
      have thought of you so much since you went away, and blamed myself because
      I had judged you so harshly, and wondered that you could listen to me so
      patiently, and never bear me any malice for what I said.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you had said a word less,&rdquo; declared Ralph, seating himself at her side
      on the greensward, &ldquo;or if you had varnished it over with politeness, then
      you would probably have failed to produce any effect and I should not have
      been burdened with that heavy debt of gratitude which I now owe you. I was
      a pretty thick-skinned animal in those days, Bertha. You said the right
      word at the right moment; you gave me a hold and a good piece of advice,
      which my own ingenuity would never have suggested to me. I will not thank
      you, because, in so grave a case as this, spoken thanks sound like a mere
      mockery. Whatever I am, Bertha, and whatever I may hope to be, I owe it
      all to that hour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She listened with rapture to the manly assurance of his voice; her eyes
      dwelt with unspeakable joy upon his strong, bronzed features, his full
      thick blonde beard, and the vigorous proportions of his frame. Many and
      many a time during his absence had she wondered how he would look if he
      ever came back, and with that minute conscientiousness which, as it were,
      pervaded her whole character, she had held herself responsible before God
      for his fate, prayed for him, and trembled lest evil powers should gain
      the ascendency over his soul.
    </p>
    <p>
      On their way to the house they talked together of many things, but in a
      guarded, cautious fashion, and without the cheerful abandonment of former
      years. They both, as it were, groped their way carefully in each other&rsquo;s
      minds, and each vaguely felt that there was something in the other&rsquo;s
      thought which it was not well to touch unbidden. Bertha saw that all her
      fears for him had been groundless, and his very appearance lifted the
      whole weight of responsibility from her breast; and still, did she rejoice
      at her deliverance from her burden? Ah, no, in this moment she knew that
      that which she had foolishly cherished as the best and noblest part of
      herself, had been but a selfish need of her own heart. She feared that she
      had only taken that interest in him which one feels in a thing of one&rsquo;s
      own making; and now, when she saw that he had risen quite above her; that
      he was free and strong, and could have no more need of her, she had,
      instead of generous pleasure at his success, but a painful sense of
      emptiness, as if something very dear had been taken from her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ralph, too, was loath to analyze the impression his old love made upon
      him. His feelings were of so complex a nature, he was anxious to keep his
      more magnanimous impulses active, and he strove hard to convince himself
      that she was still the same to him as she had been before they had ever
      parted. But, alas! though the heart be warm and generous, the eye is a
      merciless critic. And the man who had moved on the wide arena of the
      world, whose mind had housed the large thoughts of this century, and
      expanded with its invigorating breath,&mdash;was he to blame because he
      had unconsciously outgrown his old provincial self, and could no more
      judge by its standards?
    </p>
    <p>
      Bertha&rsquo;s father was a peasant, but he had, by his lumber trade, acquired
      what in Norway was called a very handsome fortune. He received his guest
      with dignified reserve, and Ralph thought he detected in his eyes a
      lurking look of distrust. &ldquo;I know your errand,&rdquo; that look seemed to say,
      &ldquo;but you had better give it up at once. It will be of no use for you to
      try.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And after supper, as Ralph and Bertha sat talking confidingly with each
      other at the window, he sent his daughter a quick, sharp glance, and then,
      without ceremony, commanded her to go to bed. Ralph&rsquo;s heart gave a great
      thump within him; not because he feared the old man, but because his
      words, as well as his glances, revealed to him the sad history of these
      long, patient years. He doubted no longer that the love which he had once
      so ardently desired was his at last; and he made a silent vow that, come
      what might, he would remain faithful.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he came down to breakfast the next morning, he found Bertha sitting at
      the window, engaged in hemming what appeared to be a rough kitchen towel.
      She bent eagerly over her work, and only a vivid flush upon her cheek told
      him that she had noticed his coming. He took a chair, seated himself
      opposite her, and bade her &ldquo;good-morning.&rdquo; She raised her head, and showed
      him a sweet, troubled countenance, which the early sunlight illumined with
      a high spiritual beauty. It reminded him forcibly of those pale,
      sweet-faced saints of Fra Angelico, with whom the frail flesh seems ever
      on the point of yielding to the ardent aspirations of the spirit. And
      still, even in this moment he could not prevent his eyes from observing
      that one side of her forefinger was rough from sewing, and that the
      whiteness of her arm, which the loose sleeves displayed, contrasted
      strongly with the browned and sun-burned complexion of her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      After breakfast they again walked together on the beach, and Ralph, having
      once formed his resolution, now talked freely of the New World&mdash;of
      his sphere of activity there; of his friends and of his plans for the
      future; and she listened to him with a mild, perplexed look in her eyes,
      as if trying vainly to follow the flight of his thoughts. And he wondered,
      with secret dismay, whether she was still the same strong, brave-hearted
      girl whom he had once accounted almost bold; whether the life in this
      narrow valley, amid a hundred petty and depressing cares, had not cramped
      her spiritual growth, and narrowed the sphere of her thought. Or was she
      still the same, and was it only he who had changed? At last he gave
      utterance to his wonder, and she answered him in those grave, earnest
      tones which seemed in themselves to be half a refutation of his doubts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was easy for me to give you daring advice, then, Ralph,&rdquo; she said.
      &ldquo;Like most school-girls, I thought that life was a great and glorious
      thing, and that happiness was a fruit which hung within reach of every
      hand. Now I have lived for six years trying single-handed to relieve the
      want and suffering of the needy people with whom I come in contact, and
      their squalor and wretchedness have sickened me, and, what is still worse,
      I feel that all I can do is as a drop in the ocean, and after all, amounts
      to nothing. I know I am no longer the same reckless girl, who, with the
      very best intention, sent you wandering through the wide world; and I
      thank God that it proved to be for your good, although the whole now
      appears quite incredible to me. My thoughts have moved so long within the
      narrow circle of these mountains that they have lost their youthful
      elasticity, and can no more rise above them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ralph detected, in the midst of her despondency, a spark of her former
      fire, and grew eloquent in his endeavors to persuade her that she was
      unjust to herself, and that there was but a wider sphere of life needed to
      develop all the latent powers of her rich nature.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the dinner-table, her father again sat eyeing his guest with that same
      cold look of distrust and suspicion. And when the meal was at an end, he
      rose abruptly and called his daughter into another room. Presently Ralph
      heard his angry voice resounding through the house, interrupted now and
      then by a woman&rsquo;s sobs, and a subdued, passionate pleading. When Bertha
      again entered the room, her eyes were very red, and he saw that she had
      been weeping. She threw a shawl over her shoulders, beckoned to him with
      her hand, and he arose and followed her. She led the way silently until
      they reached a thick copse of birch and alder near the strand. She dropped
      down upon a bench between two trees, and he took his seat at her side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ralph,&rdquo; began she, with a visible effort, &ldquo;I hardly know what to say to
      you; but there is something which I must tell you&mdash;my father wishes
      you to leave us at once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And YOU, Bertha?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well&mdash;yes&mdash;I wish it too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She saw the painful shock which her words gave him, and she strove hard to
      speak. Her lips trembled, her eyes became suffused with tears, which grew
      and grew, but never fell; she could not utter a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Bertha,&rdquo; answered he, with a little quiver in his voice, &ldquo;if you,
      too, wish me to go, I shall not tarry. Good-bye.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He rose quickly, and, with averted face, held out his hand to her; but as
      she made no motion to grasp the hand, he began distractedly to button his
      coat, and moved slowly away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ralph.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He turned sharply, and, before he knew it, she lay sobbing upon his
      breast.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ralph,&rdquo; she murmured, while the tears almost choked her words, &ldquo;I could
      not have you leave me thus. It is hard enough&mdash;it is hard enough&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is hard, beloved?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She raised her head abruptly, and turned upon him a gaze full of hope and
      doubt, and sweet perplexity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, no, you do not love me,&rdquo; she whispered, sadly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why should I come to seek you, after these many years, dearest, if I did
      not wish to make you my wife before God and men? Why should I&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, yes, I know,&rdquo; she interrupted him with a fresh fit of weeping, &ldquo;you
      are too good and honest to wish to throw me away, now when you have seen
      how my soul has hungered for the sight of you these many years, how even
      now I cling to you with a despairing clutch. But you cannot disguise
      yourself, Ralph, and I saw from the first moment that you loved me no
      more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not be such an unreasonable child,&rdquo; he remonstrated, feebly. &ldquo;I do not
      love you with the wild, irrational passion of former years; but I have the
      tenderest regard for you, and my heart warms at the sight of your sweet
      face, and I shall do all in my power to make you as happy as any man can
      make you who&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who does not love me,&rdquo; she finished.
    </p>
    <p>
      A sudden shudder seemed to shake her whole frame, and she drew herself
      more tightly up to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, no,&rdquo; she continued, after a while, sinking back upon her seat. &ldquo;It is
      a hopeless thing to compel a reluctant heart. I will accept no sacrifice
      from you. You owe me nothing, for you have acted toward me honestly and
      uprightly, and I shall be a stronger, or&mdash;at least&mdash;a better
      woman for what you gave me&mdash;and&mdash;for what you could not give me,
      even though you would.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Bertha,&rdquo; exclaimed he, looking mournfully at her, &ldquo;it is not true
      when you say that I owe you nothing. Six years ago, when first I wooed
      you, you could not return my love, and you sent me out into the world, and
      even refused to accept any pledge or promise for the future.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you returned,&rdquo; she responded, &ldquo;a man, such as my hope had pictured
      you; but, while I had almost been standing still, you had outgrown me, and
      outgrown your old self, and, with your old self, outgrown its love for me,
      for your love was not of your new self, but of the old. Alas! it is a sad
      tale, but it is true.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She spoke gravely now, and with a steadier voice, but her eyes hung upon
      his face with an eager look of expectation, as if yearning to detect there
      some gleam of hope, some contradiction of the dismal truth. He read that
      look aright, and it pierced him like a sharp sword. He made a brave effort
      to respond to its appeal, but his features seemed hard as stone, and he
      could only cry out against his destiny, and bewail his misfortune and
      hers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Toward evening, Ralph was sitting in an open boat, listening to the
      measured oar-strokes of the boatmen who were rowing him out to the nearest
      stopping-place of the steamer. The mountains lifted their great placid
      heads up among the sun-bathed clouds, and the fjord opened its cool depths
      as if to make room for their vast reflections. Ralph felt as if he were
      floating in the midst of the blue infinite space, and, with the strength
      which this feeling inspired, he tried to face boldly the thought from
      which he had but a moment ago shrunk as from something hopelessly sad and
      perplexing.
    </p>
    <p>
      And in that hour he looked fearlessly into the gulf which separates the
      New World from the Old. He had hoped to bridge it; but, alas! it cannot be
      bridged.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      A SCIENTIFIC VAGABOND.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      I.
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE steamer which as far back as 1860 passed every week on its northward
      way up along the coast of Norway, was of a very sociable turn of mind. It
      ran with much shrieking and needless bluster in and out the calm, winding
      fjords, paid unceremonious little visits in every out-of-the-way nook and
      bay, dropped now and then a black heap of coal into the shining water, and
      sent thick volleys of smoke and shrill little echoes careering aimlessly
      among the mountains. It seemed, on the whole, from an aesthetic point of
      view, an objectionable phenomenon&mdash;a blot upon the perfect summer
      day. By the inhabitants, however, of these remote regions (with the
      exception of a few obstinate individuals, who had at first looked upon it
      as the sure herald of dooms-day, and still were vaguely wondering what the
      world was coming to,) it was regarded in a very different light. This
      choleric little monster was to them a friendly and welcome visitor, which
      established their connection with the outside world, and gave them a proud
      consciousness of living in the very heart of civilization. Therefore, on
      steamboat days they flocked en masse down on the piers, and, with an
      ever-fresh sense of novelty, greeted the approaching boat with lively
      cheers, with firing of muskets and waving of handkerchiefs. The men of
      condition, as the judge, the sheriff, and the parson, whose dignity
      forbade them to receive the steamer in person, contented themselves with
      watching it through an opera-glass from their balconies; and if a high
      official was known to be on board, they perhaps displayed the national
      banner from their flag-poles, as a delicate compliment to their superior.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the Rev. Mr. Oddson, the parson of whom I have to speak, had this day
      yielded to the gentle urgings of his daughters (as, indeed, he always
      did), and had with them boarded the steamer to receive his nephew, Arnfinn
      Vording, who was returning from the university for his summer vacation.
      And now they had him between them in their pretty white-painted parsonage
      boat, with the blue line along the gunwale, beleaguering him with eager
      questions about friends and relatives in the capital, chums, university
      sports, and a medley of other things interesting to young ladies who have
      a collegian for a cousin. His uncle was charitable enough to check his own
      curiosity about the nephew&rsquo;s progress in the arts and sciences, and the
      result of his recent examinations, till he should have become fairly
      settled under his roof; and Arnfinn, who, in spite of his natural
      brightness and ready humor, was anything but a &ldquo;dig,&rdquo; was grateful for the
      respite.
    </p>
    <p>
      The parsonage lay snugly nestled at the end of the bay, shining
      contentedly through the green foliage from a multitude of small
      sun-smitten windows. Its pinkish whitewash, which was peeling off from
      long exposure to the weather, was in cheerful contrast to the broad black
      surface of the roof, with its glazed tiles, and the starlings&rsquo; nests under
      the chimney-tops. The thick-leaved maples and walnut-trees which grew in
      random clusters about the walls seemed loftily conscious of standing there
      for purposes of protection; for, wherever their long-fingered branches
      happened to graze the roof, it was always with a touch, light, graceful,
      and airily caressing. The irregularly paved yard was inclosed on two sides
      by the main building, and on the third by a species of log cabin, which,
      in Norway, is called a brew-house; but toward the west the view was but
      slightly obscured by an elevated pigeon cot and a clump of birches,
      through whose sparse leaves the fjord beneath sent its rapid jets and
      gleams of light, and its strange suggestions of distance, peace and
      unaccountable gladness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Arnfinn Vording&rsquo;s career had presented that subtle combination of farce
      and tragedy which most human lives are apt to be; and if the tragic
      element had during his early years been preponderating, he was hardly
      himself aware of it; for he had been too young at the death of his parents
      to feel that keenness of grief which the same privation would have given
      him at a later period of his life. It might have been humiliating to
      confess it, but it was nevertheless true that the terror he had once
      sustained on being pursued by a furious bull was much more vivid in his
      memory than the vague wonder and depression which had filled his mind at
      seeing his mother so suddenly stricken with age, as she lay motionless in
      her white robes in the front parlor. Since then his uncle, who was his
      guardian and nearest relative, had taken him into his family, had
      instructed him with his own daughters, and finally sent him to the
      University, leaving the little fortune which he had inherited to
      accumulate for future use. Arnfinn had a painfully distinct recollection
      of his early hardships in trying to acquire that soft pronunciation of the
      r which is peculiar to the western fjord districts of Norway, and which he
      admired so much in his cousins; for the merry-eyed Inga, who was less
      scrupulous by a good deal than her older sister, Augusta, had from the
      beginning persisted in interpreting their relation of cousinship as an
      unbounded privilege on her part to ridicule him for his personal
      peculiarities, and especially for his harsh r and his broad eastern
      accent. Her ridicule was always very good-natured, to be sure, but
      therefore no less annoying.
    </p>
    <p>
      But&mdash;such is the perverseness of human nature&mdash;in spite of a
      series of apparent rebuffs, interrupted now and then by fits of violent
      attachment, Arnfinn had early selected this dimpled and yellow-haired
      young girl, with her piquant little nose, for his favorite cousin. It was
      the prospect of seeing her which, above all else, had lent, in
      anticipation, an altogether new radiance to the day when he should present
      himself in his home with the long-tasseled student cap on his head, the
      unnecessary &ldquo;pinchers&rdquo; on his nose, and with the other traditional
      paraphernalia of the Norwegian student. That great day had now come;
      Arnfinn sat at Inga&rsquo;s side playing with her white fingers, which lay
      resting on his knee, and covering the depth of his feeling with harmless
      banter about her &ldquo;amusingly unclassical little nose.&rdquo; He had once detected
      her, when a child, standing before a mirror, and pinching this unhappy
      feature in the middle, in the hope of making it &ldquo;like Augusta&rsquo;s;&rdquo; and
      since then he had no longer felt so utterly defenseless whenever his own
      foibles were attacked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what of your friend, Arnfinn?&rdquo; exclaimed Inga, as she ran up the
      stairs of the pier. &ldquo;He of whom you have written so much. I have been busy
      all the morning making the blue guest-chamber ready for him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Please, cousin,&rdquo; answered the student, in a tone of mock entreaty, &ldquo;only
      an hour&rsquo;s respite! If we are to talk about Strand we must make a day of
      it, you know. And just now it seems so grand to be at home, and with you,
      that I would rather not admit even so genial a subject as Strand to share
      my selfish happiness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, yes, you are right. Happiness is too often selfish. But tell me only
      why he didn&rsquo;t come and I&rsquo;ll release you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He IS coming.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! And when?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I don&rsquo;t know. He preferred to take the journey on foot, and he may
      be here at almost any time. But, as I have told you, he is very uncertain.
      If he should happen to make the acquaintance of some interesting snipe, or
      crane, or plover, he may prefer its company to ours, and then there is no
      counting on him any longer. He may be as likely to turn up at the North
      Pole as at the Gran Parsonage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How very singular. You don&rsquo;t know how curious I am to see him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Inga walked on in silence under the sunny birches which grew along the
      road, trying vainly to picture to herself this strange phenomenon of a
      man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I brought his book,&rdquo; remarked Arnfinn, making a gigantic effort to be
      generous, for he felt dim stirrings of jealousy within him. &ldquo;If you care
      to read it, I think it will explain him to you better than anything I
      could say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      II.
    </h2>
    <p>
      The Oddsons were certainly a happy family though not by any means a
      harmonious one. The excellent pastor, who was himself neutrally good,
      orthodox, and kind-hearted, had often, in the privacy of his own thought,
      wondered what hidden ancestral influences there might have been at work in
      giving a man so peaceable and inoffensive as himself two daughters of such
      strongly defined individuality. There was Augusta, the elder, who was what
      Arnfinn called &ldquo;indiscriminately reformatory,&rdquo; and had a universal desire
      to improve everything, from the Government down to agricultural implements
      and preserve jars. As long as she was content to expend the surplus
      energy, which seemed to accumulate within her through the long eventless
      winters, upon the Zulu Mission, and other legitimate objects, the pastor
      thought it all harmless enough; although, to be sure, her enthusiasm for
      those naked and howling savages did at times strike him as being somewhat
      extravagant. But when occasionally, in her own innocent way, she put both
      his patience and his orthodoxy to the test by her exceedingly puzzling
      questions, then he could not, in the depth of his heart, restrain the wish
      that she might have been more like other young girls, and less ardently
      solicitous about the fate of her kind. Affectionate and indulgent,
      however, as the pastor was, he would often, in the next moment, do penance
      for his unregenerate thought, and thank God for having made her so fair to
      behold, so pure, and so noble-hearted.
    </p>
    <p>
      Toward Arnfinn, Augusta had, although of his own age, early assumed a kind
      of elder-sisterly relation; she had been his comforter during all the
      trials of his boyhood; had yielded him her sympathy with that eager
      impulse which lay so deep in her nature, and had felt forlorn when life
      had called him away to where her words of comfort could not reach him. But
      when once she had hinted this to her father, he had pedantically convinced
      her that her feeling was unchristian, and Inga had playfully remarked that
      the hope that some one might soon find the open Polar Sea would go far
      toward consoling her for her loss; for Augusta had glorious visions at
      that time of the open Polar Sea. Now, the Polar Sea, and many other
      things, far nearer and dearer, had been forced into uneasy forgetfulness;
      and Arnfinn was once more with her, no longer a child, and no longer
      appealing to her for aid and sympathy; man enough, apparently, to have
      outgrown his boyish needs and still boy enough to be ashamed of having
      ever had them.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the third Sunday after Arnfinn&rsquo;s return. He and Augusta were
      climbing the hillside to the &ldquo;Giant&rsquo;s Hood,&rdquo; from whence they had a wide
      view of the fjord, and could see the sun trailing its long bridge of flame
      upon the water. It was Inga&rsquo;s week in the kitchen, therefore her sister
      was Arnfinn&rsquo;s companion. As they reached the crest of the &ldquo;Hood,&rdquo; Augusta
      seated herself on a flat bowlder, and the young student flung himself on a
      patch of greensward at her feet. The intense light of the late sun fell
      upon the girl&rsquo;s unconscious face, and Arnfinn lay, gazing up into it, and
      wondering at its rare beauty; but he saw only the clean cut of its
      features and the purity of its form, being too shallow to recognize the
      strong and heroic soul which had struggled so long for utterance in the
      life of which he had been a blind and unmindful witness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gracious, how beautiful you are, cousin!&rdquo; he broke forth, heedlessly,
      striking his leg with his slender cane; &ldquo;pity you were not born a queen;
      you would be equal to almost anything, even if it were to discover the
      Polar Sea.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought you were looking at the sun, Arnfinn,&rdquo; answered she, smiling
      reluctantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And so I am, cousin,&rdquo; laughed he, with an other-emphatic slap of his
      boot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That compliment is rather stale.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But the opportunity was too tempting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind, I will excuse you from further efforts. Turn around and
      notice that wonderful purple halo which is hovering over the forests
      below. Isn&rsquo;t it glorious?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, don&rsquo;t let us be solemn, pray. The sun I have seen a thousand times
      before, but you I have seen very seldom of late. Somehow, since I returned
      this time, you seem to keep me at a distance. You no longer confide to me
      your great plans for the abolishment of war, and the improvement of
      mankind generally. Why don&rsquo;t you tell me whether you have as yet succeeded
      in convincing the peasants that cleanliness is a cardinal virtue, that
      hawthorn hedges are more picturesque than rail fences, and that salt meat
      is a very indigestible article?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know the fate of my reforms, from long experience,&rdquo; she answered,
      with the same sad, sweet smile. &ldquo;I am afraid there must be some thing
      radically wrong about my methods; and, moreover, I know that your
      aspirations and mine are no longer the same, if they ever have been, and I
      am not ungenerous enough to force you to feign an interest which you do
      not feel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I know you think me flippant and boyish,&rdquo; retorted he, with sudden
      energy, and tossing a stone down into the gulf below. &ldquo;But, by the way, my
      friend Strand, if he ever comes, would be just the man for you. He has
      quite as many hobbies as you have, and, what is more, he has a profound
      respect for hobbies in general, and is universally charitable toward those
      of others.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your friend is a great man,&rdquo; said the girl, earnestly. &ldquo;I have read his
      book on `The Wading Birds of the Norwegian Highlands,&rsquo; and none but a
      great man could have written it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is an odd stick, but, for all that, a capital fellow; and I have no
      doubt you would get on admirably with him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this moment the conversation was interrupted by the appearance of the
      pastor&rsquo;s man, Hans, who came to tell the &ldquo;young miss&rdquo; that there was a big
      tramp hovering about the barns in the &ldquo;out-fields,&rdquo; where he had been
      sleeping during the last three nights. He was a dangerous character, Hans
      thought, at least judging from his looks, and it was hardly safe for the
      young miss to be roaming about the fields at night as long as he was in
      the neighborhood.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you speak to the pastor, and have him arrested?&rdquo; said Arnfinn,
      impatient of Hans&rsquo;s long-winded recital.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, say nothing to father,&rdquo; demanded Augusta, eagerly. &ldquo;Why should
      you arrest a poor man as long as he does nothing worse than sleep in the
      barns in the out-fields?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As you say, miss,&rdquo; retorted Hans, and departed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The moon came up pale and mist-like over the eastern mountain ridges,
      struggled for a few brief moments feebly with the sunlight, and then
      vanished.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is strange,&rdquo; said Arnfinn, &ldquo;how everything reminds me of Strand
      to-night. What gloriously absurd apostrophes to the moon he could make! I
      have not told you, cousin, of a very singular gift which he possesses. He
      can attract all kinds of birds and wild animals to himself; he can imitate
      their voices, and they flock around him, as if he were one of them,
      without fear of harm.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How delightful,&rdquo; cried Augusta, with sudden animation. &ldquo;What a glorious
      man your friend must be!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because the snipes and the wild ducks like him? You seem to have greater
      confidence in their judgment than in mine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course I have&mdash;at least as long as you persist in joking. But,
      jesting aside, what a wondrously beautiful life he must lead whom Nature
      takes thus into her confidence; who has, as it were, an inner and subtler
      sense, corresponding to each grosser and external one; who is keen-sighted
      enough to read the character of every individual beast, and has ears
      sensitive to the full pathos of joy or sorrow in the song of the birds
      that inhabit our woodlands.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whether he has any such second set of senses as you speak of, I don&rsquo;t
      know; but there can be no doubt that his familiarity, not to say intimacy,
      with birds and beasts gives him a great advantage as a naturalist. I
      suppose you know that his little book has been translated into French, and
      rewarded with the gold medal of the Academy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush! What is that?&rdquo; Augusta sprang up, and held her hand to her ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some love-lorn mountain-cock playing yonder in the pine copse,&rdquo; suggested
      Arnfinn, amused at his cousin&rsquo;s eagerness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You silly boy! Don&rsquo;t you know the mountain-cock never plays except at
      sunrise?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He would have a sorry time of it now, then, when there IS no sunrise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And so he has; he does not play except in early spring.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The noise, at first faint, now grew louder. It began with a series of
      mellow, plaintive clucks that followed thickly one upon another, like
      smooth pearls of sound that rolled through the throat in a continuous
      current; then came a few sharp notes as of a large bird that snaps his
      bill; then a long, half-melodious rumbling, intermingled with cacklings
      and snaps, and at last, a sort of diminuendo movement of the same round,
      pearly clucks. There was a whizzing of wing-beats in the air; two large
      birds swept over their heads and struck down into the copse whence the
      sound had issued.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is indeed a most singular thing,&rdquo; said Augusta, under her breath,
      and with wide-eyed wonder. &ldquo;Let us go nearer, and see what it can be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sure I can go if you can,&rdquo; responded Arnfinn, not any too eagerly.
      &ldquo;Give me your hand, and we can climb the better.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As they approached the pine copse, which projected like a promontory from
      the line of the denser forest, the noise ceased, and only the plaintive
      whistling of a mountain-hen, calling her scattered young together, and now
      and then the shrill response of a snipe to the cry of its lonely mate,
      fell upon the summer night, not as an interruption, but as an outgrowth of
      the very silence. Augusta stole with soundless tread through the
      transparent gloom which lingered under those huge black crowns, and
      Arnfinn followed impatiently after. Suddenly she motioned to him to stand
      still, and herself bent forward in an attitude of surprise and eager
      observation. On the ground, some fifty steps from where she was stationed,
      she saw a man stretched out full length, with a knapsack under his head,
      and surrounded by a flock of downy, half-grown birds, which responded with
      a low, anxious piping to his alluring cluck, then scattered with sudden
      alarm, only to return again in the same curious, cautious fashion as
      before. Now and then there was a great flapping of wings in the trees
      overhead, and a heavy brown and black speckled mountain-hen alighted close
      to the man&rsquo;s head, stretched out her neck toward him, cocked her head,
      called her scattered brood together, and departed with slow and deliberate
      wing-beats.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again there was a frightened flutter overhead, a shrill anxious whistle
      rose in the air, and all was silence. Augusta had stepped on a dry branch&mdash;it
      had broken under her weight&mdash;hence the sudden confusion and flight.
      The unknown man had sprung up, and his eye, after a moment&rsquo;s search, had
      found the dark, beautiful face peering forth behind the red fir-trunk. He
      did not speak or salute her; he greeted her with silent joy, as one greets
      a wondrous vision which is too frail and bright for consciousness to
      grasp, which is lost the very instant one is conscious of seeing. But,
      while to the girl the sight, as it were, hung trembling in the range of
      mere physical perception, while its suddenness held it aloof from moral
      reflection, there came a great shout from behind, and Arnfinn, whom in her
      surprise she had quite forgotten, came bounding forward, grasping the
      stranger by the hand with much vigor, laughing heartily, and pouring forth
      a confused stream of delighted interjections, borrowed from all manner of
      classical and unclassical tongues.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Strand! Strand!&rdquo; he cried, when the first tumult of excitement had
      subsided; &ldquo;you most marvelous and incomprehensible Strand! From what
      region of heaven or earth did you jump down into our prosaic neighborhood?
      And what in the world possessed you to choose our barns as the centre of
      your operations, and nearly put me to the necessity of having you arrested
      for vagrancy? How I do regret that Cousin Augusta&rsquo;s entreaties mollified
      my heart toward you. Pardon me, I have not introduced you. This is my
      cousin, Miss Oddson, and this is my miraculous friend, the world-renowned
      author, vagrant, and naturalist, Mr. Marcus Strand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Strand stepped forward, made a deep but somewhat awkward bow, and was
      dimly aware that a small soft hand was extended to him, and, in the next
      moment, was enclosed in his own broad and voluminous palm. He grasped it
      firmly, and, in one of those profound abstractions into which he was apt
      to fall when under the sway of a strong impression, pressed it with
      increasing cordiality, while he endeavored to find fitting answers to
      Arnfinn&rsquo;s multifarious questions.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To tell the truth, Vording,&rdquo; he said, in a deep, full-ringing bass, &ldquo;I
      didn&rsquo;t know that these were your cousin&rsquo;s barns&mdash;I mean that your
      uncle&rdquo;&mdash;giving the unhappy hand an emphatic shake&mdash;&ldquo;inhabited
      these barns.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, thank heaven, we are not quite reduced to that,&rdquo; cried Arnfinn,
      gayly; &ldquo;we still boast a parsonage, as you will presently discover, and a
      very bright and cozy one, to boot. But, whatever you do, have the goodness
      to release Augusta&rsquo;s hand. Don&rsquo;t you see how desperately she is
      struggling, poor thing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Strand dropped the hand as if it had been a hot coal, blushed to the edge
      of his hair, and made another profound reverence. He was a tall,
      huge-limbed youth, with a frame of gigantic mold, and a large, blonde,
      shaggy head, like that of some good-natured antediluvian animal, which
      might feel the disadvantages of its size amid the puny beings of this
      later stage of creation. There was a frank directness in his gaze, and an
      unconsciousness of self, which made him very winning, and which could not
      fail of its effect upon a girl who, like Augusta, was fond of the
      uncommon, and hated smooth, facile and well-tailored young men, with the
      labels of society and fashion upon their coats, their mustaches, and their
      speech. And Strand, with his large sun-burned face, his wild-growing
      beard, blue woolen shirt, top boots, and unkempt appearance generally, was
      a sufficiently startling phenomenon to satisfy even so exacting a fancy as
      hers; for, after reading his book about the Wading Birds, she had made up
      her mind that he must have few points of resemblance to the men who had
      hitherto formed part of her own small world, although she had not until
      now decided just in what way he was to differ.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Suppose I help you carry your knapsack,&rdquo; said Arnfinn, who was flitting
      about like a small nimble spaniel trying to make friends with some large,
      good-natured Newfoundland. &ldquo;You must be very tired, having roamed about in
      this Quixotic fashion!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I thank you,&rdquo; responded Strand, with an incredulous laugh, glancing
      alternately from Arnfinn to the knapsack, as if estimating their
      proportionate weight. &ldquo;I am afraid you would rue your bargain if I
      accepted it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose you have a great many stuffed birds at home,&rdquo; remarked the
      girl, looking with self-forgetful admiration at the large brawny figure.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I have hardly any,&rdquo; answered he, seating himself on the ground, and
      pulling a thick note-book from his pocket. &ldquo;I prefer live creatures. Their
      anatomical and physiological peculiarities have been studied by others,
      and volumes have been written about them. It is their psychological
      traits, ii you will allow the expression, which interest me, and those I
      can only get at while they are alive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How delightful!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Some minutes later they were all on their way to the Parsonage. The sun,
      in spite of its mid-summer wakefulness, was getting red-eyed and drowsy,
      and the purple mists which hung in scattered fragments upon the forest
      below had lost something of their deep-tinged brilliancy. But Augusta,
      quite blind to the weakened light effects, looked out upon the broad
      landscape in ecstasy, and, appealing to her more apathetic companions,
      invited them to share her joy at the beauty of the faint-flushed summer
      night.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are getting quite dithyrambic, my dear,&rdquo; remarked Arnfinn, with an
      air of cousinly superiority, which he felt was eminently becoming to him;
      and Augusta looked up with quick surprise, then smiled in an absent way,
      and forgot what she had been saying. She had no suspicion but that her
      enthusiasm had been all for the sunset.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      III.
    </h2>
    <p>
      In a life so outwardly barren and monotonous as Augusta&rsquo;s&mdash;a life in
      which the small external events were so firmly interwoven with the subtler
      threads of yearnings, wants, and desires&mdash;the introduction of so
      large and novel a fact as Marcus Strand would naturally produce some
      perceptible result. It was that deplorable inward restlessness of hers,
      she reasoned, which had hitherto made her existence seem so empty and
      unsatisfactory; but now his presence filled the hours, and the newness of
      his words, his manner, and his whole person afforded inexhaustible
      material for thought. It was now a week since his arrival, and while
      Arnfinn and Inga chatted at leisure, drew caricatures, or read aloud to
      each other in some shady nook of the garden, she and Strand would roam
      along the beach, filling the vast unclouded horizon with large glowing
      images of the future of the human race. He always listened in sympathetic
      silence while she unfolded to him her often childishly daring schemes for
      the amelioration of suffering and the righting of social wrongs; and when
      she had finished, and he met the earnest appeal of her dark eye, there
      would often be a pause, during which each, with a half unconscious lapse
      from the impersonal, would feel more keenly the joy of this new and
      delicious mental companionship. And when at length he answered, sometimes
      gently refuting and sometimes assenting to her proposition, it was always
      with a slow, deliberate earnestness, as if he felt but her deep sincerity,
      and forgot for the moment her sex, her youth, and her inexperience. It was
      just this kind of fellowship for which she had hungered so long, and her
      heart went out with a great gratitude toward this strong and generous man,
      who was willing to recognize her humanity, and to respond with an
      ever-ready frankness, unmixed with petty suspicions and second thoughts,
      to the eager needs of her half-starved nature. It is quite characteristic,
      too, of the type of womanhood which Augusta represents (and with which
      this broad continent of ours abounds), that, with her habitual disregard
      of appearances, she would have scorned the notion that their intercourse
      had any ultimate end beyond that of mutual pleasure and instruction.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was early in the morning in the third week of Strand&rsquo;s stay at the
      Parsonage. A heavy dew had fallen during the night, and each tiny
      grass-blade glistened in the sun, bending under the weight of its liquid
      diamond. The birds were improvising a miniature symphony in the birches at
      the end of the garden; the song-thrush warbled with a sweet melancholy his
      long-drawn contralto notes; the lark, like a prima donna, hovering
      conspicuously in mid air, poured forth her joyous soprano solo; and the
      robin, quite unmindful of the tempo, filled out the pauses with his
      thoughtless staccato chirp. Augusta, who was herself the early bird of the
      pastor&rsquo;s family, had paid a visit to the little bath-house down at the
      brook, and was now hurrying homeward, her heavy black hair confined in a
      delicate muslin hood, and her lithe form hastily wrapped in a loose
      morning gown. She had paused for a moment under the birches to listen to
      the song of the lark, when suddenly a low, half articulate sound, very
      unlike the voice of a bird, arrested her attention; she raised her eyes,
      and saw Strand sitting in the top of a tree, apparently conversing with
      himself, or with some tiny thing which he held in his hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, yes, you poor little sickly thing!&rdquo; she heard him mutter. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you
      make such an ado now. You shall soon be quite well, if you will only mind
      what I tell you. Stop, stop! Take it easy. It is all for your own good,
      you know. If you had only been prudent, and not stepped on your lame leg,
      you might have been spared this affliction. But, after all, it was not
      your fault&mdash;it was that foolish little mother of yours. She will
      remember now that a skein of hemp thread is not the thing to line her nest
      with. If she doesn&rsquo;t, you may tell her that it was I who said so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Augusta stood gazing on in mute astonishment; then, suddenly remembering
      her hasty toilet, she started to run; but, as chance would have it, a dry
      branch, which hung rather low, caught at her hood, and her hair fell in a
      black wavy stream down over her shoulders. She gave a little cry, the tree
      shook violently, and Strand was at her side. She blushed crimson over neck
      and face, and, in her utter bewilderment, stood like a culprit before him,
      unable to move, unable to speak, and only returning with a silent bow his
      cordial greeting. It seemed to her that she had ungenerously intruded upon
      his privacy, watching him, while he thought himself unobserved. And
      Augusta was quite unskilled in those social accomplishments which enable
      young ladies to hide their inward emotions under a show of polite
      indifference, for, however hard she strove, she could not suppress a
      slight quivering of her lips, and her intense self-reproach made Strand&rsquo;s
      words fall dimly on her ears, and prevented her from gathering the meaning
      of what he was saying. He held in his hands a young bird with a yellow
      line along the edge of its bill (and there was something beautifully soft
      and tender in the way those large palms of his handled any living thing),
      and he looked pityingly at it while he spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The mother of this little linnet,&rdquo; he said, smiling, &ldquo;did what many
      foolish young mothers are apt to do. She took upon her the responsibility
      of raising offspring without having acquired the necessary knowledge of
      housekeeping. So she lined her nest with hemp, and the consequence was,
      that her first-born got his legs entangled, and was obliged to remain in
      the nest long after his wings had reached their full development. I saw
      her feeding him about a week ago, and, as my curiosity prompted me to look
      into the case, I released the little cripple, cleansed the deep wound
      which the threads had cut in his flesh, and have since been watching him
      during his convalescence. Now he is quite in a fair way, but I had to
      apply some salve, and to cut off the feathers about the wound, and the
      little fool squirmed under the pain, and grew rebellious. Only notice this
      scar, if you please, Miss Oddson, and you may imagine what the poor thing
      must have suffered.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Augusta gave a start; she timidly raised her eyes, and saw Strand&rsquo;s grave
      gaze fixed upon her. She felt as if some intolerable spell had come over
      her, and, as her agitation increased, her power of speech seemed utterly
      to desert her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, you have not been listening to me?&rdquo; said Strand, in a tone of
      wondering inquiry. &ldquo;Pardon me for presuming to believe that my little
      invalid could be as interesting to you as he is to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Strand,&rdquo; stammered the girl, while the invisible tears came near
      choking her voice. &ldquo;Mr. Strand&mdash;I didn&rsquo;t mean&mdash;really&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She knew that if she said another word she should burst into tears. With a
      violent effort, she gathered up her wrapper, which somehow had got
      unbuttoned at the neck, and, with heedlessly hurrying steps, darted away
      toward the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      Strand stood looking after her, quite unmindful of his feathered patient,
      which flew chirping about him in the grass. Two hours later Arnfinn found
      him sitting under the birches with his hands clasped over the top of his
      head, and his surgical instruments scattered on the ground around him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Corpo di Baccho,&rdquo; exclaimed the student, stooping to pick up the precious
      tools; &ldquo;have you been amputating your own head, or is it I who am
      dreaming?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah,&rdquo; murmured Strand, lifting a large, strange gaze upon his friend, &ldquo;is
      it you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who else should it be? I come to call you to breakfast.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      IV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder what is up between Strand and Augusta?&rdquo; said Arnfinn to his
      cousin Inga. The questioner was lying in the grass at her feet, resting
      his chin on his palms, and gazing with roguishly tender eyes up into her
      fresh, blooming face; but Inga, who was reading aloud from &ldquo;David
      Copperfield,&rdquo; and was deep in the matrimonial tribulations of that noble
      hero, only said &ldquo;hush,&rdquo; and continued reading. Arnfinn, after a minute&rsquo;s
      silence, repeated his remark, whereupon his fair cousin wrenched his cane
      out of his hand, and held it threateningly over his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you be a good boy and listen?&rdquo; she exclaimed, playfully emphasizing
      each word with a light rap on his curly pate.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ouch! that hurts,&rdquo; cried Arnfinn, and dodged.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was meant to hurt,&rdquo; replied Inga, with mock severity, and returned to
      &ldquo;Copperfield.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Presently the seed of a corn-flower struck the tip of her nose, and again
      the cane was lifted; but Dora&rsquo;s housekeeping experiences were too
      absorbingly interesting, and the blue eyes could not resist their
      fascination.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cousin Inga,&rdquo; said Arnfinn, and this time with as near an approach to
      earnestness as he was capable of at that moment, &ldquo;I do believe that Strand
      is in love with Augusta.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Inga dropped the book, and sent him what was meant to be a glance of
      severe rebuke, and then said, in her own amusingly emphatic way:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do wish you wouldn&rsquo;t joke with such things, Arnfinn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Joke! Indeed I am not joking. I wish to heaven that I were. What a pity
      it is that she has taken such a dislike to him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dislike! Oh, you are a profound philosopher, you are! You think that
      because she avoids&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here Inga abruptly clapped her hand over her mouth, and, with sudden
      change of voice and expression, said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am as silent as the grave.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you are wonderfully discreet,&rdquo; cried Arnfinn, laughing, while the
      girl bit her under lip with an air of penitence and mortification which,
      in any other bosom than a cousin&rsquo;s would have aroused compassion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aha! So steht&rsquo;s!&rdquo; he broke forth, with another burst of merriment; then,
      softened by the sight of a tear that was slowly gathering beneath her
      eyelashes, he checked his laughter, crept up to her side, and in a half
      childishly coaxing, half caressing tone, he whispered:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear little cousin, indeed I didn&rsquo;t mean to hurt your feelings. You are
      not angry with me, are you? And if you will only promise me not to tell, I
      have something here which I should like to show you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He well knew that there was nothing which would sooner soothe Inga&rsquo;s wrath
      than confiding a secret to her; and while he was a boy, he had, in cases
      of sore need, invented secrets lest his life should be made miserable by
      the sense that she was displeased with him. In this instance her anger was
      not strong enough to resist the anticipation of a secret, probably
      relating to that little drama which had, during the last weeks, been in
      progress under her very eyes. With a resolute movement, she brushed her
      tears away, bent eagerly forward, and, in the next moment, her face was
      all expectancy and animation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Arnfinn pulled a thick black note-book from his breast pocket, opened it
      in his lap, and read:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;August 3, 5 A. M.&mdash;My little invalid is doing finely; he seemed to
      relish much a few dozen flies which I brought him in my hand. His pulse is
      to-day, for the first time, normal. He is beginning to step on the injured
      leg without apparent pain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;10 A. M.&mdash;Miss Augusta&rsquo;s eyes have a strange, lustrous brilliancy
      whenever she speaks of subjects which seem to agitate the depths of her
      being. How and why is it that an excessive amount of feeling always finds
      its first expression in the eye? One kind of emotion seems to widen the
      pupil, another kind to contract it. TO be noticed in future, how
      particular emotions affect the eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;6 P. M.&mdash;I met a plover on the beach this afternoon. By imitating
      his cry, I induced him to come within a few feet of me. The plover, as his
      cry indicates, is a very melancholy bird. In fact I believe the melancholy
      temperament to be prevailing among the wading birds, as the phlegmatic
      among birds of prey. The singing birds are choleric or sanguine. Tease a
      thrush, or even a lark, and you will soon be convinced. A snipe, or
      plover, as far as my experience goes, seldom shows anger; you cannot tease
      them. To be considered, how far the voice of a bird may be indicative of
      its temperament.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;August 5, 9 P. M.&mdash;Since the unfortunate meeting yesterday morning,
      when my intense pre-occupation with my linnet, which had torn its wound
      open again, probably made me commit some breach of etiquette, Miss Augusta
      avoids me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;August 7&mdash;I am in a most singular state. My pulse beats 85, which is
      a most unheard-of thing for me, as my pulse is naturally full and slow.
      And, strangely enough, I do not feel at all unwell. On the contrary, my
      physical well-being is rather heightened than otherwise. The life of a
      whole week is crowded into a day, and that of a day into an hour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Inga, who, at several points of this narrative, had been struggling hard
      to preserve her gravity, here burst into a ringing laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is what I call scientific love-making,&rdquo; said Arnfinn, looking up
      from the book with an expression of subdued amusement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But Arnfinn,&rdquo; cried the girl, while the laughter quickly died out of her
      face, &ldquo;does Mr. Strand know that you are reading this?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To be sure he does. And that is just what to my mind makes the situation
      so excessively comical. He has himself no suspicion that this book
      contains anything but scientific notes. He appears to prefer the empiric
      method in love as in philosophy. I verily believe that he is innocently
      experimenting with himself, with a view to making some great physiological
      discovery.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And so he will, perhaps,&rdquo; rejoined the girl, the mixture of gayety and
      grave solicitude making her face, as her cousin thought, particularly
      charming.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only not a physiological, but possibly a psychological one,&rdquo; remarked
      Arnfinn. &ldquo;But listen to this. Here is something rich:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;August 9&mdash;Miss Augusta once said something about the possibility of
      animals being immortal. Her eyes shone with a beautiful animation as she
      spoke. I am longing to continue the subject with her. It haunts me the
      whole day long. There may be more in the idea than appears to a
      superficial observer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, how charmingly he understands how to deceive himself,&rdquo; cried Inga.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Merely a quid pro quo,&rdquo; said Arnfinn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know what I shall do!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And so do I.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Won&rsquo;t you tell me, please?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I sha&rsquo;n&rsquo;t tell you either.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And they flew apart like two thoughtless little birds (&ldquo;sanguine,&rdquo; as
      Strand would have called them), each to ponder on some formidable plot for
      the reconciliation of the estranged lovers.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      V.
    </h2>
    <p>
      During the week that ensued, the multifarious sub-currents of Strand&rsquo;s
      passion seemed slowly to gather themselves into one clearly defined
      stream, and, after much scientific speculation, he came to the conclusion
      that he loved Augusta. In a moment of extreme discouragement, he made a
      clean breast of it to Arnfinn, at the same time informing him that he had
      packed his knapsack, and would start on his wanderings again the next
      morning. All his friend&rsquo;s entreaties were in vain; he would and must go.
      Strand was an exasperatingly headstrong fellow, and persuasions never
      prevailed with him. He had confirmed himself in the belief that he was
      very unattractive to women, and that Augusta, of all women, for some
      reason which was not quite clear to him, hated and abhorred him.
      Inexperienced as he was, he could see no reason why she should avoid him,
      if she did not hate him. They sat talking until midnight, each entangling
      himself in those passionate paradoxes and contradictions peculiar to
      passionate and impulsive youth. Strand paced the floor with large steps,
      pouring out his long pent-up emotion in violent tirades of self-accusation
      and regret; while Arnfinn sat on the bed, trying to soothe his excitement
      by assuring him that he was not such a monster as, for the moment, he had
      believed himself to be, but only succeeding, in spite of all his efforts,
      in pouring oil on the flames. Strand was scientifically convinced that
      Nature, in accordance with some inscrutable law of equilibrium, had found
      it necessary to make him physically unattractive, perhaps to indemnify
      mankind for that excess of intellectual gifts which, at the expense of the
      race at large, she had bestowed upon him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Early the next morning, as a kind of etherealized sunshine broke through
      the white muslin curtains of Arnfinn&rsquo;s room, and long streaks of
      sun-illumined dust stole through the air toward the sleeper&rsquo;s pillow,
      there was a sharp rap at the door, and Strand entered. His knapsack was
      strapped over his shoulders, his long staff was in his hand, and there was
      an expression of conscious martyrdom in his features. Arnfinn raised
      himself on his elbows, and rubbed his eyes with a desperate determination
      to get awake, but only succeeded in gaining a very dim impression of a
      beard, a blue woolen shirt, and a disproportionately large shoe buckle.
      The figure advanced to the bed, extended a broad, sun-burned hand, and a
      deep bass voice was heard to say:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-bye, brother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Arnfinn, who was a hard sleeper, gave another rub, and, in a querulously
      sleepy tone, managed to mutter:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why,&mdash;is it as late as that&mdash;already?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The words of parting were more remotely repeated, the hand closed about
      Arnfinn&rsquo;s half-unfeeling fingers, the lock on the door gave a little sharp
      click, and all was still. But the sunshine drove the dust in a dumb,
      confused dance through the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some four hours later, Arnfinn woke up with a vague feeling as if some
      great calamity had happened; he was not sure but that he had slept a
      fortnight or more. He dressed with a sleepy, reckless haste, being but
      dimly conscious of the logic of the various processes of ablution which he
      underwent. He hurried up to Strand&rsquo;s room, but, as he had expected, found
      it empty.
    </p>
    <p>
      During all the afternoon, the reading of &ldquo;David Copperfield&rdquo; was
      interrupted by frequent mutual condolences, and at times Inga&rsquo;s hand would
      steal up to her eye to brush away a treacherous tear. But then she only
      read the faster, and David and Agnes were already safe in the haven of
      matrimony before either she or Arnfinn was aware that they had struggled
      successfully through the perilous reefs and quicksands of courtship.
    </p>
    <p>
      Augusta excused herself from supper, Inga&rsquo;s forced devices at merriment
      were too transparent, Arnfinn&rsquo;s table-talk was of a rambling, incoherent
      sort, and he answered dreadfully malapropos, if a chance word was
      addressed to him, and even the good-natured pastor began, at last, to
      grumble; for the inmates of the Gran Parsonage seemed to have but one life
      and one soul in common, and any individual disturbance immediately
      disturbed the peace and happiness of the whole household. Now gloom had,
      in some unaccountable fashion, obscured the common atmosphere. Inga shook
      her small wise head, and tried to extract some little consolation from the
      consciousness that she knew at least some things which Arnfinn did not
      know, and which it would be very unsafe to confide to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      VI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Four weeks after Strand&rsquo;s departure, as the summer had already assumed
      that tinge of sadness which impresses one as a foreboding of coming death,
      Augusta was walking along the beach, watching the flight of the sea-birds.
      Her latest &ldquo;aberration,&rdquo; as Arnfinn called it, was an extraordinary
      interest in the habits of the eider-ducks, auks, and sea-gulls, the noisy
      monotony of whose existence had, but a few months ago, appeared to her the
      symbol of all that was vulgar and coarse in human and animal life. Now she
      had even provided herself with a note-book, and (to use once more the
      language of her unbelieving cousin) affected a half-scientific interest in
      their clamorous pursuits. She had made many vain attempts to imitate their
      voices and to beguile them into closer intimacy, and had found it hard at
      times to suppress her indignation when they persisted in viewing her in
      the light of an intruder, and in returning her amiable approaches with shy
      suspicion, as if they doubted the sincerity of her intentions.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was a little paler now, perhaps, than before, but her eyes had still
      the same lustrous depth, and the same sweet serenity was still diffused
      over her features, and softened, like a pervading tinge of warm color, the
      grand simplicity of her presence. She sat down on a large rock, picked up
      a curiously twisted shell, and seeing a plover wading in the surf, gave a
      soft, low whistle, which made the bird turn round and gaze at her with
      startled distrust. She repeated the call, but perhaps a little too
      eagerly, and the bird spread its wings with a frightened cry, and skimmed,
      half flying, half running, out over the glittering surface of the fjord.
      But from the rocks close by came a long melancholy whistle like that of a
      bird in distress, and the girl rose and hastened with eager steps toward
      the spot. She climbed up on a stone, fringed all around with green slimy
      seaweeds, in order to gain a wider view of the beach. Then suddenly some
      huge figure started up between the rocks at her feet; she gave a little
      scream, her foot slipped, and in the next moment she lay&mdash;in Strand&rsquo;s
      arms. He offered no apology, but silently carried her over the slippery
      stones, and deposited her tenderly upon the smooth white sand. There it
      occurred to her that his attention was quite needless, but at the moment
      she was too startled to make any remonstrance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But how in the world, Mr. Strand, did you come here?&rdquo; she managed at last
      to stammer. &ldquo;We all thought that you had gone away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hardly know myself,&rdquo; said Strand, in a beseeching undertone, quite
      different from his usual confident bass. &ldquo;I only know that&mdash;that I
      was very wretched, and that I had to come back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then there was a pause, which to both seemed quite interminable, and, in
      order to fill it out in some way, Strand began to move his head and arms
      uneasily, and at length seated himself at Augusta&rsquo;s side. The blood was
      beating with feverish vehemence in her temples, and for the first time in
      her life she felt something akin to pity for this large, strong man, whose
      strength and cheerful self-reliance had hitherto seemed to raise him above
      the need of a woman&rsquo;s aid and sympathy. Now the very shabbiness of his
      appearance, and the look of appealing misery in his features, opened in
      her bosom the gate through which compassion could enter, and, with that
      generous self-forgetfulness which was the chief factor of her character,
      she leaned over toward him, and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must have been very sick, Mr. Strand. Why did you not come to us and
      allow us to take care of you, instead of roaming about here in this stony
      wilderness?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; I have been sick,&rdquo; cried Strand, with sudden vehemence, seizing her
      hand; &ldquo;but it is a sickness of which I shall never, never be healed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And with that world-old eloquence which is yet ever new, he poured forth
      his passionate confession in her ear, and she listened, hungrily at first,
      then with serene, wide-eyed happiness. He told her how, driven by his
      inward restlessness, he had wandered about in the mountains, until one
      evening at a saeter, he had heard a peasant lad singing a song, in which
      this stanza occurred:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;A woman&rsquo;s frown, a woman&rsquo;s smile,
          Nor hate nor fondness prove;
       For maidens smile on him they hate,
          And fly from him they love.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      Then it had occurred to him for the first time in his life that a woman&rsquo;s
      behavior need not be the logical indicator of her deepest feelings, and,
      enriched with this joyful discovery, inspired with new hope, he had
      returned, but had not dared at once to seek the Parsonage, until he could
      invent some plausible reason for his return; but his imagination was very
      poor, and he had found none, except that he loved the pastor&rsquo;s beautiful
      daughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      The evening wore on. The broad mountain-guarded valley, flooded now to the
      brim with a soft misty light, spread out about them, and filled them with
      a delicious sense of security. The fjord lifted its grave gaze toward the
      sky, and deepened responsively with a bright, ever-receding immensity. The
      young girl felt this blessed peace gently stealing over her; doubt and
      struggle were all past, and the sun shone ever serene and unobscured upon
      the widening expanses of the future. And in his breast, too, that mood
      reigned in which life looks boundless and radiant, human woes small or
      impossible, and one&rsquo;s own self large and all-conquering. In that hour they
      remodeled this old and obstinate world of ours, never doubting that, if
      each united his faith and strength with the other&rsquo;s, they could together
      lift its burden.
    </p>
    <p>
      That night was the happiest and most memorable night in the history of the
      Gran Parsonage. The pastor walked up and down on the floor, rubbing his
      hands in quiet contentment. Inga, to whom an engagement was essentially a
      solemn affair, sat in a corner and gazed at her sister and Strand with
      tearful radiance. Arnfinn gave vent to his joy by bestowing embraces
      promiscuously upon whomsoever chanced to come in his way.
    </p>
    <p>
      This story, however, has a brief but not unimportant sequel. It was not
      many weeks after this happy evening that Arnfinn and the maiden with the
      &ldquo;amusingly unclassical nose&rdquo; presented themselves in the pastor&rsquo;s study
      and asked for his paternal and unofficial blessing. But the pastor, I am
      told, grew very wroth, and demanded that his nephew should first take his
      second and third degrees, attaching, besides, some very odious
      stipulations regarding average in study and college standing, before there
      could be any talk about engagement or matrimony. So, at present, Arnfinn
      is still studying, and the fair-haired Inga is still waiting.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      TRULS, THE NAMELESS.
    </h2>
    <p>
      HE was born in the houseman&rsquo;s lodge; she in the great mansion. He did not
      know who his father was; she was the daughter of Grim of Skogli, and she
      was the only daughter he had. They were carried to baptism on the same
      day, and he was called Truls, because they had to call him something; she
      received the name of Borghild, because that had been the name of every
      eldest born daughter in the family for thirty generations. They both cried
      when the pastor poured the water on their heads; his mother hushed him,
      blushed, and looked timidly around her; but the woman who carried Borghild
      lifted her high up in her arms so that everybody could see her, and the
      pastor smiled benignly, and the parishioners said that they had never seen
      so beautiful a child. That was the way in which they began life&mdash;he
      as a child of sin, she as the daughter of a mighty race.
    </p>
    <p>
      They grew up together. She had round cheeks and merry eyes, and her lips
      were redder than the red rose. He was of slender growth, his face was thin
      and pale, and his eyes had a strange, benumbed gaze, as if they were
      puzzling themselves with some sad, life-long riddle which they never hoped
      to solve. On the strand where they played the billows came and went, and
      they murmured faintly with a sound of infinite remoteness. Borghild
      laughed aloud, clapped her hands and threw stones out into the water,
      while he sat pale and silent, and saw the great white-winged sea-birds
      sailing through the blue ocean of the sky.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How would you like to live down there in the deep green water?&rdquo; she asked
      him one day, as they sat watching the eider-ducks which swam and dived,
      and stood on their heads among the sea-weeds.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should like it very well,&rdquo; he answered, &ldquo;if you would follow me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I won&rsquo;t follow you,&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;It is cold and wet down in the
      water. And I should spoil the ribbons on my new bodice. But when I grow up
      and get big and can braid my hair, then I shall row with the young lads to
      the church yonder on the headland, and there the old pastor will marry me,
      and I shall wear the big silver crown which my mother wore when she was
      married.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And may I go with you?&rdquo; asked he, timidly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you may steer my boat and be my helmsman, or&mdash;you may be my
      bridegroom, if you would like that better.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I think I should rather be your bridegroom,&rdquo; and he gave her a long,
      strange look which almost frightened her.
    </p>
    <p>
      The years slipped by, and before Borghild knew it, she had grown into
      womanhood. The down on Truls&rsquo;s cheeks became rougher, and he, too, began
      to suspect that he was no longer a boy. When the sun was late and the
      breeze murmured in the great, dark-crowned pines, they often met by
      chance, at the well, on the strand, or on the saeter-green. And the
      oftener they met the more they found to talk about; to be sure, it was she
      who did the talking, and he looked at her with his large wondering eyes
      and listened. She told him of the lamb which had tumbled down over a steep
      precipice and still was unhurt, of the baby who pulled the pastor&rsquo;s hair
      last Sunday during the baptismal ceremony, or of the lumberman, Lars, who
      drank the kerosene his wife gave him for brandy, and never knew the
      difference. But, when the milkmaids passed by, she would suddenly forget
      what she had been saying, and then they sat gazing at each other in
      silence. Once she told him of the lads who danced with her at the party at
      Houg; and she thought she noticed a deeper color on his face, and that he
      clinched both his fists and&mdash;thrust them into his pockets. That set
      her thinking, and the more she thought, the more curious she grew. He
      played the violin well; suppose she should ask him to come and fiddle at
      the party her father was to give at the end of the harvest. She resolved
      to do it, and he, not knowing what moved her, gave his promise eagerly. It
      struck her, afterward, that she had done a wicked thing, but, like most
      girls, she had not the heart to wrestle with an uncomfortable thought; she
      shook it off and began to hum a snatch of an old song.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;O&rsquo;er the billows the fleet-footed storm-wind rode,
       The billows blue are the merman&rsquo;s abode,
       So strangely that harp was sounding.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      The memory of old times came back to her, the memory of the morning long
      years ago, when they sat together on the strand, and he said; &ldquo;I think I
      would rather be your bridegroom, Borghild.&rdquo; The memory was sweet but it
      was bitter too; and the bitterness rose and filled her heart. She threw
      her head back proudly, and laughed a strange, hollow laugh. &ldquo;A bastard&rsquo;s
      bride, ha, ha! A fine tale were that for the parish gossips.&rdquo; A yellow
      butterfly lighted on her arm, and with a fierce frown on her face she
      caught it between her fingers. Then she looked pityingly on the dead
      wings, as they lay in her hand, and murmured between her teeth: &ldquo;Poor
      thing! Why did you come in my way, unbidden?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The harvest was rich, and the harvest party was to keep pace with the
      harvest. The broad Skogli mansion was festively lighted (for it was
      already late in September); the tall, straight tallow candles, stuck in
      many-armed candlesticks, shone dimly through a sort of misty halo, and
      only suffused the dusk with a faint glimmering of light. And every time a
      guest entered, the flames of the candles flickered and twisted themselves
      with the wind, struggling to keep erect. And Borghild&rsquo;s courage, too, rose
      and fell with the flickering motion of a flame which wrestles with the
      wind. Whenever the latch clicked she lifted her eyes and looked for Truls,
      and one moment she wished that she might never see his face again, and in
      the next she sent an eager glance toward the door. Presently he came,
      threw his fiddle on a bench, and with a reckless air walked up to her and
      held out his hand. She hesitated to return his greeting, but when she saw
      the deep lines of suffering in his face, her heart went forward with a
      great tenderness toward him, a tenderness such as one feels for a child
      who is sick, and suffers without hope of healing. She laid her hand in
      his, and there it lay for a while listlessly; for neither dared trust the
      joy which the sight of the other enkindled. But when she tried to draw her
      hand away, he caught it quickly, and with a sudden fervor of voice he
      said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The sight of you, Borghild, stills the hunger which is raging in my soul.
      Beware that you do not play with a life, Borghild, even though it be a
      worthless one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was something so hopelessly sad in his words, that they stung her to
      the quick. They laid bare a hidden deep in her heart, and she shrank back
      st the sight of her own vileness. How could she repair the injury she had
      done him? How could she heal the wound she had inflicted? A number of
      guests came up to greet her and among them Syvert Stein, a bold-looking
      young man, who, during that summer, had led her frequently in the dance.
      He had a square face, strong features, and a huge crop of towy hair. His
      race was far-famed for wit and daring.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tardy is your welcome, Borghild of Skogli,&rdquo; quoth he. &ldquo;But what a faint
      heart does not give a bold hand can grasp, and what I am not offered I
      take unbidden.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he flung his arm about her waist, lifted her from the floor and
      put her down in the middle of the room. Truls stood and gazed at them with
      large, bewildered eyes. He tried hard to despise the braggart, but ended
      with envying him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha, fiddler, strike up a tune that shall ring through marrow and bone,&rdquo;
       shouted Syvert Stein, who struck the floor with his heels and moved his
      body to the measure of a spring-dance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Truls still followed them with his eyes; suddenly he leaped up, and a wild
      thought burned in his breast. But with an effort he checked himself,
      grasped his violin, and struck a wailing chord of lament. Then he laid his
      ear close to the instrument, as if he were listening to some living voice
      hidden there within, ran warily with the bow over the strings, and
      warbled, and caroled, and sang with maddening glee, and still with a
      shivering undercurrent of woe. And the dusk which slept upon the black
      rafters was quickened and shook with the weird sound; every pulse in the
      wide hall beat more rapidly, and every eye kindled with a bolder fire.
      Pressently{sic} a Strong male voice sang out to the measure of the violin:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;Come, fairest maid, tread the dance with me;
                    O heigh ho!&rdquo;
 
     And a clear, tremulous treble answered:

     &ldquo;So gladly tread I the dance with thee;
                    O heigh ho!&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      Truls knew the voices only too well; it was Syvert Stein and Borghild who
      were singing a stave. <a href="#linknote-8" name="linknoteref-8"
       id="linknoteref-8"><small>8</small></a>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Syvert&mdash;Like brier-roses thy red cheeks blush,
     Borghild&mdash;And thine are rough like the thorny bush;
                    Both&mdash;An&rsquo; a heigho!

     Syvert&mdash;So fresh and green is the sunny lea;
                    O heigh ho!
     Borghild&mdash;The fiddle twangeth so merrily;
                    O heigh ho!
     Syvert&mdash;So lightly goeth the lusty reel,
     Borghild&mdash;And round we whirl like a spinning-wheel;
                    Both&mdash;An&rsquo; a heigho!

     Syvert&mdash;Thine eyes are bright like the sunny fjord;
                    O heigh ho!
     Borghild&mdash;And thine do flash like a Viking&rsquo;s sword;
                    O heigh ho!
     Syvert&mdash;So lightly trippeth thy foot along,
     Borghild&mdash;The air is teeming with joyful song;
                    Both&mdash;An&rsquo; a heigh ho!

     Syvert&mdash;Then fairest maid, while the woods are green,
                    O heigh ho!
     Borghild&mdash;And thrushes sing the fresh leaves between;
                    O heigh ho!
     Syvert&mdash;Come, let us dance in the gladsome day,
     Borghild&mdash;Dance hate, and sorrow, and care away;
                    Both&mdash;An&rsquo; a heigh ho!
</pre>
    <p>
      The stave was at an end. The hot and flushed dancers straggled over the
      floor by twos and threes, and the big beer-horns were passed from hand to
      hand. Truls sat in his corner hugging his violin tightly to his bosom,
      only to do something, for he was vaguely afraid of himself&mdash;afraid of
      the thoughts that might rise&mdash;afraid of the deed they might prompt.
      He ran his fingers over his forehead, but he hardly felt the touch of his
      own hand. It was as if something was dead within him&mdash;as if a string
      had snapped in his breast, and left it benumbed and voiceless.
    </p>
    <p>
      Presently he looked up and saw Borghild standing before him; she held her
      arms akimbo, her eyes shone with a strange light, and her features wore an
      air of recklessness mingled with pity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Borghild, is it you?&rdquo; said he, in a hoarse voice. &ldquo;What do you want
      with me? I thought you had done with me now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a very unwitty fellow,&rdquo; answered she, with a forced laugh. &ldquo;The
      branch that does not bend must break.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She turned quickly on her heel and was lost in the crowd. He sat long
      pondering on her words, but their meaning remained hidden to him. The
      branch that does not bend must break. Was he the branch, and must he bend
      or break? By-and-by he put his hands on his knees, rose with a slow,
      uncertain motion, and stalked heavily toward the door. The fresh night air
      would do him good. The thought breathes more briskly in God&rsquo;s free nature,
      under the broad canopy of heaven. The white mist rose from the fields, and
      made the valley below appear like a white sea whose nearness you feel,
      even though you do not see it. And out of the mist the dark pines
      stretched their warning hands against the sky, and the moon was swimming,
      large and placid, between silvery islands of cloud. Truls began to beat
      his arms against his sides, and felt the warm blood spreading from his
      heart and thawing the numbness of his limbs. Not caring whither he went,
      he struck the path leading upward to the mountains. He took to humming an
      old air which happened to come into his head, only to try if there was
      life enough left in him to sing. It was the ballad of Young Kirsten and
      the Merman:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 &ldquo;The billows fall and the billows swell,
   In the night so lone,
   In the billows blue doth the merman dwell,
   And strangely that harp was sounding.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      He walked on briskly for a while, and, looking back upon the pain he had
      endured but a moment ago, he found it quite foolish and irrational. An
      absurd merriment took possession of him; but all the while he did not know
      where his foot stepped; his head swam, and his pulse beat feverishly.
      About midway between the forest and the mansion, where the field sloped
      more steeply, grew a clump of birch-trees, whose slender stems glimmered
      ghostly white in the moonlight. Something drove Truls to leave the beaten
      road, and, obeying the impulse, he steered toward the birches. A strange
      sound fell upon his ear, like the moan of one in distress. It did not
      startle him; indeed, he was in a mood when nothing could have caused him
      wonder. If the sky had suddenly tumbled down upon him, with moon and all,
      he would have taken it as a matter of course. Peering for a moment through
      the mist, he discerned the outline of a human figure. With three great
      strides he reached the birch-tree; at his feet sat Borghild rocking
      herself to and fro and weeping piteously. Without a word he seated himself
      at her side and tried to catch a glimpse of her face; but she hid it from
      him and went on sobbing. Still there could be no doubt that it was
      Borghild&mdash;one hour ago so merry, reckless, and defiant, now cowering
      at his feet and weeping like a broken-hearted child.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Borghild,&rdquo; he said, at last, putting his arm gently about her waist, &ldquo;you
      and I, I think, played together when we were children.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So we did, Truls,&rdquo; answered she, struggling with her tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And as we grew up, we spent many a pleasant hour with each other.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Many a pleasant hour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She raised her head, and he drew her more closely to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But since then I have done you a great wrong,&rdquo; began she, after a while.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing done that cannot yet be undone,&rdquo; he took heart to answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was long before her thoughts took shape, and, when at length they did,
      she dared not give them utterance. Nevertheless, she was all the time
      conscious of one strong desire, from which her conscience shrank as from a
      crime; and she wrestled ineffectually with her weakness until her weakness
      prevailed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am glad you came,&rdquo; she faltered. &ldquo;I knew you would come. There was
      something I wished to say to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what was it, Borghild?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wanted to ask you to forgive me&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forgive you&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He sprang up as if something had stung him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And why not?&rdquo; she pleaded, piteously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, girl, you know not what you ask,&rdquo; cried he, with a sternness which
      startled her. &ldquo;If I had more than one life to waste&mdash;but you caress
      with one hand and stab with the other. Fare thee well, Borghild, for here
      our paths separate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He turned his back upon her and began to descend the slope.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For God&rsquo;s sake, stay, Truls,&rdquo; implored she, and stretched her arms
      appealingly toward him; &ldquo;tell me, oh, tell me all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With a leap he was again at her side, stooped down over her, and, in a
      hoarse, passionate whisper, spoke the secret of his life in her ear. She
      gazed for a moment steadily into his face, then, in a few hurried words,
      she pledged him her love, her faith, her all. And in the stillness of that
      summer night they planned together their flight to a greater and freer
      land, where no world-old prejudice frowned upon the union of two kindred
      souls. They would wait in patience and silence until spring; then come the
      fresh winds from the ocean, and, with them, the birds of passage which
      awake the longings in the Norsemen&rsquo;s breasts, and the American vessels
      which give courage to many a sinking spirit, strength to the wearied arm,
      hope to the hopeless heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      During that winter Truls and Borghild seldom saw each other. The parish
      was filled with rumors, and after the Christmas holiday it was told for
      certain that the proud maiden of Skogli had been promised in marriage to
      Syvert Stein. It was the general belief that the families had made the
      match, and that Borghild, at least, had hardly had any voice in the
      matter. Another report was that she had flatly refused to listen to any
      proposal from that quarter, and that, when she found that resistance was
      vain, she had cried three days and three nights, and refused to take any
      food. When this rumor reached the pastor&rsquo;s ear, he pronounced it an idle
      tale; &ldquo;for,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;Borghild has always been a proper and well-behaved
      maiden, and she knows that she must honor father and mother, that it may
      be well with her, and she live long upon the land.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Borghild sat alone in her gable window and looked longingly toward the
      ocean. The glaciers glittered, the rivers swelled, the buds of the forest
      burst, and great white sails began to glimmer on the far western horizon.
    </p>
    <p>
      If Truls, the Nameless, as scoffers were wont to call him, had been a
      greater personage in the valley, it would, no doubt, have shocked the
      gossips to know that one fine morning he sold his cow, his gun and his
      dog, and wrapped sixty silver dollars in a leathern bag, which he sewed
      fast to the girdle he wore about his waist. That same night some one was
      heard playing wildly up in the birch copse above the Skogli mansion; now
      it sounded like a wail of distress, then like a fierce, defiant laugh, and
      now again the music seemed to hush itself into a heart-broken, sorrowful
      moan, and the people crossed themselves, and whispered: &ldquo;Our Father;&rdquo; but
      Borghild sat at her gable window and listened long to the weird strain.
      The midnight came, but she stirred not. With the hour of midnight the
      music ceased. From the windows of hall and kitchen the light streamed out
      into the damp air, and the darkness stood like a wall on either side;
      within, maids and lads were busy brewing, baking, and washing, for in a
      week there was to be a wedding on the farm.
    </p>
    <p>
      The week went and the wedding came. Truls had not closed his eyes all that
      night, and before daybreak he sauntered down along the beach and gazed out
      upon the calm fjord, where the white-winged sea-birds whirled in great
      airy surges around the bare crags. Far up above the noisy throng an ospray
      sailed on the blue expanse of the sky, and quick as thought swooped down
      upon a halibut which had ventured to take a peep at the rising sun. The
      huge fish struggled for a moment at the water&rsquo;s edge, then, with a
      powerful stroke of its tail, which sent the spray hissing through the air,
      dived below the surface. The bird of prey gave a loud scream, flapped
      fiercely with its broad wings, and for several minutes a thickening cloud
      of applauding ducks and seagulls and showers of spray hid the combat from
      the observer&rsquo;s eye. When the birds scattered, the ospray had vanished, and
      the waters again glittered calmly in the morning sun. Truls stood long,
      vacantly staring out upon the scene of the conflict, and many strange
      thoughts whirled through his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Halloo, fiddler!&rdquo; cried a couple of lads who had come to clear the
      wedding boats, &ldquo;you are early on foot to-day. Here is a scoop. Come on and
      help us bail the boats.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Truls took the scoop, and looked at it as if he had never seen such a
      thing before; he moved about heavily, hardly knowing what he did, but
      conscious all the while of his own great misery. His limbs seemed half
      frozen, and a dull pain gathered about his head and in his breast&mdash;in
      fact, everywhere and nowhere.
    </p>
    <p>
      About ten o&rsquo;clock the bridal procession descended the slope to the fjord.
      Syvert Stein, the bridegroom, trod the earth with a firm, springy step,
      and spoke many a cheery word to the bride, who walked, silent and with
      downcast eyes, at his side. She wore the ancestral bridal crown on her
      head, and the little silver disks around its edge tinkled and shook as she
      walked. They hailed her with firing of guns and loud hurrahs as she
      stepped into the boat; still she did not raise her eyes, but remained
      silent. A small cannon, also an heir-loom in the family, was placed
      amidships, and Truls, with his violin, took his seat in the prow. A large
      solitary cloud, gold-rimmed but with thunder in its breast, sailed across
      the sky and threw its shadow over the bridal boat as it was pushed out
      from the shore, and the shadow fell upon the bride&rsquo;s countenance too; and
      when she lifted it, the mother of the bridegroom, who sat opposite her,
      shrank back, for the countenance looked hard, as if carved in stone&mdash;in
      the eyes a mute, hopeless appeal; on the lips a frozen prayer. The shadow
      of thunder upon a life that was opening&mdash;it was an ill omen, and its
      gloom sank into the hearts of the wedding guests. They spoke in undertones
      and threw pitying glances at the bride. Then at length Syvert Stein lost
      his patience.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In sooth,&rdquo; cried he, springing up from his seat, &ldquo;where is to-day the
      cheer that is wont to abide in the Norseman&rsquo;s breast? Methinks I see but
      sullen airs and ill-boding glances. Ha, fiddler, now move your strings
      lustily! None of your funeral airs, my lad, but a merry tune that shall
      sing through marrow and bone, and make the heart leap in the bosom.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Truls heard the words, and in a slow, mechanical way he took the violin
      out of its case and raised it to his chin. Syvert in the mean while put a
      huge silver beer-jug to his mouth, and, pledging his guests, emptied it
      even to the dregs. But the bride&rsquo;s cheek was pale; and it was so still in
      the boat that every man could hear his own breathing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha, to-day is Syvert Stein&rsquo;s wedding-day!&rdquo; shouted the bridegroom,
      growing hot with wrath. &ldquo;Let us try if the iron voice of the cannon can
      wake my guests from their slumber.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He struck a match and put it to the touch-hole of the cannon; a long boom
      rolled away over the surface of the waters and startled the echoes of the
      distant glaciers. A faint hurrah sounded from the nearest craft, but there
      came no response from the bridal boat. Syvert pulled the powder-horn from
      his pocket, laughed a wild laugh, and poured the whole contents of the
      horn into the mouth of the cannon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now may the devil care for his own,&rdquo; roared he, and sprang up upon the
      row-bench. Then there came a low murmuring strain as of wavelets that
      ripple against a sandy shore. Borghild lifted her eyes, and they met those
      of the fiddler.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, I think I should rather be your bridegroom,&rdquo; whispered she, and a ray
      of life stole into her stony visage.
    </p>
    <p>
      And she saw herself as a little rosy-cheeked girl sitting at his side on
      the beach fifteen years ago. But the music gathered strength from her
      glance, and onward it rushed through the noisy years of boyhood, shouting
      with wanton voice in the lonely glen, lowing with the cattle on the
      mountain pastures, and leaping like the trout at eventide in the brawling
      rapids; but through it all there ran a warm strain of boyish loyalty and
      strong devotion, and it thawed her frozen heart; for she knew that it was
      all for her and for her only. And it seemed such a beautiful thing, this
      long faithful life, which through sorrow and joy, through sunshine and
      gloom, for better for worse, had clung so fast to her. The wedding guests
      raised their heads, and a murmur of applause ran over the waters.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bravo!&rdquo; cried the bridegroom. &ldquo;Now at last the tongues are loosed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Truls&rsquo;s gaze dwelt with tender sadness on the bride. Then came from the
      strings some airy quivering chords, faintly flushed like the petals of the
      rose, and fragrant like lilies of the valley; and they swelled with a
      strong, awakening life, and rose with a stormy fullness until they seemed
      on the point of bursting, when again they hushed themselves and sank into
      a low, disconsolate whisper. Once more the tones stretched out their arms
      imploringly, and again they wrestled despairingly with themselves, fled
      with a stern voice of warning, returned once more, wept, shuddered, and
      were silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Beware that thou dost not play with a life!&rdquo; sighed the bride, &ldquo;even
      though it be a worthless one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The wedding guests clapped their hands and shouted wildly against the sky.
      The bride&rsquo;s countenance burned with a strange feverish glow. The fiddler
      arose in the prow of the boat, his eyes flamed, he struck the strings
      madly, and the air trembled with melodious rapture. The voice of that
      music no living tongue can interpret. But the bride fathomed its meaning;
      her bosom labored vehemently, her lips quivered for an instant
      convulsively, and she burst into tears. A dark suspicion shot through the
      bridegroom&rsquo;s mind. He stared intently upon the weeping Borghild then
      turned his gaze to the fiddler, who, still regarding her, stood playing,
      with a half-frenzied look and motion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You cursed wretch!&rdquo; shrieked Syvert, and made a leap over two benches to
      where Truls was standing. It came so unexpectedly that Truls had no time
      to prepare for defense; so he merely stretched out the hand in which he
      held the violin to ward off the blow which he saw was coming; but Syvert
      tore the instrument from his grasp and dashed it against the cannon, and,
      as it happened, just against the touch-hole. With a tremendous crash
      something black darted through the air and a white smoke brooded over the
      bridal boat. The bridegroom stood pale and stunned. At his feet lay
      Borghild&mdash;lay for a moment still, as if lifeless, then rose on her
      elbows, and a dark red current broke from her breast. The smoke scattered.
      No one saw how it was done; but a moment later Truls, the Nameless, lay
      kneeling at Borghild&rsquo;s side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It WAS a worthless life, beloved,&rdquo; whispered he, tenderly. &ldquo;Now it is at
      an end.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he lifted her up in his arms as one lifts a beloved child, pressed a
      kiss on her pale lips, and leaped into the water. Like lead they fell into
      the sea. A throng of white bubbles whirled up to the surface. A loud wail
      rose from the bridal fleet, and before the day was at an end it filled the
      valley; but the wail did not recall Truls, the Nameless, or Borghild his
      bride.
    </p>
    <p>
      What life denied them, would to God that death may yield them!
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      ASATHOR&rsquo;S VENGEANCE.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      I.
    </h2>
    <p>
      IT was right up under the steel mountain wall where the farm of Kvaerk
      lay. How any man of common sense could have hit upon the idea of building
      a house there, where none but the goat and the hawk had easy access, had
      been, and I am afraid would ever be, a matter of wonder to the parish
      people. However, it was not Lage Kvaerk who had built the house, so he
      could hardly be made responsible for its situation. Moreover, to move from
      a place where one&rsquo;s life has once struck deep root, even if it be in the
      chinks and crevices of stones and rocks, is about the same as to destroy
      it. An old tree grows but poorly in a new soil. So Lage Kvaerk thought,
      and so he said, too, whenever his wife Elsie spoke of her sunny home at
      the river.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gloomy as Lage usually was, he had his brighter moments, and people
      noticed that these were most likely to occur when Aasa, his daughter, was
      near. Lage was probably also the only being whom Aasa&rsquo;s presence could
      cheer; on other people it seemed to have the very opposite effect; for
      Aasa was&mdash;according to the testimony of those who knew her&mdash;the
      most peculiar creature that ever was born. But perhaps no one did know
      her; if her father was right, no one really did&mdash;at least no one but
      himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Aasa was all to her father; she was his past and she was his future, his
      hope and his life; and withal it must be admitted that those who judged
      her without knowing her had at least in one respect as just an opinion of
      her as he; for there was no denying that she was strange, very strange.
      She spoke when she ought to be silent, and was silent when it was proper
      to speak; wept when she ought to laugh, and laughed when it was proper to
      weep; but her laughter as well as her tears, her speech like her silence,
      seemed to have their source from within her own soul, to be occasioned, as
      it were, by something which no one else could see or hear. It made little
      difference where she was; if the tears came, she yielded to them as if
      they were something she had long desired in vain. Few could weep like her,
      and &ldquo;weep like Aasa Kvaerk,&rdquo; was soon also added to the stock of parish
      proverbs. And then her laugh! Tears may be inopportune enough, when they
      come out of time, but laughter is far worse; and when poor Aasa once burst
      out into a ringing laughter in church, and that while the minister was
      pronouncing the benediction, it was only with the greatest difficulty that
      her father could prevent the indignant congregation from seizing her and
      carrying her before the sheriff for violation of the church-peace. Had she
      been poor and homely, then of course nothing could have saved her; but she
      happened to be both rich and beautiful, and to wealth and beauty much is
      pardoned. Aasa&rsquo;s beauty, however, was also of a very unusual kind; not the
      tame sweetness so common in her sex, but something of the beauty of the
      falcon, when it swoops down upon the unwatchful sparrow or soars round the
      lonely crags; something of the mystic depth of the dark tarn, when with
      bodeful trembling you gaze down into it, and see its weird traditions rise
      from its depth and hover over the pine-tops in the morning fog. Yet, Aasa
      was not dark; her hair was as fair and yellow as a wheat-field in August,
      her forehead high and clear, and her mouth and chin as if cut with a
      chisel; only her eyes were perhaps somewhat deeper than is common in the
      North, and the longer you looked at them the deeper they grew, just like
      the tarn, which, if you stare long enough into it, you will find is as
      deep as the heavens above, that is, whose depth only faith and fancy can
      fathom. But however long you looked at Aasa, you could never be quite sure
      that she looked at you; she seemed but to half notice whatever went on
      around her; the look of her eye was always more than half inward, and when
      it shone the brightest, it might well happen that she could not have told
      you how many years she had lived, or the name her father gave her in
      baptism.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now Aasa was eighteen years old, and could knit, weave, and spin, and it
      was full time that wooers should come. &ldquo;But that is the consequence of
      living in such an out-of-the-way place,&rdquo; said her mother; &ldquo;who will risk
      his limbs to climb that neck-breaking rock? and the round-about way over
      the forest is rather too long for a wooer.&rdquo; Besides handling the loom and
      the spinning-wheel, Aasa had also learned to churn and make cheese to
      perfection, and whenever Elsie grieved at her strange behavior she always
      in the end consoled herself with the reflection that after all Aasa would
      make the man who should get her an excellent housewife.
    </p>
    <p>
      The farm of Kvaerk was indeed most singularly situated. About a hundred
      feet from the house the rough wall of the mountain rose steep and
      threatening; and the most remarkable part of it was that the rock itself
      caved inward and formed a lofty arch overhead, which looked like a huge
      door leading into the mountain. Some short distance below, the slope of
      the fields ended in an abrupt precipice; far underneath lay the other
      farm-houses of the valley, scattered like small red or gray dots, and the
      river wound onward like a white silver stripe in the shelter of the dusky
      forest. There was a path down along the rock, which a goat or a brisk lad
      might be induced to climb, if the prize of the experiment were great
      enough to justify the hazard. The common road to Kvaerk made a large
      circuit around the forest, and reached the valley far up at its northern
      end.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was difficult to get anything to grow at Kvaerk. In the spring all the
      valley lay bare and green, before the snow had begun to think of melting
      up there; and the night-frost would be sure to make a visit there, while
      the fields along the river lay silently drinking the summer dew. On such
      occasions the whole family at Kvaerk would have to stay up during all the
      night and walk back and forth on either side of the wheat-fields, carrying
      a long rope between them and dragging it slowly over the heads of the rye,
      to prevent the frost from settling; for as long as the ears could be kept
      in motion, they could not freeze. But what did thrive at Kvaerk in spite
      of both snow and night-frost was legends, and they throve perhaps the
      better for the very sterility of its material soil. Aasa of course had
      heard them all and knew them by heart; they had been her friends from
      childhood, and her only companions. All the servants, however, also knew
      them and many others besides, and if they were asked how the mansion of
      Kvaerk happened to be built like an eagle&rsquo;s nest on the brink of a
      precipice, they would tell you the following:
    </p>
    <p>
      Saint Olaf, Norway&rsquo;s holy king, in the time of his youth had sailed as a
      Viking over the wide ocean, and in foreign lands had learned the doctrine
      of Christ the White. When he came home to claim the throne of his
      hereditary kingdom, he brought with him tapers and black priests, and
      commanded the people to overthrow the altars of Odin and Thor and to
      believe alone in Christ the White. If any still dared to slaughter a horse
      to the old gods, he cut off their ears, burned their farms, and drove them
      houseless from the smoking ruins. Here in the valley old Thor, or, as they
      called him, Asathor, had always helped us to vengeance and victory, and
      gentle Frey for many years had given us fair and fertile summers.
      Therefore the peasants paid little heed to King Olaf&rsquo;s god, and continued
      to bring their offerings to Odin and Asathor. This reached the king&rsquo;s ear,
      and he summoned his bishop and five black priests, and set out to visit
      our valley. Having arrived here, he called the peasants together, stood up
      on the Ting-stone, told them of the great things that the White Christ had
      done, and bade them choose between him and the old gods. Some were scared,
      and received baptism from the king&rsquo;s priests; others bit their lips and
      were silent; others again stood forth and told Saint Olaf that Odin and
      Asathor had always served them well, and that they were not going to give
      them up for Christ the White, whom they had never seen and of whom they
      knew nothing. The next night the red cock crew <a href="#linknote-9"
       name="linknoteref-9" id="linknoteref-9"><small>9</small></a> over ten
      farms in the valley, and it happened to be theirs who had spoken against
      King Olaf&rsquo;s god. Then the peasants flocked to the Ting-stone and received
      the baptism of Christ the White. Some few, who had mighty kinsmen in the
      North, fled and spread the evil tidings. Only one neither fled nor was
      baptized, and that one was Lage Ulfson Kvaerk, the ancestor of the present
      Lage. He slew his best steed before Asathor&rsquo;s altar, and promised to give
      him whatever he should ask, even to his own life, if he would save him
      from the vengeance of the king. Asathor heard his prayer. As the sun set,
      a storm sprung up with thick darkness and gloom, the earth shook, Asathor
      drove his chariot over the heavens with deafening thunder and swung his
      hammer right and left, and the crackling lightning flew through the air
      like a hail-storm of fire. Then the peasants trembled, for they knew that
      Asathor was wroth. Only the king sat calm and fearless with his bishop and
      priests, quaffing the nut-brown mead. The tempest raged until morn. When
      the sun rose, Saint Olaf called his hundred swains, sprang into the saddle
      and rode down toward the river. Few men who saw the angry fire in his eye,
      and the frown on his royal brow, doubted whither he was bound. But having
      reached the ford, a wondrous sight met his eye. Where on the day before
      the highway had wound itself up the slope toward Lage Kvaerk&rsquo;s mansion,
      lay now a wild ravine; the rock was shattered into a thousand pieces, and
      a deep gorge, as if made by a single stroke of a huge hammer, separated
      the king from his enemy. Then Saint Olaf made the sign of the cross, and
      mumbled the name of Christ the White; but his hundred swains made the sign
      of the hammer under their cloaks, and thought, Still is Asathor alive.
    </p>
    <p>
      That same night Lage Ulfson Kvaerk slew a black ram, and thanked Asathor
      for his deliverance; and the Saga tells that while he was sprinkling the
      blood on the altar, the thundering god himself appeared to him, and wilder
      he looked than the fiercest wild Turk. Rams, said he, were every-day fare;
      they could redeem no promise. Brynhild, his daughter, was the reward
      Asathor demanded. Lage prayed and besought him to ask for something else.
      He would gladly give him one of his sons; for he had three sons, but only
      one daughter. Asathor was immovable; but so long Lage continued to beg,
      that at last he consented to come back in a year, when Lage perchance
      would be better reconciled to the thought of Brynhild&rsquo;s loss.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the mean time King Olaf built a church to Christ the White on the
      headland at the river, where it stands until this day. Every evening, when
      the huge bell rumbled between the mountains, the parishioners thought they
      heard heavy, half-choked sighs over in the rocks at Kvaerk; and on Sunday
      mornings, when the clear-voiced chimes called them to high-mass, a
      suppressed moan would mingle with the sound of the bells, and die away
      with the last echo. Lage Ulfson was not the man to be afraid; yet the
      church-bells many a time drove the blood from his cheeks; for he also
      heard the moan from the mountain.
    </p>
    <p>
      The year went, and Asathor returned. If he had not told his name, however,
      Lage would not have recognized him. That a year could work so great a
      change in a god, he would hardly have believed, if his own eyes had not
      testified to it. Asathor&rsquo;s cheeks were pale and bloodless, the lustre of
      his eye more than half quenched, and his gray hair hung in disorder down
      over his forehead.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Methinks thou lookest rather poorly to-day,&rdquo; said Lage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is only those cursed church-bells,&rdquo; answered the god; &ldquo;they leave me
      no rest day or night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aha,&rdquo; thought Lage, &ldquo;if the king&rsquo;s bells are mightier than thou, then
      there is still hope of safety for my daughter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is Brynhild, thy daughter?&rdquo; asked Asathor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know not where she is,&rdquo; answered the father; and straightway he turned
      his eyes toward the golden cross that shone over the valley from Saint
      Olaf&rsquo;s steeple, and he called aloud on the White Christ&rsquo;s name. Then the
      god gave a fearful roar, fell on the ground, writhed and foamed and
      vanished into the mountain. In the next moment Lage heard a hoarse voice
      crying from within, &ldquo;I shall return, Lage Ulfson, when thou shalt least
      expect me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lage Ulfson then set to work clearing a way through the forest; and when
      that was done, he called all his household together, and told them of the
      power of Christ the White. Not long after he took his sons and his
      daughter, and hastened with them southward, until he found King Olaf. And,
      so the Saga relates, they all fell down on their knees before him, prayed
      for his forgiveness, and received baptism from the king&rsquo;s own bishop.
    </p>
    <p>
      So ends the Saga of Lage Ulfson Kvaerk.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      II.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Aasa Kvaerk loved her father well, but especially in the winter. Then,
      while she sat turning her spinning-wheel in the light of the crackling
      logs, his silent presence always had a wonderfully soothing and calming
      effect upon her. She never laughed then, and seldom wept; when she felt
      his eyes resting on her, her thoughts, her senses, and her whole being
      seemed by degrees to be lured from their hiding-place and concentrate on
      him; and from him they ventured again, first timidly, then more boldly, to
      grasp the objects around him. At such times Aasa could talk and jest
      almost like other girls, and her mother, to whom &ldquo;other girls&rdquo; represented
      the ideal of womanly perfection, would send significant glances, full of
      hope and encouragement, over to Lage, and he would quietly nod in return,
      as if to say that he entirely agreed with her. Then Elsie had bright
      visions of wooers and thrifty housewives, and even Lage dreamed of seeing
      the ancient honor of the family re-established. All depended on Aasa. She
      was the last of the mighty race. But when summer came, the bright visions
      fled; and the spring winds, which to others bring life and joy, to Kvaerk
      brought nothing but sorrow. No sooner had the mountain brooks begun to
      swell, than Aasa began to laugh and to weep; and when the first birches
      budded up in the glens, she could no longer be kept at home. Prayers and
      threats were equally useless. From early dawn until evening she would roam
      about in forests and fields, and when late at night she stole into the
      room and slipped away into some corner, Lage drew a deep sigh and thought
      of the old tradition.
    </p>
    <p>
      Aasa was nineteen years old before she had a single wooer. But when she
      was least expecting it, the wooer came to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was late one summer night; the young maiden was sitting on the brink of
      the ravine, pondering on the old legend and peering down into the deep
      below. It was not the first time she had found her way hither, where but
      seldom a human foot had dared to tread. To her every alder and
      bramble-bush, that clothed the naked wall of the rock, were as familiar as
      were the knots and veins in the ceiling of the chamber where from her
      childhood she had slept; and as she sat there on the brink of the
      precipice, the late summer sun threw its red lustre upon her and upon the
      fogs that came drifting up from the deep. With her eyes she followed the
      drifting masses of fog, and wondered, as they rose higher and higher, when
      they would reach her; in her fancy she saw herself dancing over the wide
      expanse of heaven, clad in the sun-gilded evening fogs; and Saint Olaf,
      the great and holy king, came riding to meet her, mounted on a flaming
      steed made of the glory of a thousand sunsets; then Saint Olaf took her
      hand and lifted her up, and she sat with him on the flaming steed: but the
      fog lingered in the deep below, and as it rose it spread like a thin,
      half-invisible gauze over the forests and the fields, and at last vanished
      into the infinite space. But hark! a huge stone rolls down over the
      mountain-side, then another, and another; the noise grows, the birches
      down there in the gorge tremble and shake. Aasa leaned out over the brink
      of the ravine, and, as far as she could distinguish anything from her
      dizzying height, thought she saw something gray creeping slowly up the
      neck-breaking mountain path; she watched it for a while, but as it seemed
      to advance no farther she again took refuge in her reveries. An hour might
      have passed, or perhaps more, when suddenly she heard a noise only a few
      feet distant, and, again stooping out over the brink, saw the figure of a
      man struggling desperately to climb the last great ledge of the rock. With
      both his hands he clung to a little birch-tree which stretched its slender
      arms down over the black wall, but with every moment that passed seemed
      less likely to accomplish the feat. The girl for a while stood watching
      him with unfeigned curiosity, then, suddenly reminding herself that the
      situation to him must be a dangerous one, seized hold of a tree that grew
      near the brink, and leaned out over the rock to give him her assistance.
      He eagerly grasped her extended hand, and with a vigorous pull she flung
      him up on the grassy level, where he remained lying for a minute or two,
      apparently utterly unable to account for his sudden ascent, and gazing
      around him with a half-frightened, half-bewildered look. Aasa, to whom his
      appearance was no less strange than his demeanor, unluckily hit upon the
      idea that perhaps her rather violent treatment had momentarily stunned
      him, and when, as answer to her sympathizing question if he was hurt, the
      stranger abruptly rose to his feet and towered up before her to the
      formidable height of six feet four or five, she could no longer master her
      mirth, but burst out into a most vehement fit of laughter. He stood calm
      and silent, and looked at her with a timid but strangely bitter smile. He
      was so very different from any man she had ever seen before; therefore she
      laughed, not necessarily because he amused her, but because his whole
      person was a surprise to her; and there he stood, tall and gaunt and
      timid, and said not a word, only gazed and gazed. His dress was not the
      national costume of the valley, neither was it like anything that Aasa had
      ever known. On his head he wore a cap that hung all on one side, and was
      decorated with a long, heavy silk tassel. A threadbare coat, which seemed
      to be made expressly not to fit him, hung loosely on his sloping
      shoulders, and a pair of gray pantaloons, which were narrow where they
      ought to have been wide, and wide where it was their duty to be narrow,
      extended their service to a little more than the upper half of the limb,
      and, by a kind of compromise with the tops of the boots, managed to
      protect also the lower half. His features were delicate, and would have
      been called handsome had they belonged to a proportionately delicate body;
      in his eyes hovered a dreamy vagueness which seemed to come and vanish,
      and to flit from one feature to another, suggesting the idea of
      remoteness, and a feeling of hopeless strangeness to the world and all its
      concerns.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do I inconvenience you, madam?&rdquo; were the first words he uttered, as Aasa
      in her usual abrupt manner stayed her laughter, turned her back on him,
      and hastily started for the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Inconvenience?&rdquo; said she, surprised, and again slowly turned on her heel;
      &ldquo;no, not that I know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then tell me if there are people living here in the neighborhood, or if
      the light deceived me, which I saw from the other side of the river.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Follow me,&rdquo; answered Aasa, and she naïvely reached him her hand; &ldquo;my
      father&rsquo;s name is Lage Ulfson Kvaerk; he lives in the large house you see
      straight before you, there on the hill; and my mother lives there too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And hand in hand they walked together, where a path had been made between
      two adjoining rye-fields; his serious smile seemed to grow milder and
      happier, the longer he lingered at her side, and her eye caught a ray of
      more human intelligence, as it rested on him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you do up here in the long winter?&rdquo; asked he, after a pause.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We sing,&rdquo; answered she, as it were at random, because the word came into
      her mind; &ldquo;and what do you do, where you come from?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I gather song.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you ever heard the forest sing?&rdquo; asked she, curiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is why I came here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And again they walked on in silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was near midnight when they entered the large hall at Kvaerk. Aasa went
      before, still leading the young man by the hand. In the twilight which
      filled the house, the space between the black, smoky rafters opened a
      vague vista into the region of the fabulous, and every object in the room
      loomed forth from the dusk with exaggerated form and dimensions. The room
      appeared at first to be but the haunt of the spirits of the past; no human
      voice, no human footstep, was heard; and the stranger instinctively
      pressed the hand he held more tightly; for he was not sure but that he was
      standing on the boundary of dream-land, and some elfin maiden had reached
      him her hand to lure him into her mountain, where he should live with her
      forever. But the illusion was of brief duration; for Aasa&rsquo;s thoughts had
      taken a widely different course; it was but seldom she had found herself
      under the necessity of making a decision; and now it evidently devolved
      upon her to find the stranger a place of rest for the night; so instead of
      an elf-maid&rsquo;s kiss and a silver palace, he soon found himself huddled into
      a dark little alcove in the wall, where he was told to go to sleep, while
      Aasa wandered over to the empty cow-stables, and threw herself down in the
      hay by the side of two sleeping milkmaids.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      III.
    </h2>
    <p>
      There was not a little astonishment manifested among the servant-maids at
      Kvaerk the next morning, when the huge, gaunt figure of a man was seen to
      launch forth from Aasa&rsquo;s alcove, and the strangest of all was, that Aasa
      herself appeared to be as much astonished as the rest. And there they
      stood, all gazing at the bewildered traveler, who indeed was no less
      startled than they, and as utterly unable to account for his own sudden
      apparition. After a long pause, he summoned all his courage, fixed his
      eyes intently on the group of the girls, and with a few rapid steps
      advanced toward Aasa, whom he seized by the hand and asked, &ldquo;Are you not
      my maiden of yester-eve?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She met his gaze firmly, and laid her hand on her forehead as if to clear
      her thoughts; as the memory of the night flashed through her mind, a
      bright smile lit up her features, and she answered, &ldquo;You are the man who
      gathers song. Forgive me, I was not sure but it was all a dream; for I
      dream so much.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then one of the maids ran out to call Lage Ulfson, who had gone to the
      stables to harness the horses; and he came and greeted the unknown man,
      and thanked him for last meeting, as is the wont of Norse peasants,
      although they had never seen each other until that morning. But when the
      stranger had eaten two meals in Lage&rsquo;s house, Lage asked him his name and
      his father&rsquo;s occupation; for old Norwegian hospitality forbids the host to
      learn the guest&rsquo;s name before he has slept and eaten under his roof. It
      was that same afternoon, when they sat together smoking their pipes under
      the huge old pine in the yard,&mdash;it was then Lage inquired about the
      young man&rsquo;s name and family; and the young man said that his name was
      Trond Vigfusson, that he had graduated at the University of Christiania,
      and that his father had been a lieutenant in the army; but both he and
      Trond&rsquo;s mother had died, when Trond was only a few years old. Lage then
      told his guest Vigfusson something about his family, but of the legend of
      Asathor and Saint Olaf he spoke not a word. And while they were sitting
      there talking together, Aasa came and sat down at Vigfusson&rsquo;s feet; her
      long golden hair flowed in a waving stream down over her back and
      shoulders, there was a fresh, healthful glow on her cheeks, and her blue,
      fathomless eyes had a strangely joyous, almost triumphant expression. The
      father&rsquo;s gaze dwelt fondly upon her, and the collegian was but conscious
      of one thought: that she was wondrously beautiful. And still so great was
      his natural timidity and awkwardness in the presence of women, that it was
      only with the greatest difficulty he could master his first impulse to
      find some excuse for leaving her. She, however, was aware of no such
      restraint.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You said you came to gather song,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;where do you find it? for I
      too should like to find some new melody for my old thoughts; I have
      searched so long.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I find my songs on the lips of the people,&rdquo; answered he, &ldquo;and I write
      them down as the maidens or the old men sing them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She did not seem quite to comprehend that. &ldquo;Do you hear maidens sing
      them?&rdquo; asked she, astonished. &ldquo;Do you mean the troll-virgins and the
      elf-maidens?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By troll-virgins and elf-maidens, or what the legends call so, I
      understand the hidden and still audible voices of nature, of the dark pine
      forests, the legend-haunted glades, and the silent tarns; and this was
      what I referred to when I answered your question if I had ever heard the
      forest sing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, oh!&rdquo; cried she, delighted, and clapped her hands like a child; but in
      another moment she as suddenly grew serious again, and sat steadfastly
      gazing into his eye, as if she were trying to look into his very soul and
      there to find something kindred to her own lonely heart. A minute ago her
      presence had embarrassed him; now, strange to say, he met her eye, and
      smiled happily as he met it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you mean to say that you make your living by writing songs?&rdquo; asked
      Lage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The trouble is,&rdquo; answered Vigfusson, &ldquo;that I make no living at all; but I
      have invested a large capital, which is to yield its interest in the
      future. There is a treasure of song hidden in every nook and corner of our
      mountains and forests, and in our nation&rsquo;s heart. I am one of the miners
      who have come to dig it out before time and oblivion shall have buried
      every trace of it, and there shall not be even the will-o&rsquo;-the-wisp of a
      legend to hover over the spot, and keep alive the sad fact of our loss and
      our blamable negligence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here the young man paused; his eyes gleamed, his pale cheeks flushed, and
      there was a warmth and an enthusiasm in his words which alarmed Lage,
      while on Aasa it worked like the most potent charm of the ancient mystic
      runes; she hardly comprehended more than half of the speaker&rsquo;s meaning,
      but his fire and eloquence were on this account none the less powerful.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If that is your object,&rdquo; remarked Lage, &ldquo;I think you have hit upon the
      right place in coming here. You will be able to pick up many an odd bit of
      a story from the servants and others hereabouts, and you are welcome to
      stay here with us as long as you choose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lage could not but attribute to Vigfusson the merit of having kept Aasa at
      home a whole day, and that in the month of midsummer. And while he sat
      there listening to their conversation, while he contemplated the delight
      that beamed from his daughter&rsquo;s countenance and, as he thought, the really
      intelligent expression of her eyes, could he conceal from himself the
      paternal hopes that swelled his heart? She was all that was left him, the
      life or the death of his mighty race. And here was one who was likely to
      understand her, and to whom she seemed willing to yield all the affection
      of her warm but wayward heart. Thus ran Lage Ulfson&rsquo;s reflections; and at
      night he had a little consultation with Elsie, his wife, who, it is
      needless to add, was no less sanguine than he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And then Aasa will make an excellent housewife, you know,&rdquo; observed
      Elsie. &ldquo;I will speak to the girl about it to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, for Heaven&rsquo;s sake, Elsie!&rdquo; exclaimed Lage, &ldquo;don&rsquo;t you know your
      daughter better than that? Promise me, Elsie, that you will not say a
      single word; it would be a cruel thing, Elsie, to mention anything to her.
      She is not like other girls, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, Lage, I shall not say a single word. Alas, you are right, she
      is not like other girls.&rdquo; And Elsie again sighed at her husband&rsquo;s sad
      ignorance of a woman&rsquo;s nature, and at the still sadder fact of her
      daughter&rsquo;s inferiority to the accepted standard of womanhood.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      IV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Trond Vigfusson must have made a rich harvest of legends at Kvaerk, at
      least judging by the time he stayed there; for days and weeks passed, and
      he had yet said nothing of going. Not that anybody wished him to go; no,
      on the contrary, the longer he stayed the more indispensable he seemed to
      all; and Lage Ulfson could hardly think without a shudder of the
      possibility of his ever having to leave them. For Aasa, his only child,
      was like another being in the presence of this stranger; all that weird,
      forest-like intensity, that wild, half supernatural tinge in her character
      which in a measure excluded her from the blissful feeling of fellowship
      with other men, and made her the strange, lonely creature she was,&mdash;all
      this seemed to vanish as dew in the morning sun when Vigfusson&rsquo;s eyes
      rested upon her; and with every day that passed, her human and womanly
      nature gained a stronger hold upon her. She followed him like his shadow
      on all his wanderings, and when they sat down together by the wayside, she
      would sing, in a clear, soft voice, an ancient lay or ballad, and he would
      catch her words on his paper, and smile at the happy prospect of
      perpetuating what otherwise would have been lost. Aasa&rsquo;s love, whether
      conscious or not, was to him an everlasting source of strength, was a
      revelation of himself to himself, and a clearing and widening power which
      brought ever more and more of the universe within the scope of his vision.
      So they lived on from day to day and from week to week, and, as old Lage
      remarked, never had Kvaerk been the scene of so much happiness. Not a
      single time during Vigfusson&rsquo;s stay had Aasa fled to the forest, not a
      meal had she missed, and at the hours for family devotion she had taken
      her seat at the big table with the rest and apparently listened with as
      much attention and interest. Indeed, all this time Aasa seemed purposely
      to avoid the dark haunts of the woods, and, whenever she could, chose the
      open highway; not even Vigfusson&rsquo;s entreaties could induce her to tread
      the tempting paths that led into the forest&rsquo;s gloom.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And why not, Aasa?&rdquo; he would say; &ldquo;summer is ten times summer there when
      the drowsy noonday spreads its trembling maze of shadows between those
      huge, venerable trunks. You can feel the summer creeping into your very
      heart and soul, there!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Vigfusson,&rdquo; she would answer, shaking her head mournfully, &ldquo;for a
      hundred paths that lead in, there is only one that leads out again, and
      sometimes even that one is nowhere to be found.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He understood her not, but fearing to ask, he remained silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      His words and his eyes always drew her nearer and nearer to him; and the
      forest and its strange voices seemed a dark, opposing influence, which
      strove to take possession of her heart and to wrest her away from him
      forever; she helplessly clung to him; every thought and emotion of her
      soul clustered about him, and every hope of life and happiness was staked
      on him.
    </p>
    <p>
      One evening Vigfusson and old Lage Ulfson had been walking about the
      fields to look at the crop, both smoking their evening pipes. But as they
      came down toward the brink whence the path leads between the two adjoining
      rye-fields, they heard a sweet, sad voice crooning some old ditty down
      between the birch-trees at the precipice; they stopped to listen, and soon
      recognized Aasa&rsquo;s yellow hair over the tops the rye; the shadow as of a
      painful emotion flitted over the father&rsquo;s countenance, and he turned his
      back on his guest and started to go; then again paused, and said,
      imploringly, &ldquo;Try to get her home if you can, friend Vigfusson.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Vigfusson nodded, and Lage went; the song had ceased for a moment, now it
      began again:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
  &ldquo;Ye twittering birdlings, in forest and glen
    I have heard you so gladly before;
    But a bold knight hath come to woo me,
    I dare listen to you no more.
  For it is so dark, so dark in the forest.

   &ldquo;And the knight who hath come a-wooing to me,
    He calls me his love and his own;
    Why then should I stray through the darksome woods,
    Or dream in the glades alone?
  For it is so dark, so dark in the forest.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      Her voice fell to a low unintelligible murmur; then it rose, and the last
      verses came, clear, soft, and low, drifting on the evening breeze:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;Yon beckoning world, that shimmering lay
     O&rsquo;er the woods where the old pines grow,
     That gleamed through the moods of the summer day
     When the breezes were murmuring low
  (And it is so dark, so dark in the forest);

   &ldquo;Oh let me no more in the sunshine hear
     Its quivering noonday call;
     The bold knight&rsquo;s love is the sun of my heart&mdash;
     Is my life, and my all in all.
  But it is so dark, so dark in the forest.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      The young man felt the blood rushing to his face&mdash;his heart beat
      violently. There was a keen sense of guilt in the blush on his cheek, a
      loud accusation in the throbbing pulse and the swelling heart-beat. Had he
      not stood there behind the maiden&rsquo;s back and cunningly peered into her
      soul&rsquo;s holy of holies? True, he loved Aasa; at least he thought he did,
      and the conviction was growing stronger with every day that passed. And
      now he had no doubt that he had gained her heart. It was not so much the
      words of the ballad which had betrayed the secret; he hardly knew what it
      was, but somehow the truth had flashed upon him, and he could no longer
      doubt.
    </p>
    <p>
      Vigfusson sat down on the moss-grown rock and pondered. How long he sat
      there he did not know, but when he rose and looked around, Aasa was gone.
      Then remembering her father&rsquo;s request to bring her home, he hastened up
      the hill-side toward the mansion, and searched for her in all directions.
      It was near midnight when he returned to Kvaerk, where Aasa sat in her
      high gable window, still humming the weird melody of the old ballad.
    </p>
    <p>
      By what reasoning Vigfusson arrived at his final conclusion is difficult
      to tell. If he had acted according to his first and perhaps most generous
      impulse, the matter would soon have been decided; but he was all the time
      possessed of a vague fear of acting dishonorably, and it was probably this
      very fear which made him do what, to the minds of those whose friendship
      and hospitality he had accepted, had something of the appearance he wished
      so carefully to avoid. Aasa was rich; he had nothing; it was a reason for
      delay, but hardly a conclusive one. They did not know him; he must go out
      in the world and prove himself worthy of her. He would come back when he
      should have compelled the world to respect him; for as yet he had done
      nothing. In fact, his arguments were good and honorable enough, and there
      would have been no fault to find with him, had the object of his love been
      as capable of reasoning as he was himself. But Aasa, poor thing, could do
      nothing by halves; a nature like hers brooks no delay; to her love was
      life or it was death.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next morning he appeared at breakfast with his knapsack on his back,
      and otherwise equipped for his journey. It was of no use that Elsie cried
      and begged him to stay, that Lage joined his prayers to hers, and that
      Aasa stood staring at him with a bewildered gaze. Vigfusson shook hands
      with them all, thanked them for their kindness to him, and promised to
      return; he held Aasa&rsquo;s hand long in his, but when he released it, it
      dropped helplessly at her side.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      V.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Far up in the glen, about a mile from Kvaerk, ran a little brook; that is,
      it was little in summer and winter, but in the spring, while the snow was
      melting up in the mountains, it overflowed the nearest land and turned the
      whole glen into a broad and shallow river. It was easy to cross, however;
      a light foot might jump from stone to stone, and be over in a minute. Not
      the hind herself could be lighter on her foot than Aasa was; and even in
      the spring-flood it was her wont to cross and recross the brook, and to
      sit dreaming on a large stone against which the water broke incessantly,
      rushing in white torrents over its edges.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here she sat one fair summer day&mdash;the day after Vigfusson&rsquo;s
      departure. It was noon, and the sun stood high over the forest. The water
      murmured and murmured, babbled and whispered, until at length there came a
      sudden unceasing tone into its murmur, then another, and it sounded like a
      faint whispering song of small airy beings. And as she tried to listen, to
      fix the air in her mind, it all ceased again, and she heard but the
      monotonous murmuring of the brook. Everything seemed so empty and
      worthless, as if that faint melody had been the world of the moment. But
      there it was again; it sung and sung, and the birch overhead took up the
      melody and rustled it with its leaves, and the grasshopper over in the
      grass caught it and whirred it with her wings. The water, the trees, the
      air, were full of it. What a strange melody!
    </p>
    <p>
      Aasa well knew that every brook and river has its Neck, besides hosts of
      little water-sprites. She had heard also that in the moonlight at
      midsummer, one might chance to see them rocking in bright little shells,
      playing among the pebbles, or dancing on the large leaves of the
      water-lily. And that they could sing also, she doubted not; it was their
      voices she heard through the murmuring of the brook. Aasa eagerly bent
      forward and gazed down into the water: the faint song grew louder, paused
      suddenly, and sprang into life again; and its sound was so sweet, so
      wonderfully alluring! Down there in the water, where a stubborn pebble
      kept chafing a precipitous little side current, clear tiny pearl-drops
      would leap up from the stream, and float half-wonderingly downward from
      rapid to rapid, until they lost themselves in the whirl of some stronger
      current. Thus sat Aasa and gazed and gazed, and in one moment she seemed
      to see what in the next moment she saw not. Then a sudden great hush stole
      through the forest, and in the hush she could hear the silence calling her
      name. It was so long since she had been in the forest, it seemed ages and
      ages ago. She hardly knew herself; the light seemed to be shining into her
      eyes as with a will and purpose, perhaps to obliterate something, some old
      dream or memory, or to impart some new power&mdash;the power of seeing the
      unseen. And this very thought, this fear of some possible loss, brought
      the fading memory back, and she pressed her hands against her throbbing
      temples as if to bind and chain it there forever; and it was he to whom
      her thought returned. She heard his voice, saw him beckoning to her to
      follow him, and she rose to obey, but her limbs were as petrified, and the
      stone on which she was sitting held her with the power of a hundred strong
      arms. The sunshine smote upon her eyelids, and his name was blotted out
      from her life; there was nothing but emptiness all around her. Gradually
      the forest drew nearer and nearer, the water bubbled and rippled, and the
      huge, bare-stemmed pines stretched their long gnarled arms toward her. The
      birches waved their heads with a wistful nod, and the profile of the rock
      grew into a face with a long, hooked nose, and a mouth half open as if to
      speak. And the word that trembled on his lips was, &ldquo;Come.&rdquo; She felt no
      fear nor reluctance, but rose to obey. Then and not until then she saw an
      old man standing at her side; his face was the face of the rock, his white
      beard flowed to his girdle, and his mouth was half open, but no word came
      from his lips. There was something in the wistful look of his eye which
      she knew so well, which she had seen so often, although she could not tell
      when or where. The old man extended his hand; Aasa took it, and fearlessly
      or rather spontaneously followed. They approached the steep, rocky wall;
      as they drew near, a wild, fierce laugh rang through the forest. The
      features of the old man were twisted as it were into a grin; so also were
      the features of the rock; but the laugh blew like a mighty blast through
      the forest.
    </p>
    <p>
      Aasa clung to the old man&rsquo;s hand and followed him&mdash;she knew not
      whither.
    </p>
    <p>
      At home in the large sitting-room at Kvaerk sat Lage, brooding over the
      wreck of his hopes and his happiness. Aasa had gone to the woods again the
      very first day after Vigfusson&rsquo;s departure. What would be the end of all
      this? It was already late in the evening, and she had not returned. The
      father cast anxious glances toward the door, every time he heard the latch
      moving. At last, when it was near midnight, he roused all his men from
      their sleep, and commanded them to follow him. Soon the dusky forests
      resounded far and near with the blast of horns, the report of guns, and
      the calling and shouting of men. The affrighted stag crossed and recrossed
      the path of the hunters, but not a rifle was leveled at its head. Toward
      morning&mdash;it was before the sun had yet risen&mdash;Lage, weary and
      stunned, stood leaning up against a huge fir. Then suddenly a fierce, wild
      laugh rang through the forest. Lage shuddered, raised his hand slowly and
      pressed it hard against his forehead, vainly struggling to clear his
      thoughts. The men clung fearfully together; a few of the more courageous
      ones drew their knives and made the sign of the cross with them in the
      air. Again the same mad laugh shook the air, and swept over the crowns of
      the pine-trees. Then Lage lifted his eyes toward heaven and wrung his
      hands: for the awful truth stood before him. He remained a long while
      leaning against that old fir as in a dead stupor; and no one dared to
      arouse him. A suppressed murmur reached the men&rsquo;s ears. &ldquo;But deliver us
      from evil&rdquo; were the last words they heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Lage and his servants came home to Kvaerk with the mournful tidings
      of Aasa&rsquo;s disappearance, no one knew what to do or say. There could be no
      doubt that Aasa was &ldquo;mountain-taken,&rdquo; as they call it; for there were
      Trolds and dwarfs in all the rocks and forests round about, and they would
      hardly let slip the chance of alluring so fair a maiden as Aasa was into
      their castles in the mountains. Elsie, her mother, knew a good deal about
      the Trolds, their tricks, and their way of living, and when she had wept
      her fill, she fell to thinking of the possibility of regaining her
      daughter from their power. If Aasa had not yet tasted of food or drink in
      the mountain, she was still out of danger; and if the pastor would allow
      the church-bell to be brought up into the forest and rung near the rock
      where the laugh had been heard, the Trolds could be compelled to give her
      back. No sooner had this been suggested to Lage, than the command was
      given to muster the whole force of men and horses, and before evening on
      the same day the sturdy swains of Kvaerk were seen climbing the tower of
      the venerable church, whence soon the huge old bell descended, to the
      astonishment of the throng of curious women and children who had flocked
      together to see the extraordinary sight. It was laid upon four large
      wagons, which had been joined together with ropes and planks, and drawn
      away by twelve strong horses. Long after the strange caravan had vanished
      in the twilight, the children stood gazing up into the empty bell-tower.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was near midnight, when Lage stood at the steep, rocky wall in the
      forest; the men were laboring to hoist the church-bell up to a staunch
      cross-beam between two mighty fir-trees, and in the weird light of their
      torches, the wild surroundings looked wilder and more fantastic. Anon, the
      muffled noise and bustle of the work being at an end, the laborers
      withdrew, and a strange, feverish silence seemed to brood over the forest.
      Lage took a step forward, and seized the bell-rope; the clear, conquering
      toll of the metal rung solemnly through the silence, and from the rocks,
      the earth, and the tree-tops, rose a fierce chorus of howls, groans, and
      screams. All night the ringing continued; the old trees swayed to and fro,
      creaked, and groaned, the roots loosened their holds in the fissures of
      the rock, and the bushy crowns bowed low under their unwonted burden.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was well-nigh morn, but the dense fog still brooded over the woods, and
      it was dark as night. Lage was sitting on the ground, his head leaning on
      both his elbows; at his side lay the flickering torch, and the huge bell
      hung dumb overhead. In the dark he felt a hand touch his shoulder; had it
      happened only a few hours before, he would have shuddered; now the
      physical sensation hardly communicated itself to his mind, or, if it did,
      had no power to rouse him from his dead, hopeless apathy. Suddenly&mdash;could
      he trust his own ears?&mdash;the church-bell gave a slow, solemn,
      quivering stroke, and the fogs rolled in thick masses to the east and to
      the west, as if blown by the breath of the sound. Lage seized his torch,
      sprang to his feet, and saw&mdash;Vigfusson. He stretched his arm with the
      blazing torch closer to the young man&rsquo;s face, stared at him with large
      eyes, and his lip quivered; but he could not utter a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Vigfusson?&rdquo; faltered he at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is I;&rdquo; and the second stroke followed, stronger and more solemn than
      the first. The same fierce, angry voices chorused forth from every nook of
      the rock and the woods. Then came the third&mdash;the noise grew; fourth&mdash;and
      it sounded like a hoarse, angry hiss; when the twelfth stroke fell,
      silence reigned again in the forest. Vigfusson dropped the bell-rope, and
      with a loud voice called Lage Kvaerk and his men. He lit a torch, held it
      aloft over his head, and peered through the dusky night. The men spread
      through the highlands to search for the lost maiden; Lage followed close
      in Vigfusson&rsquo;s footsteps. They had not walked far when they heard the
      babbling of the brook only a few feet away. Thither they directed their
      steps. On a large stone in the middle of the stream the youth thought he
      saw something white, like a large kerchief. Quick as thought he was at its
      side, bowed down with his torch, and&mdash;fell backward. It was Aasa, his
      beloved, cold and dead; but as the father stooped over his dead child the
      same mad laugh echoed wildly throughout the wide woods, but madder and
      louder than ever before, and from the rocky wall came a fierce, broken
      voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I came at last.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When, after an hour of vain search, the men returned to the place whence
      they had started, they saw a faint light flickering between the birches
      not fifty feet away; they formed a firm column, and with fearful hearts
      drew nearer. There lay Lage Kvaerk, their master, still bending down over
      his child&rsquo;s pale features, and staring into her sunken eyes as if he could
      not believe that she were really dead. And at his side stood Vigfusson,
      pale and aghast, with the burning torch in his hand. The footsteps of the
      men awakened the father, but when he turned his face on them they
      shuddered and started back. Then Lage rose, lifted the maiden from the
      stone, and silently laid her in Vigfusson&rsquo;s arms; her rich yellow hair
      flowed down over his shoulder. The youth let his torch fall into the
      waters, and with a sharp, serpent-like hiss its flame was quenched. He
      crossed the brook; the men followed, and the dark pine-trees closed over
      the last descendant of Lage Ulfson&rsquo;s mighty race.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_FOOT" id="link2H_FOOT">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Footnotes:
    </h2>
    <p>
      <a name="linknote-1" id="linknote-1">
      <!-- Note --></a>
    </p>
    <p class="foot">
      1 (<a href="#linknoteref-1">return</a>)<br /> [ &ldquo;I am a Dane. I speak
      Danish.&rdquo;]
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="linknote-2" id="linknote-2">
      <!-- Note --></a>
    </p>
    <p class="foot">
      2 (<a href="#linknoteref-2">return</a>)<br /> [ Examen artium is the
      entrance examination to the Norwegian University, and philosophicum the
      first degree. The ranks given at these are Laudabilis prae ceteris (in
      student&rsquo;s parlance, prae), laudabilis or laud, haud illaudabilis, or haud,
      etc.]
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="linknote-3" id="linknote-3">
      <!-- Note --></a>
    </p>
    <p class="foot">
      3 (<a href="#linknoteref-3">return</a>)<br /> [ Free translation of a
      Swedish serenade, the name of whose author I have forgotten. H. H. B.]
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="linknote-4" id="linknote-4">
      <!-- Note --></a>
    </p>
    <p class="foot">
      4 (<a href="#linknoteref-4">return</a>)<br /> [ Translation, from &ldquo;Exotics.
      By J. F. C. &amp; C. L.&rdquo;]
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="linknote-5" id="linknote-5">
      <!-- Note --></a>
    </p>
    <p class="foot">
      5 (<a href="#linknoteref-5">return</a>)<br /> [ In the country districts of
      Norway Saturday evening is regarded as &ldquo;the wooer&rsquo;s eve.&rdquo;]
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="linknote-6" id="linknote-6">
      <!-- Note --></a>
    </p>
    <p class="foot">
      6 (<a href="#linknoteref-6">return</a>)<br /> [ The saeter is a place in
      the mountains where the Norwegian peasants spend their summers pasturing
      their cattle. Every large farm has its own saeter, consisting of one or
      more chalets, hedged in by a fence of stone or planks.]
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="linknote-7" id="linknote-7">
      <!-- Note --></a>
    </p>
    <p class="foot">
      7 (<a href="#linknoteref-7">return</a>)<br /> [ Katzenjammer is the
      sensation a man has the morning after a carousal.]
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="linknote-8" id="linknote-8">
      <!-- Note --></a>
    </p>
    <p class="foot">
      8 (<a href="#linknoteref-8">return</a>)<br /> [ A stave is an improvised
      responsive song. It is an ancient pastime in Norway, and is kept up until
      this day, especially among the peasantry. The students, also, at their
      social gatherings, throw improvised rhymes to each other across the table,
      and the rest of the company repeat the refrain.]
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="linknote-9" id="linknote-9">
      <!-- Note --></a>
    </p>
    <p class="foot">
      9 (<a href="#linknoteref-9">return</a>)<br /> [ &ldquo;The red cock crew&rdquo; is the
      expression used in the old Norwegian Fagas for incendiary fire.]
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tales From Two Hemispheres, by
Hjalmar Hjorth Boysen

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM TWO HEMISPHERES ***

***** This file should be named 299-h.htm or 299-h.zip *****
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
        http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/299/

Produced by Charles Keller, and David Widger

Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
will be renamed.

Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
permission and without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.



*** START: FULL LICENSE ***

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase &ldquo;Project
Gutenberg&rdquo;), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
http://gutenberg.org/license).


Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works

1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B.  &ldquo;Project Gutenberg&rdquo; is a registered trademark.  It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.  See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (&ldquo;the Foundation&rdquo;
 or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.

1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase &ldquo;Project Gutenberg&rdquo; appears, or with which the phrase &ldquo;Project
Gutenberg&rdquo; is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase &ldquo;Project Gutenberg&rdquo; associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.

1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.

1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.

1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
&ldquo;Plain Vanilla ASCII&rdquo; or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original &ldquo;Plain Vanilla ASCII&rdquo; or other
form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that

- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
     address specified in Section 4, &ldquo;Information about donations to
     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.&rdquo;
 
- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
     License.  You must require such a user to return or
     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
     Project Gutenberg-tm works.

- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
     of receipt of the work.

- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.

1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
&ldquo;Defects,&rdquo; such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.

1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the &ldquo;Right
of Replacement or Refund&rdquo; described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you &lsquo;AS-IS&rsquo; WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.


Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm

Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm&rsquo;s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org.


Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service.  The Foundation&rsquo;s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541.  Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at
http://pglaf.org/fundraising.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state&rsquo;s laws.

The Foundation&rsquo;s principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at
809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
business@pglaf.org.  Email contact links and up to date contact
information can be found at the Foundation&rsquo;s web site and official
page at http://pglaf.org

For additional contact information:
     Dr. Gregory B. Newby
     Chief Executive and Director
     gbnewby@pglaf.org


Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit http://pglaf.org

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate


Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.

Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone.  For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.


Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.


Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:

     http://www.gutenberg.org

This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.


</pre>
  </body>
</html>
generated by cgit v1.2.3 (git 2.25.1) at 2026-08-13 15:54:21 +0000