CHAPTER I.

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LITTLE TORA:

THE SWEDISH SCHOOLMISTRESS

And Other Stories.

[Illustration: "_The school was going on in its usual routine._"

Page 33.]

[Illustration: A BRAVE DEED

_Page 40_]

LITTLE TORA

THE SWEDISH SCHOOLMISTRESS

And Other Stories

BY

MRS. WOODS BAKER

AUTHOR OF "THE BABES IN THE BASKET," "THE SWEDISH TWINS,"

"FIRESIDE SKETCHES FROM SWEDISH LIFE,"

ETC. ETC.

[Illustration]

THOMAS NELSON AND SONS

_London, Edinburgh, and New York_

1898

CONTENTS.

A Swedish Schoolmistress.

I. LITTLE TORA, 13

II. FACING THE WORLD, 19

III. A NARROW ESCAPE, 32

IV. A HAPPY MORNING, 42

V. THE PERMANENT PUPIL, 50

A Week at Kulleby.

I. CHURCH SERVICE, 57

II. AT THE PASTOR'S, 63

III. A STRANGE MEETING, 69

IV. TOO LATE, 76

V. KARIN AND ELSA, 81

VI. CHRISTMAS EVE, 89

Alf.

I. A FOOLISH RESOLVE, 97

II. AFTER THIRTY YEARS, 104

III. IN THE POORHOUSE, 110

IV. PREPARING FOR CONFIRMATION, 118

V. LED TO THE LIGHT, 128

VI. PAINFUL DISCLOSURES, 134

VII. A HAPPY CHRISTMAS, 145

VIII. THE BEATA CHARITY, 151

Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected

without note. Original spellings have been retained.

LITTLE TORA:

THE SWEDISH SCHOOLMISTRESS

CHAPTER I.

LITTLE TORA.

The kindly doctor was entertaining his brother-in-law, and all the

family were sitting round the table in state. The polished silver and

shining glass, with porcelain, flowers, and fruit, seemed to be all that

had been provided for the dinner.

The usual "grace" had hardly been said, when a trim maid announced that

a little girl was at the door, who must see the doctor about something

particular. "There is nobody sick more than usual," she says; "but she

must come in," continued the irritated damsel-in-waiting.

"Let her come in here. You can never have your meals in peace!" said the

doctor's wife affectionately.

The soup and the little girl came in together, the latterly evidently

quite prepared to state her errand. She was a small, straight child,

with a determined air and a cheery face, as if sure of success in her

undertaking. Fresh in Monday cleanliness, her white cotton head-kerchief

stood stiffly out in a point behind, and her calico apron was without

spot or wrinkle. Her shoes, though they had been diligently blackened

and were under high polish, did not correspond with the rest of her

appearance. They had evidently been made for a boy, an individual much

larger than their present wearer. Great wrinkles crossing each other

shut off some low, unoccupied land near the toe, and showed how much of

the sole had been too proud to touch the common ground. All this the

observers saw at once.

"Well, Tora!" said the doctor pleasantly, after she had dropped her

bob-courtesies, and "good-days" had been exchanged.

"May I sing for you?" said the little girl, without further hesitation,

as she hastily took out a thin, black book from the small pocket

handkerchief in which it had been carefully wrapped.

"Sing? yes, surely!" said the doctor. "Just the thing for us while we

are taking our dinner. My brother-in-law here is a famous judge of

music, so you must do your best."

Tora opened the book, took what she considered an imposing position, and

announced the name of the song. It was a patriotic one, and in the full

chorus of the schoolroom it had stirred the young Swedish hearts to

their depths.

The first few notes were right, though tremblingly given; then came a

quivering and a faltering and a falsity that made the doctor's boys

cover their laughing mouths with their hands, while their eyes twinkled

with suppressed merriment.

Just then there was a queer buzzing noise in the room, by which the tune

was carried on, and Tora fell in with fresh courage. Most of the party

were taking their soup, as well as listening; but the boys observed that

their uncle quietly held his motionless spoon, and was looking at the

singer as if lost in musical bliss. His mouth was closed, but his

nostrils seemed undergoing a rhythmical contraction and distension most

interesting and unusual.

Tora gave the closing notes in fine style, and the expression of

applause was general. So encouraged, she volunteered a simple

newly-published carol that she had that day been practising at school.

Here it seemed the musical accompaniment could not be relied upon. Tora

began, stopped, and began again, then was silent, while great tears

stood in her eyes.

One of the before-smiling boys hastened to say,--

"Let her speak a piece, uncle. She can do that beautifully, her brother

Karl says. He has taught her ever so many, and it costs her nothing to

learn them. He likes to tell that she is the best scholar in her class."

The uncle seemed to be able to enjoy his dinner at the same time as the

elocutionary treat with which it was now accompanied, and he warmly

complimented the speaker on her performance at its close.

"What made you think of giving us this pleasure, little Tora?" said the

doctor, with a humorous look in his kindly face.

"Why," said the little girl at once, "I don't like my shoes. They have

been brother Karl's. When I asked father this morning to give me some

new ones, he said this was a fine strong pair and did not let in water,

and he could not think of letting them go to waste. Then he looked

sorrowful, and I heard him say to mother, 'The poor children will have

to earn all they have soon.' I made up my mind to begin at once, and

earn my shoes, if I could. Our teacher told us to-day about Jenny Lind,

who began to sing when she was a very little girl, and when she was

older she made a great deal of money, and gave away ever so much, and

was loved and admired wherever she went. I thought I should like to be

loved and admired wherever I went, and have new shoes whenever I wanted

them, and I would try singing too. I came here first because the doctor

has always been so pleasant to me and so good to us all."

"You have made a real beginning," said the brother-in-law.--"Gustaf,

take round the hat."

The doctor's son ran for his cap. There was a chinking and a silver

flash as the uncle put his hand into the cap. Something of the same kind

happened when it came to the doctor's turn to contribute. The mother

fumbled confusedly in her pocket, and found only her handkerchief. The

boys tossed in conspicuously some coppers of their own, perhaps with the

idea of covering, by their munificence, the evident discomfiture of

their mother.

"There! there!" said the uncle. "Hand the cap to the little girl. What

is in it is for the singer. As for the shoes, I'll see about that.--I

would not advise you, though, little Tora, to try singing to make

money. It might do for Jenny Lind, but I hardly think it would suit for

you."

The little girl's countenance fell. The friendly stranger went on, "How

would you like to be a little schoolmistress? That would be a nice way

for you to take care of yourself, and maybe help all at home, by-and-by.

I know how that thing is done, and I think we could manage it."

The uncle did know "how that thing was done," and who meant to do it.

Little Tora was provided for from that day; and so, if she did not sing

like Jenny Lind, she sang herself into being a schoolmistress--a little

schoolmistress of the very best order.

CHAPTER II.

FACING THE WORLD.

It was five o'clock in the morning on one of the last days of August.

This was no legally-sanctioned Swedish moving-day, and yet it was plain

that with somebody a change of residence was in progress.

Before a low house on a winding "cobble-stone" paved street two long,

narrow wagons were standing. Their horses faced in different directions,

though in all other respects the two establishments were, even to their

loading, like a pair of twins. In each was the furniture for one simple

room, a sofa-bed being the striking article in the inventory. A

carefully-packed basket of china, a few primitive cooking utensils, and

some boxes and packages indicated, if not good cheer, at least something

to keep soul and body together.

The outer door of the house was locked at last, and the key had been

handed to a humble woman, who courtesied and took it as a matter of

form; though both parties knew that she would soon be opening that door

and coming into lawful possession of all the effects, remnants, and

refuse left on the premises, and would be sure to hand that house over

to the landlord in a superlatively clean and tidy condition.

Two stout men took their places as drivers, and two passengers stood on

the low steps for a few parting words. They were by no means twins. The

straight, slight girl, though not tall, yet fully grown, had been the

little Tora, the singer of one public performance. Now she had in her

pocket her greatest treasure--the paper that pronounced her a

fully-fledged schoolmistress; who had completed with honour the

prescribed course at the seminary duly authorized for the manufacture of

teachers of unimpeachable character, and all pedagogical requisites in

perfection.

At Tora's side stood "brother Karl," just about to start for Upsala

University, with his arrangements complete for his bachelor housekeeping

on the most simple principles.

There was no effusiveness in the parting. "Keep well, Karl, and don't

study too hard," said the sister. "And don't have any 'food-days'; I

could not bear that. But you must not live too low, and pull yourself

down. Send to me if you get to the bottom of your purse. I shall be

likely to have a few coppers in mine."

"I'll warrant that, Miss Prudence," was his reply. "Nobody but you would

have managed to keep us both comfortably on what was only meant to carry

you through the seminary. Don't be afraid for me! I shall clear my own

way. I shall teach boys in the evening, and study after they have gone

to bed. I have served a good apprenticeship with the doctor's chaps

these years. I understand packing lessons into youngsters to be given

out in the class next day. Then I am to write an article now and then

for the paper here, with Upsala news for the country folks. As to

'food-days,' I am not exactly of your mind. I have made arrangements for

one already."

"O Karl! how could you?" said Tora reproachfully.

"Gunner Steelhammer liked well enough to take porridge with us now and

then when he was teaching here. His mother has told him to invite me to

dine at their house on Sundays, and to call there whenever I feel like

it. We are real friends, though he is a university tutor now. Anybody

that I would be willing to help I am willing to let help me. Of course,

I shall enjoy a good substantial dinner once a week, but I really care

more to be with the family at that house. Gunner is a splendid fellow,

as you know, and his father draws all kinds of nice people about him, I

hear. I did not dare to tell you this before, little sister; but now I

have made a clean breast of it. I was half teasing about it, too. Be

sure, I'll work hard and live low before I shall let anybody help me.

Well, good-bye," and he stretched out his hand to Tora, who took it

hastily for a hearty shake, and then they parted.

Karl was wearing his white university cap, which, with the loading of

the wagon, marked him as a student on the way to Upsala, and would

ensure him many a friendly greeting by the way. Tora had prudently

covered the fresh velvet with a fair cotton cover; but the

blue-and-yellow rosette was in full sight--a token of the honours he had

lately won at his examination, and would be striving to win at the old

centre of learning. The kind neighbours whom he had known from boyhood

had added to his equipment--here a cheese, and there a pat of butter or

a bag of fresh biscuits; but he did not need to open his stores by the

way. Now and again from the roadside houses kindly faces smiled on him,

and homely fare was offered him by the elders; while flowers or wild

berries came to his share from glad children who had been ranging the

woods for treasures during these last days of their summer vacation.

As for Tora, sitting in a low chair in the midst of her possessions, she

went rattling over the cobble-stones, if not more proud at least more

happy of heart than a conqueror of old at the head of a Roman triumph.

She had reached the goal towards which she had long been striving. She

was now an independent worker, with a profession by which she could earn

an honourable living. She was a teacher, "a teacher of the little

school"--that is to say, of the school for little children. The state

was her sure paymaster. If continued health were granted her, her path

for the future was plain--her bread was sure.

The cobble-stones were soon passed, and over the smooth country road

rumbled the clumsy vehicle, now through evergreen thickets, now through

groves of bright birches, and at last out on the rolling meadows. The

fences had disappeared, and but for a lone landmark here and there, the

sea of green might have seemed the property of any strong-handed

labourer who might choose to call it his own.

Down an unusually steep slope the wagon passed, then across the low

meadow with a bright stream threading its midst, and then there was a

triumphant sweep up to the little red schoolhouse where Tora was to have

her abode and the sphere of her labours.

A low wooded point ran like a promontory out into the meadow, and there

"the forefathers of the vale" had built the temple for the spelling-book

and the slate.

On the opposite side from the meadow the schoolhouse was entered, after

crossing the wide playground. Where "the field for sport" ended at the

road there stood a lad, evidently looking out eagerly for the arrival of

the new teacher.

"That's a life-member of the little school," said the driver, with a

whimsical look. "Nils is not much at books, but he's a powerful singer."

The last words were spoken within the hearing of the frank-faced boy,

who now pulled off his cap, and stepped up to the wagon to help Tora

down. She shook his hand kindly, and said, "I hear you are a singer,

Nils. I am glad of that, for in my certificate I got but a poor record

for my singing."

"And 'great A' for everything else, mother said," he answered promptly,

while his eyes beamed pleasantly on the new teacher, whose first

friendly greeting had won his heart.

"I'll help you down with the heavy things first," said Nils to the

driver, "and then if you'll set the rest here, we'll take them in

together later. I want to show the schoolhouse to the mistress."

The one room set apart for the home of the teacher did not look dreary

as she stepped into it. The table from the schoolroom stood in the

centre covered with a white cloth, its edge outlined by bright birch

leaves laid on it, loosely and tastefully, like a wreath. Then on a tray

covered with a snowy napkin stood a shining coffee-pot, with cups for

three, and a light saffron cake that might have sufficed for the whole

school assembled.

"Mother thought perhaps you would like a taste of something warm after

your ride," said Nils, as he proceeded to pour out a cup of coffee as if

he were quite at home. At home he was in a way, for in that schoolhouse

he had for years passed his days among the little ones, through a

special permit from the school board.

Tora clasped her hands, and stood silent a moment before she tasted the

first morsel of food in her new home, and her heart sent up really

grateful thoughts to her heavenly Father, who had so blessed her, and

would, she was sure, continue to bless her in her new surroundings.

"May I take out a cup to Petter?" asked Nils, while he cut the big cake

into generous pieces, and offered the simple entertainment to the

teacher. Of course the driver did not refuse the proposed refreshment,

nor did Nils hesitate to help himself, while the mistress was taking her

coffee and glancing round the premises.

All was fresh and clean about her. The windows had evidently been open

since early morning, and the closets and shelves could well afford to be

displayed through the doors more than half ajar.

"Thanks, Nils," said the mistress, as she took the boy's hand after the

refreshment.

"Thanks and welcome to the new teacher!" was the reply.

"Now I shall go in and look at the schoolroom while Petter and you

furnish my room for me. The sofa should stand there, and the bureau

there. The rest I can leave to you," said Tora, as she disappeared.

Nils unfolded a strip of rag carpeting and "criss-crossed" it round the

room, whispering to himself, "Mother said there were to be no footmarks

left behind us."

The schoolroom was but a big, bare room--no maps on the walls, none of

the modern aids for instruction, save that the space between the two

windows that looked out towards the meadow had been painted, to be used

as a blackboard: "a useless, new-fangled notion" the rustics had called

this forward step in the way of education.

In front of the blackboard stood a wooden armchair for the teacher. The

benches were low, and the desks were of the simplest sort, saving one,

which was larger and higher, which the teacher at once understood was

the permanent arrangement for Nils. Her heart went out towards the big,

kind fellow, on whom so sore a trial had been laid in his youth.

Along one side of the schoolroom there were four horses standing silent,

but not "saddled and bridled," as in old nursery stories. Without head

or tail, they stood on four sprawling legs--supports for two long,

"shallow boxes" that had been in the schoolroom for fifty years or more.

Wood was abundant in the old days, and unskilful hands had done the

work; so the boxes were but clumsy specimens of carpentry, and deep

enough, it seemed, to hold sand for all the long winter through. The

grandfathers of the neighbourhood could remember when these receptacles

were their writing-desks, in which, stick in hand, they were taught to

trace in the smoothed sand their names or any higher efforts of

chirography that the teacher might demand. These superannuated articles

of furniture were now used in winter as places of deposit for the

children's folded outer garments, rather than the cold vestibule. There,

too, the dinner-baskets had their rightful quarters.

The room was high, as it went up to the very roof. On the rafters were

stored, in cold weather, the stilts for summer, and the bundles of ropes

for the swings to be fastened to the tall trees by adventurous Nils,

whose friendly hands delighted to send the laughing little ones flying

far up into the fresh air like merry fairies. There, too, were the bows

and arrows, and all other lawful things for summer sport.

The little schoolmistress took a full survey of her new kingdom, sat for

a moment in her chair of state, and noticed a simple footstool put in

front of it for her use, as she fancied, by that unknown "mother" who

seemed to have her comfort so much at heart.

When the new mistress returned to her own private apartment, the

furniture was all in place, the covers were taken from the boxes, and

everything was ready for her personal arrangement of her property.

"The school board have had shutters put to the windows," said the

driver, pointing to the late improvement. "They thought perhaps the new

teacher might be afraid. This is a lonely place."

"Afraid!" said the little schoolmistress, wonderingly; "I am never

afraid, night or day."

The driver opened his eyes wide as he answered,--

"The last teacher was as tall as I am, and she always kept a pistol at

night by her on a chair, with an apron thrown over it, so the thieves

could not find it and shoot her before she had a chance at them. This

little mistress must be made of different stuff.--Well, good-bye, miss,

and I wish you well."

Tora was about to put in his hand the usual payment for his services,

when he shut his broad fist expressively, and then half raised it, as he

said,--

"I never took pay for a mistress's things being brought to this

schoolhouse yet, and I don't mean to do it now. Folks for the most part

seem to like you, but I have a particular feeling. I knew your father

once, and he was good to me."

The honest man could say no more just then, and he hurried out of the

room. Nils followed with his best bow, but the pleasant words reached

his ears,--

"We'll meet soon again. Thanks! thanks to you both.--I think we shall be

real friends, Nils, you and I."

That little allusion to her father, coming so suddenly, had almost made

Tora break down in the midst of her abounding courage. The past came up

in vivid pictures where scenes of sorrow were predominant. Her weak,

ever-ailing little baby sister had floated quietly across the dark

river. The stricken mother sank, and soon followed her child to the

churchyard. The father's hand, that had first guided an editor's pen,

and then in his long decline that of a mere copyist, grew weaker and

weaker, and finally the last loving pressure was given to his daughter,

and then that hand lay still and white. Its work on earth was done, and

the brother and sister were left alone. Courageous and loving, they had

both struggled on. Her end was attained, but he was at the beginning of

the steady conflict before him. How would he bear himself in the battle?

If she could only know whether his surroundings would be as pleasant and

homelike as her own, and his heart as full of hope and quiet trust!

Would he be borne safely through the privations and temptations of his

university life? A prayer went silently up to the Father of all for that

absent brother, and then the practical little sister was soon deep in

the stir of bringing all things to order in her new home. Physical

effort brought back the resolute cheerfulness so natural to the little

schoolmistress, and she hummed to herself a simple song of long ago, to

which she could always hear the buzzing accompaniment of that stranger

who had proved to her a faithful, untiring benefactor and friend.

CHAPTER III.

A NARROW ESCAPE.

The winter had been unusually long. For nearly six months the ground had

been continually white. Not that it had been clothed by an ever-smooth,

fair mantle. The snow had been tossed and whirled by the wild winds till

it was fitfully heaped, now in the meadows, and now banked up against

the very hill-sides. But for the dark woods as landmarks, the face of

the country would have seemed to be utterly changed. The ice-covered

streams were hidden away out of sight, and the wide ponds appeared but

as smooth pastures.

A path from the little-frequented road had been kept open to the

schoolhouse. Week by week this narrow way to the seat of learning had

been walled higher and higher, until at last the rustic scholars seemed

passing through a stately white marble corridor as they filed along

towards the well-known door.

The first days of April had come and gone without a flower-bud to greet

them. The weather had suddenly grown soft and mild, and a drizzling rain

had been falling all night.

Nils appeared early at school; but the tidy mistress had already cleared

away all traces of her modest breakfast, and was ready to bid him

welcome more as a visitor than a scholar. They had some pleasant chat

together, and then the teacher said seriously, as she laid her hand on

the boy's shoulder, "You must try as hard as you can, Nils, to do well,

or I am afraid you will not 'go up' this year."

"I do try--I try as hard as I can!" he said. Tears suddenly filled his

large eyes as he added, "I am not like other boys, and I know it."

"God knows what you can do, Nils," she said tenderly; "and He will not

judge you for what is not your fault. It may be, 'Well done, good and

faithful servant!' for you at the last, if you cannot be a great

scholar."

Some merry voices at the door put an end to the conversation, and the

school was soon going on in its usual routine.

Many weather-wise mothers had kept their children at home, and only

eight scholars were in their places, not counting Nils, who occupied in

many practical things a middle ground between the little ones and the

teacher.

A heavy rain soon began to fall, and pattered cheerily on the roof, to

the great delight of the small pupils. Towards noon the schoolmistress

was hearing the class read aloud. She sat with her back to the windows,

with the light falling on the book she held in her hand; but she did not

see a letter. Suddenly she looked up and said, "Nils, please open the

right-hand shutter in my room."

The boy obeyed instantly; but in another moment he said quickly, "Please

come in here a moment, teacher."

She disappeared immediately, closing the door behind her. Nils pointed

to the window with wide-open eyes, and said, "The meadow is all afloat!"

"I know it!" she answered calmly. "I saw it while the children were

getting their books for the class. If the pond above breaks over the

banks, we may be all swept away in a moment. There is no time to be

lost. The children must not be frightened. I have thought just what to

do. You can swim, Nils?"

"Yes," was his only answer.

"I can swim too," she said. "If anything goes wrong, we must do what we

can for the children." She looked into the clear, calm eyes of the boy,

and she knew she could trust him. They returned quietly to the

schoolroom. The teacher had hardly taken her seat and closed the book

she had held in her hand, when there was a loud crashing sound without,

and a heavy thud against the outer door.

"It's all right," said Nils calmly, taking his cue from the teacher. "I

put up the bar after the children came in. I supposed this might

happen."

"We don't mind the snow falling against the door," said the teacher

cheerfully. "We didn't mean to go out that way. We shall go home by boat

anyhow. I've thought about that before."

"By boat!" exclaimed the children delightedly, for to them a row or a

sail was the most charming thing in the world.

"But where's the boat?" asked a prudent little boy, with a sceptical

look in his small countenance. "And where's the water?" he would have

added if he had dared.

"Two boats--two boats are here! I see them now!" said the teacher,

glancing at the sand-boxes.--"Nils, climb up into the rafters and bring

down the oars."

Climbing to the rafters was a familiar exploit of Nils's. With one foot

on his desk and his knee to the wall, he swung himself up in a moment.

"Hand down my oars and yours," she said, as she pointed at the stilts;

for the little schoolmistress was a leader in the sports of her

children, and often enjoyed them as much as they did.

The stilts were duly secured, and then the order followed, "And now the

ropes for the launching," and another glance prompted the lowering of

the summer swings for their new use.

"Give out the clothes, Nils, and call the names of the children as

usual," said the teacher. Those were no dainty little ones, accustomed

to be dressed like passive dolls by careful nurses or over-fond mammas.

They had but to receive their garments in the daily orderly way, and to

put them on as they well knew how. There might sometimes be an obstinate

string or button, but Nils was sure to be able to help in any such

difficulty, or even to tie a refractory kerchief over the light locks.

The children now put on their wrappings mechanically, lost in watching

the proceedings of the teacher and her obedient assistant.

The swings were cut in halves and attached to the strong handles of the

empty sand-boxes of olden times. "And now we must launch the boats,"

said the teacher, with the nearest approach she could muster to the

manner of a bluff sea-captain.

"Heave ho!" shouted Nils, as he put his strong shoulders to the work of

moving the boats, while the mistress held on to the horses.

One by one the boats were put in what Tora deemed proper position, the

square prows curiously tilted up to the broad window-seat. Then came the

orders--"Climb to the top of the shutter, Nils! Pass that rope round the

upper hinge; tie it fast! Now the other rope on the lower hinge. Right!

The same with the other ropes--bind them fast to the other

shutter-hinges!"

Every order was promptly and skilfully obeyed.

"Nils, are you sure the boats are perfectly watertight?" said the

mistress, with, for the first time, a shadow of anxiety in her

determined face.

"Tight as a bottle!" was the immediate reply. "We had them filled with

water for the last examination, to float the boats the children had

made. The ships and such like were here, and the row-boats and canoes in

the other."

"I saw them! I saw them all!" exclaimed a little chap, with great

delight. "My brother had the prize for his ship, and he made it every

bit himself." The eager memories that came to the minds of the children

were chatted about with an intensity that made the boats of the moment

to be almost for the time forgotten.

Now came the real launching of the boats. With a proper amount of

drawing in and letting out and holding fast on the part of Nils and the

teacher, the long boxes sat at last on the water like a pair of

contented swans.

"Get down into the boat you are to be captain of, and I will hand down

the oars for us both. Lay mine across my boat and yours across yours.

Your passengers are to come down first. There will be four for each of

us."

The little schoolmistress, putting on her coat and fur cap, backed up to

one of her little girls, saying, "Put your arms round my neck, and you

shall ride to the boat."

Two chubby arms went willingly round the neck of the teacher, as they

had done many a time before on a less momentous occasion. So the little

one, with her eyes away from the window, was backed up to it, to be

lifted down by Nils with a merry shout as he landed the first passenger.

The others followed in the same style, and all the eight were cheerily

deposited in high good-humour.

"Now I'll come down, too," said the schoolmistress, and she came down

the rope as if she were in a gymnasium. She took her place in the centre

of her boat, with two delighted children before her and two more behind

her.

"Cut loose, Nils! One rope as long as you can, and the other short up to

the stern; and then give me your knife, and I'll do the same for mine.

Now start, Nils! I'll follow."

The orders were rapidly given and promptly obeyed, and then the little

party started across the watery stretch that had taken the place of the

meadow.

Nils, with his strong arms, got on rapidly, and his boat was soon far in

advance of the other. He neared the bank, plunged in and drew the

uncertain little craft to the shore, and then as a sledge up the long

slope.

Nils had before decided that he would deposit his passengers in a

sheepfold high on the bank, where he had seen in the morning a window

left open under the projecting roof to give the poor creatures a little

air. He knew that in the corner by the window there was a great bin that

had been freshly filled with dried birch branches as food for the sheep.

He left the children looking down at the pretty lambs and their mothers,

and ran back himself to see what he could do for the rest of the party.

The little mistress was only half-way over, and evidently managing with

difficulty her awkward oars in the thick, snow-encumbered water through

which she was making her way.

Nils plunged in, swam to her boat, tied the loose rope round his body,

and then struck out for the shore, while the oars were plied as well as

they could be by the weary hands that held them. His feet had just

touched bottom when there was a loud cheer from the top of the hill that

sloped down to the meadow. Two great wagons, with a pair of strong

horses attached to each, were coming to the rescue of the children.

As horses that were good forders and wagons suited to the purpose were

to be selected, some time had been lost in the preparations after the

first news of the condition of the meadow had been spread abroad. The

question now was how to get the whole party under roof as soon as

possible.

The drivers were for putting the children half in one wagon and half in

the other; but Nils said in a tone most unusual for him, "_All_ the

children must go in one wagon, and you will see them safe home, Petter.

_We_ go the other way where the road forks. Of course, I take the

mistress home with me. Mother wouldn't forgive me if I let her go

anywhere else; and I think I have a kind of right to her too!"

"That you have," said the rough man, with a kind of little quiver round

his lips. "You've earned that right, anyhow."

And away Nils and the teacher were borne, while from the other wagon

there was a merry "Good-bye! good-bye! good-bye, teacher! good-bye,

Nils!" and a hearty shout of "Hurrah for Nils!" from the driver, which

came from the very depths of Petter's honest heart.

CHAPTER IV.

A HAPPY MORNING.

The home to which the little schoolmistress and Nils were bound had

formerly been a wayside inn of most modest pretensions. It was but a

one-story red building, with a row of white-framed windows looking out

on the road close at hand. There was a storm-house, for stamping off the

snow and depositing extra articles of carriage, and for dogs, who, like

the Peri, must stand outside the paradise within. Next came one large,

cheerful room, which served as kitchen, as well as general place of

refreshment and assembly. On one side of this apartment of manifold uses

were four small rooms for lodgers, furnished with almost as much

simplicity as the prophet's chamber of the Scriptures, save that a plain

sofa-bed was added in each, as a possible accommodation for an extra

sleeper when there was a throng of guests.

On the death of Nils's father, the widow had resolved to retire into

private life, as she was comfortably provided for. Not but that she was

willing at times to give a meal or a bed to an old acquaintance; but

such inmates must conform to the temperance arrangements of the

establishment, for total abstinence was now the rule of the house. The

widow had declared that her son should not be brought up with the fumes

of spirituous liquors as his natural atmosphere. Perhaps this resolution

had been prompted by the suspicion that her husband's life had been

shortened by too frequent good meals and too frequent strong potations.

Be that as it may, the determined woman had made it known that, now that

she was mistress in her own house, she would manage it as she thought

best. The tables for guests had been swept away (or rather sold

discreetly at private sale) to make room for a spinning-wheel, a loom,

and a sewing-machine, by which the prudent woman said she was sure she

could add to her substance in a quiet way. "The clicking, the buzzing,

and the slamming," she said, were nothing to her, and now she could

choose what noises she would have in her ears.

It was not yet time for the usual return of her son from school, but

the mother had begun to go to the door to see if Nils could possibly be

coming. Perhaps the old habit of looking out occasionally up and down

the road, to reconnoitre as to what customers might be expected, had

lingered to keep the former hostess now constantly, as it were, on

guard. In one of these excursions for inspection she was surprised to

see a big wagon drawing up before the door, with the schoolmistress and

Nils as passengers.

The driver hastened to tell in an abridged form the story of their

experiences, and to hand over his charge, with as many orders that they

should be well looked after as if he were the only person interested in

the matter.

The doors to the little bedrooms were always kept ajar when unoccupied,

that they might be at least not chilly when needed. Two of them were

immediately put into requisition. Nils, as in the most desperate case,

was stripped and rubbed down, and put into bed at once; and then the

little schoolmistress was looked after. She had obeyed orders, and her

pale face lay on the pillow when she was visited. The quondam hostess

left her suddenly, and soon returned with a hot drink, which she assured

the patient would make her "quite natural." To Nils a similar draught

was administered, with the command that he should dash it down at once,

with "no sipping," and go to sleep afterwards.

"Wasn't that whisky?" exclaimed Nils, in surprise.

"There _was_ a drop in it," owned the mother; adding, "I would give it

clear to anybody dying. I am not wild crazy about temperance, boy."

"Do you think I am dying?" said Nils; and then he hastily added, "I

should not like to leave you and the schoolmistress; but for anything

else I should not mind. Maybe I should be like other folks up there."

"Hush, child! You are not dying, nor likely to be; you are as strong as

a bear. A little dip in cold water is not going to hurt you. That stuff

has gone to your head and made you melancholy-like and weepish. It does

sometimes; it don't generally, though, just in a minute. You go to

sleep; and don't let me hear anything from you for one while."

The mother put down the thick paper shade, and set a pin here and there

along the edge, to keep out any adventurous rays of light that might be

peeping in at the sleeper--"a pin practice" she had sorely complained of

when ventured upon by restless lodgers. The same process was gone

through in the room where the mistress was lying. The locks and hinges

of the doors were carefully oiled, and then the agitated woman sat down

to meditate and be thankful. The meditation proved to be of the

perambulatory sort, for she peeped into one room and then into the

other, noiselessly appearing and retiring. She listened to see if her

patients were alive. The schoolmistress lay pale and still; her hands,

loosely spread out, dropped on the sheet almost as colourless as itself.

But she breathed regularly; that was an ascertained fact. Nils was

frequently visited. He gave audible tokens as to how he was enjoying

himself. The mother sat down for the fifth or sixth time, as it might

be, in the great, quiet room. She did not enter upon any of her

favourite branches of home industry; she thought them too noisy for the

occasion. She was not a reader. She could but nod a little in her chair,

and then make another round of observation.

At last, towards evening, the schoolmistress was fairly awake; and such

a dish of porridge as she was obliged to consume! Such a series of

inquiries she was subjected to as to her symptoms and sensations as

would have done credit to a young medical practitioner examining his

first patient, though the questions, in this case, were practically

rather than scientifically put, and could actually be understood by the

respondent.

To have quiet was all that the little schoolmistress craved, and that

she was at last allowed. As for Nils, it was plain that he considered

that small apartment his sleeping-car, for which his ticket had been

taken for the livelong night.

The schoolmistress rose early. Her room was soon in perfect order. She

was reading devoutly in the Bible: that had been an accessory in the

arrangement of her room, as of all the other small dormitories, since

the hostess "had her way in her own house."

Tora suddenly heard a quick repeated knock at her door. The permission

to enter was hardly given when Nils burst in, his face glowing with

delight.

"It's all right with me, teacher!" he exclaimed--"it's all right with

me! You know that hymn I've tried to learn so many times, and couldn't

make out. The first line came into my head yesterday in our

troubles--'God is our stronghold and defence;' but I could not get any

further."

"Perhaps that was far enough just then, Nils," said Tora. "I thought of

that line too myself when I first suspected how matters stood, as I sat

there with my book before me."

"But, teacher, I'm all right. This morning I thought I would read that

hymn all over, and I did--twice. And then, O teacher, I'm all right, for

the whole hymn just repeated itself in my mind as if I had the book

before me. I asked mother to hear me, and when she saw I could say it

all through without a stumble, she put her arms round my neck and cried

and talked about herself dreadfully. She said she had been such a sinner

to make prayers and never believe they could come true; and that she

hadn't taken any comfort, either, in what the doctor had always been

telling her, and that she had thought was awful. He had said that if

anything remarkable could happen to me, or any great shock, or even if I

had a hard blow on the head, I might come round like other boys. She had

felt sure that nothing remarkable could ever happen to me; and as to

anybody's giving me a hard knock on the head, she would not have let

that happen when she was by. She said she had prayed and worried, and

never thought of leaving it all to her heavenly Father, and now she

wasn't fit to have such a blessing. I couldn't make her glad about it;

but she'll come round, I'm sure, teacher, if you'll just go and talk to

her."

The teacher's eyes were full of tears of joy as she took Nils by the

hand and said, "You are all right, I really believe. May God bless you,

and make you a good and useful man."

The mother was not to be found. She was locked into her own room. There

she was pouring out thanksgiving from the depths of her heart now for

the first time in her life, understanding that she had indeed a loving

heavenly Father, and that even her faithlessness and ingratitude could

be forgiven.

It was a happy morning at the wayside inn.

CHAPTER V.

THE PERMANENT PUPIL.

The dear old schoolhouse had been swept away in the destructive flood

that followed but ten minutes after the escape of the little

schoolmistress with her pupils.

Intense gratitude for the happy deliverance of the children spread

through the neighbourhood. A public meeting was called, where the thanks

of the community were conveyed by a dignified and most complimentary

spokesman, to the blushing confusion of Tora and the astonishment of

Nils that he was said to have behaved so remarkably well on the

memorable occasion. Of course, the newspapers throughout the country

celebrated the praises of the little schoolmistress, and to the meeting

in her honour came her friends from far and near. "Brother Karl" and his

devoted Gunner made a point of being present, and Tora's buzzing

benefactor beamed on the occasion, as if the credit were all his own.

That there must be a new schoolhouse was a self-evident fact. It was

built as promptly as possible. The admirable building, with all its

modern aids and appurtenances, was not placed on the old site, but

crowned the summit of a green hill, where nothing more dangerous than a

pouring rain could be expected to disturb its peace and safety.

When the first term in the new and most desirable quarters commenced, it

was with a stranger as the teacher. Our little schoolmistress was to

spend the winter in the home where she had been so tenderly cared for

during the long time of bodily prostration which followed the

overstraining of her nervous system at the time of her escape with the

children under her care.

Busy with spinning-wheel and loom and sewing-machine, and with her

diligent efforts to prepare Nils to enter with honour a higher school

than that over which she had presided, the winter passed pleasantly

away. Nils's examination surpassed the utmost expectations of his

teacher. His sweet, grateful humility in the midst of honour was as

touching as his humble submission to the great misfortune which had

threatened to overshadow his whole life.

The little schoolmistress took, with the opening spring, the place of a

private teacher--a position that she had been strongly urged to fill.

Her first scholar was a tall fellow, who was sure he could learn from

her in the higher branches much that was important for him to

understand.

The second pupil, who came in later on, was a little chap. He did not

understand Swedish, nor did he know much in any direction, it was said.

But how could he expect a fair estimation of his abilities, when the

judges were not at home in his language, nor he in theirs? He, however,

improved rapidly, and was soon not only able to speak Swedish, but

comprehended many matters so well that he was a great help to the

younger pupils who came in by degrees to be taught. He was too, in a

way, a teacher for the schoolmistress herself, and had his credentials

from the very highest authority.

The class increased as years went on, and was ever a delightful source

of interest to the happy instructress. The children did not call her

"teacher," or "mistress," or even "Miss Tora;" they said simply

"mother," which she thought the sweetest name in the world.

As to the first, the tall scholar, who was what Nils had promised to be,

her permanent pupil, he was not always as obedient and submissive as he

might have been. Even when he sat opposite to her at the dinner-table,

in the presence of stranger guests, he would sometimes, contrary to her

express command, tell the story of the great April thaw, and the escape

of the little schoolmistress with her pupils. Of course he was rebuked

for his misdemeanour; but he only protested against her strict

government, and declared that she could never get over "the

schoolma'am." Yet he acknowledged she was always teaching him something

worth knowing through what she was--the very best woman and the very

best Christian he had ever had the pleasure of knowing.

This was, it must be confessed, an inexcusably obstreperous scholar; but

Tora would not have exchanged her husband, her Gunner, the fast friend

of her promising "brother Karl," for the meekest or the wisest man in

the world.

A WEEK AT KULLEBY.

CHAPTER I.

CHURCH SERVICE.

The church at Kulleby was no dear, old-fashioned Swedish church, with

its low white stone walls and its high black roof. The bell had no

quaintly-formed tower of its own outside and quite separate from the

sacred edifice, like an ecclesiastical functionary whose own soul has

never entered into the Holy of holies. No; the parish of Kulleby had its

pride in a great new wooden sanctuary, with nothing about its exterior,

from foundation to belfry, that might not be seen in any Protestant land

whatever. Crowning the top of a green hill that rose in the midst of a

wide stretch of rolling meadows stood the simple building. To it came on

Sunday the rustics of the parish as regularly as they went to their

week-day work. Only here and there in the unfenced churchyard rose a

low mound to indicate where, as it were, a chance seed had been dropped

into "God's acre."

It was Sunday morning. At eight o'clock the bell had sounded out over

the green slopes, and even late sleepers were called to put on their

best garments, whether church-goers or not church-goers, in honour of

the holy day or holiday, as it might happen to be kept in their home.

Then came the second ringing, when prudent, far-away worshippers took

psalm-book and pocket-handkerchief in hand and started demurely, at a

Sunday pace, for the house of God. At a quarter to ten the clergyman had

been seen in the dim distance, and the fact was announced by

"priest-ringing." At ten came the "assembly-ringing," when talkers in

the churchyard must break off in the midst of a half-made bargain, or

check the but half-expressed sympathy with the joy or sorrow of some

fellow-rustic with whom there had been a confidential chat.

Within, the church was all white, with here and there a gilded line like

a bright, holy purpose running through a simple everyday life. There was

a fresh, pure air about the place, as if even angels might have gathered

there in their fair garments. The worshippers, however, on the women's

side were all in black--black dresses, and black kerchiefs over the

heads, like solemn, mourning penitents rather than followers of the

Psalmist who could say, "I was glad when they said unto me, Let us go

into the house of the Lord." There were two exceptions to this sombre

rule.

The seats facing each other on opposite sides of the chancel were

unoccupied, save by a tall young woman and a little girl, who now

hurriedly took their places, and in a formal, perfunctory manner put

down their heads for a supposed private prayer for a blessing on this

opportunity of public worship. They very soon rose up mechanically, and

looked about them with the curious eyes of strangers.

The little girl, nipped, and it seemed almost blasted, by gales of

prosperity, showed a fair, round face, full and soft, and satisfied with

its worldly portion. The mouth, although it looked as if it had tasted

the good things of life, was sweet and loving. Her companion was tall

and strongly built, and somewhat gaily dressed in garments made in every

particular according to the latest fashion. Two long ostrich feathers

lazily lolled on the broad brim of her hat, as much at home as if they

had never known any other abode; and her new kid gloves fitted her

large hands to perfection--a fact of which it was plain she was

conscious.

The clergyman was coming in, with the long black folds which were his

authorized substitute for a gown hanging from the nape of his neck to

the floor. In one hand he carried in full sight a white handkerchief,

held in one corner like a drooping banner of peace.

There was suddenly a counter object of attention for the gay worshippers

in the side pew. A little woman in black came hurrying up the aisle and

entered the seat before them. She put down on the narrow shelf her

prayer-book and a tumbled red handkerchief, and then bowed her head.

Suddenly, in the midst of her devotions, she hastily withdrew the

offending radical handkerchief, and substituted in its place a heavy

linen one, so closely pressed, as if by mangling, that it lay by the

psalm-book as uncompromisingly stiff as itself.

A smile passed over the features of the little girl, and she looked up

into the face of her companion for sympathy. Instead of the responsive

glance she expected, she saw an expression of pain which she was puzzled

to understand.

The service went on. The sermon was long and tiresome, to judge from the

impulsive movement of relief on the part of the little girl when all was

at last over. She was well satisfied when her companion went down the

aisle at an unusually rapid pace. The rustics generally lingered to hear

when there was to be an auction, what letters were to be distributed,

and other announcements by which a scattered congregation, rarely

meeting through the week, might be made aware of matters secular and

parochial which it was important for them to know.

The butterfly worshippers had, as it were, flown away when the mass of

the congregation streamed out from the door. Long, narrow black lines

stretched off in every direction as over the well-trodden paths the

cottagers plodded away to their homes after this the periodical great

event, recreation, and social gathering of their hard-working lives.

Alone the little woman in black took her way. Her goal was on the long

rocky ridge that bounded the eastern horizon like a transplanted bit of

the Jura. There was no path for her to follow, but she made her way over

the meadows with the sure instinct of the swallow winging its flight to

its winter home. He who careth for the birds would surely care for her.

It was plain she was one of the humble of the earth in every sense of

the word. Her black head kerchief was old and worn, and her

clumsily-fitting, coarse cloth "sacque" stood out below her waist as if

it were of sheet iron, while her spare skirts fell below it like a

drooping flower-bell from its open calyx above. She was not thinking of

her clothes. Her heart was warbling a song of thanksgiving.

CHAPTER II.

AT THE PASTOR'S.

Monday morning had come, with work for the workers and pleasure for the

pleasure-seekers. The curate at Kulleby was one of the workers, and yet

Monday, instead of Sunday, was really his day of rest. His last sermon

having been delivered, fairly given over to his hearers to be digested,

the new one was not to be begun before Tuesday. There must be one day in

the week in which to draw a free breath before the real labour of his

life was to be recommenced. The introduction to the discourse once

mastered, as the first link, he added day by day to the lengthening

chain--a perpetual wearying weight to him, and, it might be supposed, to

become so for his hearers.

This would be a mistake. Had the curate preached in Hebrew or Greek, the

reverent faces would have been respectfully turned towards him, with the

honest conviction that somehow or other the listeners were undergoing a

helpful and uplifting process through what the curate was pleased to say

to them. He was reverenced and beloved, as he well deserved to be, and

was to his people the bearer of good tidings--the messenger of peace.

_He_ was the message to them, through what he was and what he was

striving to be, and not through those painfully-produced sermons.

Now for the morning he had dropped the pastor, and was simply the family

father.

The humble home of the curate was separated from the public road by a

great grass plot, through which a wide walk went straight, without a

curve or a compromise, from the gate to the foot of the high wooden

steps that led to the ever-open door.

The Saturday evening rake-marks were on the loose sand of the path, for

the family had on Sunday, though in their holiday garments, used the

side gate that led to the entrance at the back of the house. The garden

was large and well cared for. Now the weekly weeding was going on, the

father sitting like a general at a distance from the battle, but in

constant communication with the soldiers in full fight in the cause of

order, fruitfulness, and prosperity. The four small boys who were

working so busily were not under strict military discipline, for free

conversation was allowed so long as the hands continued as busy as the

tongues.

The curate sat on a roughly-made but comfortable garden sofa, and was

knitting on a strong stocking in sweet composure. A gay-coloured

parallelogram stared out from the grass beside him; for there, covered

with a patchwork quilt, lay, in a great basket, the baby, the little

girl, the pride of the household, fast asleep. So the curate could not

be said to be exactly idle, though he was taking a delicious morning

rest. His wife meanwhile--a large-hearted, practical woman--was making

all things comfortable in the house, with the help of her efficient

_aide-de-camp_, an orphan girl snatched from the influences of the

poorhouse. Where a specially strong arm was required, the curate himself

was at all times to be relied upon. He was not only a hewer of wood, but

often a bearer of wood as well as of water. He was, too, an embodied

guild of all mechanical trades, and might have been warranted to use

skilfully at a pinch any tools whatever.

The curate gave a start as the click of the front gate was heard, and

almost impatiently wondered who could be coming.

A tall young woman walked rapidly along the rake-marked walk, and dotted

it at regular intervals with the distinct portrait of the soles of her

strong and well-made boots.

She went up the steps decidedly, and entered the house without knocking,

as any ordinary visitor might have done. In a moment more she appeared

in the garden, with the curate's wife at her side. He stood up and bowed

awkwardly, and then looked inquiringly at the new-comer. He recognized

at once in her the stranger who had sat near the chancel the day before,

though her dress was somewhat different from her Sunday attire. She wore

a black sailor hat, from which she had that morning removed the uplifted

wings that threatened to take the whole head-gear upward, and had left

only the broad, bright band that wound round it. She wore a short, dark

travelling dress that well displayed her new boots. The visitor did not

wait for the curate to speak, but said quickly, "I will only detain you

a moment. Can you tell me where widow Marget Erikson lives, the old

woman who sat in front, on the side benches, in the church yesterday?"

"Marget Erikson? Her I know very well, but it is not so easy to tell

where she lives," answered the curate, with at the same time an

inquiring glance at the stranger. A look of intelligence came into his

face, and he said: "It is not--it cannot be! no," and he turned to the

group of small boys, now all standing, some of them weeds in hand,

wonderingly regarding the stranger. "Here, Kael," said the father,

singling out a fair-haired, intelligent-looking little fellow, "you can

show the young lady the way to widow Marget Erikson's." Again there was

a scrutinizing, questioning look on the part of the pastor.

A slight flush tinged the cheek of the stranger. She was turning away

with her guide, when the boy said hastily, "Where's the basket, mamma?"

"There'll be no basket to-day," she answered, almost with a smile. "You

can take Marget this instead from me," and she picked from her favourite

bush a large, half-open rosebud, with a long stem and rich, shining

leaves.

The boy could hardly understand the love-prompted courtesy that would

not send to the widow what might to a stranger seem like alms, but which

really was but the sharing of what one poor Christian had with a poorer.

The guide trotted off with his bare feet across the meadow, where a

little path showed that he was not the first to find a direct way from

the parsonage to the widow's cottage.

"Well, wife? well, Anna?" said the pastor, and looked inquiringly into

the face of his best-beloved, as he generally did when he was in doubt

or difficulty. It was a face that any one might have been pleased to

look upon. It had in it the bright cheeriness of a child, and at the

same time dignity and a wisdom in this world's matters, as well as "the

wisdom that cometh from above." He received no answer, and so said

himself: "She was in church yesterday when you were at little Fia's

death-bed. I could hardly help thinking of you and the child when I was

in the midst of my sermon. The miller told me afterwards that 'miss' and

the little girl were with Possessionaten something, a traveller who had

stopped at the inn by the cross-road."

There was a sudden end put to the conversation by a loud cry from the

baby, which swept all other expressions from the face of the pastor's

wife, where at once mother love was triumphant.

CHAPTER III.

A STRANGE MEETING.

Across meadows, over ditches, and at last up rather a steep ascent wound

the way to Widow Erikson's cottage. The path had grown rough and narrow,

but the barefooted boy went over it as lightly and as unharmed as if he

had been a happy bird. The boots, however, of his companion seemed a

tight fit for climbing, and at last a straggling bramble that crossed

the way turned up two little black points, like doors, to show the way

to the untanned leather behind the bright polish. The traveller stopped,

and smoothed them down in vain with her finger; the mischief was done.

"This is an ugly, disagreeable path," she exclaimed, "and a long one

too."

"Maybe," said the boy; "but summer and winter Widow Erikson comes down

here all alone. I don't believe she'd miss the service if you'd give

her a bucket of red apples." The boy had evidently named his ultimatum

in the way of temptation. "There's the cottage," he added, pointing to a

small, reddish-brown building far up the ascent.

"Give me the flower," said the stranger; "I will tell her who sent it.

You go back now. You've shown me the way; I don't need you any longer.

Thanks! Thank your mother too. Here!" and she laid in the boy's hand a

bit of silver that made his face shine. He bowed in his best style,

which did not disturb his backbone, but brought his chin down till it

touched his breast. He had taken off his cap for the performance, and

his white hair fluttered in the breeze as he watched his late companion

making her way up to the cottage alone. All was right, he was sure, and

down he ran as fast as his feet could carry him. The precious silver was

stored in the depths of his pocket, and with it he bought in imagination

all sorts of treasures before he reached home to tell the success of his

errand.

The traveller moved slowly as the path grew more steep, and finally

walked doubtfully on as she approached the cottage. There were three or

four low steps leading to the door, and there some kind of an animal

seemed making a vain attempt to go up. As the stranger drew nearer she

saw that a small woman with a short, dark skirt was bowed over,

evidently washing the steps, with her back towards the path and her

unexpected guest. A noise near her made the figure stand upright and

turn its face towards the new-comer. One sight of the visitor prompted a

series of bobbing courtesies, a wondering look in the old sun-browned

face, and a folding back into a triangular form of the wet sackcloth

apron, which was truly not in a presentable condition. The old woman was

the first to speak. "Good-day, miss--good-day!" and then there was a

look of astonished inquiry.

"The pastor's wife sent you this," said the girl, holding out the

beautiful rosebud she had taken from the boy.

"So like her!" said the old woman, lovingly. "She's just like that

herself! God bless her! Thank her for me, please--thank her for me!" and

the thin, work-distorted, wrinkled hand was hastily wiped on the apron,

and then stretched out to take that of the stranger for the usual

expression of gratitude. "Thank _you_, miss, for bringing it," continued

the old woman, with another questioning look at her guest. "Do you know

her--do you know the curate's wife? It's likely you don't live

hereabouts." The cut of the stranger's clothes was not in vogue at

Kulleby.

"Don't you know me?" said the young woman, in a low voice.

"No, miss!" was the answer, with another courtesy.

"Don't you know me, mother?" was the question that followed, while the

fair face flushed with the effort those words had cost the speaker.

"It can't be my Karin!" was the exclamation. There was another period of

courtesying, and a long look of almost unbelieving surprise. There was

no move to take this changed daughter by the hand, nor was there any

such action on the part of the girl.

"I was stopping at the inn with Possessionaten Bilberg and his little

daughter, the one I have taken care of so long. I found out you were in

this neighbourhood, and so I got some one to show me the way to where

you were living." She did not say that she had seen her mother at

church, nor would she have liked to own, even to herself, that she was

now repulsed by the appearance and manners of one to whom she was bound

by the strongest of ties.

"Come in," said the old woman, courtesying as to a stranger. "It's a

poor place, but you are welcome."

A poor place it was indeed, and Karin with her belongings looked there

like a transplanted flower from a far country. They who had once been so

near to each other seemed now to have almost no common ground on which

to meet.

"I did not know how you had it, mother," said Karin at last. She had

been silenced by her first view of the poor room.

"It is worse than it was in Norrland, when you went away, so long ago.

Your brother Erik came home, and was wild-like, as he always was. He

pulled himself down, and was sick a long while, and then he died. There

was the funeral, and the doctor, and all that; and there was not much

left, for of course I couldn't do a turn of work while I was nursing

him."

"Just like him, to take all you had!" said the daughter, indignant.

The old woman did not seem to notice the angry exclamation. A sudden

light made beautiful the old face as she said: "He came round at the

last, and almost like an angel. It did me good to hear him talk. I

didn't mind anything when he had come round. I am sure he went to heaven

when he died. He was my only boy, and I loved him!" she continued, as

if she were speaking to a stranger; and then suddenly remembering who

her visitor was, she added: "You would not have known him for the same.

'Tell Karin,' he said to me--'tell her she must forgive me. Tell her to

remember she'll need to have her sins forgiven some time. There's only

one way.' He said so!" and there was another courtesy of apology that

she was talking so to that strange young lady who said she was her

daughter.

"Oh dear!" said Karin, looking at her watch, "I must go now.

Possessionaten and his little girl were out for a drive, and I did not

leave any word at the inn where I was going. I will come soon again.

Don't feel hard to me about Erik or anything. Remember I did not know

how you had it. They wrote me there was a cottage somewhere you could

live in free, and I thought you were getting on pretty well."

"Yes, I have the cottage free. The curate's wife comes from the north.

He married up there, and they came to visit her folks. She heard about

me, for she was there when Erik died. She knew about this cottage, and

nothing would do but I must come down with them; and so I did. You can't

think how kind they have been to me. I've done a power of knitting since

I have been here. She sees that somebody buys my stockings. But you

must go. Come again," said the old woman, in strange confusion between

her daughter that was ten years ago and this strange young lady who had

condescended to look in upon her.

They parted without even a shake of the hand. The old woman stood at the

door and watched the tall girl hurrying down the path, and felt almost

as if she had been in a troubled dream.

CHAPTER IV.

TOO LATE.

Possessionaten Bilberg was subject to transient indispositions on Sunday

morning. The symptoms that had prevented his being at the church service

the day before seemed to have disappeared entirely on Monday. He came

home from his drive with his daughter in unusually good spirits; and as

for little Elsa, she was quite delighted. She had had a nice play with

some charming children, and there was a baby in the house, which she had

really been allowed to carry in her own willing arms. Karin's

overshadowed countenance passed unnoticed in the general stir that

followed the return of the father and daughter. They had been invited to

spend several days at the hospitable country home where they had been so

warmly welcomed. It had been urged that while Elsa was happy with

playmates of her own age, Possessionaten could see many things in the

neighbourhood that might be suggestive to him, interested as he was in

agriculture and manufactures. Planning and packing took all the

afternoon, and towards evening the carriage was at the door, and Elsa

and her father were to take their departure.

"I was afraid you would be lonely, Karin, and sorry we are going away;

but you don't seem to mind it at all," said the little girl, in an

injured tone.

"So you want me to be sorrowful," answered Karin, trying to be playful.

"No, no! but I thought you would miss me, and I was glad when papa said

you could keep on sleeping in my nice room, and be as comfortable as

anybody."

There was a little condescension in the tone, though it was

affectionate; but Karin did not notice it, for she was accustomed to

Elsa's airs and graces. Karin really drew a sigh of relief when the

carriage drove away and she was left to herself. It was not a pleasant

evening that she spent, filled with the thronging reminiscences of the

past and a full realization of her own shortcomings. To-morrow she would

make another visit to her mother, and try to be more frank and

affectionate.

The morning came, and Karin was busy clearing all traces of a

traveller's comfort from the capacious bag that Elsa had been allowed to

give her for the journey. It really would hold a great deal, and filled

it was to the uttermost at the country shop to which Karin easily found

her way; tea, sugar, and tempting articles of diet, which she hoped her

mother would enjoy. It was heavy, but Karin rather liked to feel the

pain in her arm, from bearing her unusual burden. She easily found her

way along the upward path, and exhilarated by the exercise and the

pleasure she was about to give, she entered the cottage in a very

cheerful frame of mind. All was silent within.

In the box sofa-bed of the single room there was some one lying, pale

and still. "She is dead!" was the first wild thought of distress; but a

sweet, broken voice murmured something about Erik and heaven. It was

plain that the old woman was wandering in mind, and lost in visions of

the past.

Karin unpacked her basket in a hurry. There were the preparations of the

night before for the fire and the boiling of the water for the morning

meal, to be simple indeed. Yet there was a packed basket, "the basket"

no doubt from the parsonage. She did not unpack it, though it seemed

filled with food. She made some tea in haste, and took it with a

biscuit to her mother's side. She put the cup on a chair near her, and

sitting down on the edge of the bed, she lifted up the old woman,

passing one strong arm about the little body. There was gentleness and

kindness in the touch. The old head was voluntarily drooped caressingly

against the breast of her daughter; there was a long sigh, and Karin

knew she was motherless. Repentant, sorrowing tears flowed fast. There

was no opportunity left for reparation in this world. That loving last

movement towards her was the only pleasant thought on which Karin could

dwell.

How still it was in the cottage! The birches without scarcely quivered

in the soft summer air, and not even the twitter of a bird was to be

heard.

Karin had just gently laid the old head on the pillow, when a form,

almost to her as of an angel, suddenly appeared at the door. It was the

pastor's wife, her face beaming with the tender interest she was feeling

for the lone dweller in the cottage. She understood the whole as she saw

Karin's streaming tears, and the changed old face beside her.

"My mother is dead!" said Karin simply, but in a broken voice.

"I am glad she saw her good daughter before she died," said the pastor's

wife comfortingly.

"I am no good daughter!" exclaimed Karin bitterly. It was a relief to

confess her selfishness, her forgetfulness of her mother, in the midst

of her own comfortable surroundings, and her cold willingness to believe

that all was well with that old woman, who she had supposed was still in

the far north.

The pastor's wife listened in silence. She had no words of comfort to

say. Here was a case beyond her treatment. She did not kneel, but she

clasped her hands and sat quite still, while she laid Karin's sorrow and

penitence before the dear Lord Jesus, so ready to forgive, and to heal

the broken, repentant heart. When she had closed the prayer with a

fervent "Amen!" which seemed to be the sealing of her petitions to the

One strong to save, she turned to Karin and said, "I will go down and

send a person to watch her, and then you must go with me to our home;

for I have heard that you were left at the inn. You cannot be there

now." She felt that it would be best for Karin to be for a time alone.

She had brought her to the heavenly Presence, and she left her there to

commune with the pitiful Father in heaven.

CHAPTER V.

KARIN AND ELSA.

There was a new, low mound in the churchyard. Kind young hands from the

curate's had covered it with evergreen boughs, and sprinkled among them

bright flowers, so that it seemed but a slight swell in the green sweep

around it dotted with daisies.

Karin had begun a new phase in her life. She had something to love and

respect which had no taint of this present world and the worldliness

reigning therein. She had entered humbly and heartily into the simple

life at the curate's home, where she had been so lovingly welcomed.

That thin man, with the angular, loosely-built figure, with a speaking

expression of poverty about it; that man whose shabby Sunday coat had

not a button-hole that did not publicly tell of privately-done repairs

by his wife's untailor-like hand; that man whose very hair was scanty,

and was changing colour--she looked up to him as if he had been a

prince. And so he was; for he had a Father who was King over all the

nations of the earth, who loved him as a son, and received from that son

the happy, truthful affection of a true child.

That woman who went about in the simplest of garments, and shunned no

form of labour that made the home more comfortable or attractive, had

become to Karin a model of all that was pure and lovely and lovable. The

baby, who fell much to her care, seemed to have a healing influence on

her wounded, humbled, penitent heart. It had for her its artless smile,

and its little arms went out to her as trustfully as if she had never

strayed from the narrow path. Karin had a new standard in life, a new

picture of what she wished to be, a new way of estimating her

fellow-creatures.

Karin was glad that circumstances made it necessary for her to lay down

in the depths of her capacious trunk the gay garments that had been her

pride. There had been no dressmaking, no consulting of milliner or

_modiste_. Like most Swedish girls, she had a black dress; she had but

to put a crape band over her sailor-hat, and let the short crape veil

fall over her solemnized face, and her mourning suit was for the present

complete.

This time, this precious time, went away all too rapidly, but it swept

from Karin the impressions of years, and strengthened in her, day by

day, the new purposes and the new hopes that had sprung up in the midst

of her humiliation and distress.

From the cottage in the woods the daughter had but taken away her

mother's "psalm-book" in its close-fitting black cotton case, her worn

Bible, and the carefully-folded white handkerchief that lay under them.

In the corner of the handkerchief a large K had been embroidered by

unskilful hands. Karin knew it as one of her own early trophies, that

had been given to her mother in pride when she had received it as a

reward for skill shown in the sewing-class at school. This little

remembrance of her had been treasured and prized while she was living in

selfish forgetfulness of the poor old woman far away. Repentant tears

had fallen on the humble memento.

On the morning of the day when Possessionaten Bilberg and his daughter

were expected, the curate's wife went with Karin to the inn.

The parting between them was full of grateful expression on the one

side, and of tender interest and kind advice on the other. They were

never to meet again on earth, but they had a common Father in heaven

above, in whose presence they trusted one day to be united.

Karin was, of course, on the steps of the inn to receive her charge. It

was not unusual for Karin to wear sometimes a black dress, and Elsa, in

her pleasure at the meeting and her eagerness to tell her late

experiences, did not notice anything particularly serious in the face of

the maid. When, however, they were alone together, she looked up

suddenly, and saw that Karin's eyes were full of tears as she was

struggling to speak of what had befallen her.

"What is it? what is the matter?" asked Elsa affrightedly.

"My mother is dead! I have lost my mother!" said Karin simply.

Elsa cast her arms around Karin's neck in an unusual fit of

demonstrative affection, and wept with her. "O Karin, what will you do?

How you must have loved her! How sorry you must be! I have thought a

great deal about a mother since I have been away. I have always missed

something, and felt that I was different from other little girls, but I

did not really understand what it was. I have had everything I wanted,

and papa has been so kind, and you too, Karin, but there was something.

Where I have been the children did so love their mamma, and she made it

so charming for them, and she had such a sweet way with them;" and here

the little girl sobbed, more, it must be owned, from thinking of what

she had missed in her life than from sympathy for Karin, and yet they

were drawn nearer together than ever before.

The stir of the arrival of Possessionaten Bilberg and his daughter had

passed away from about the inn, and stillness reigned around on every

side, on the wide meadows in front, and on the long, low, rocky ridge

beyond them. Possessionaten Bilberg was smoking a cigar in the wide

porch, and quietly thinking. Elsa had flown down to tell him of Karin's

trouble, and now he greeted the trusted maid almost with respect as she

came to him to ask some questions about their approaching departure.

He got up stiffly and took Karin by the hand, as he said simply, "I am

sorry to hear that you have had trouble. Your mother was old, I

daresay," he added, as he dropped her hand.

"Yes, old and feeble," was the reply.

Karin waited a moment, and then began to speak of the journey.

"Yes; it will be this evening," he said, and his face wore a most

peculiar expression, as if some struggle was going on within him.

At last he began: "I have had time to see more of Elsa than usual, and

when she was with young companions. There is something about her as if

her pleasure were the most important thing to everybody, and she rather

thought nobody was quite equal to herself."

It is possible that these peculiarities had become Elsa's by

inheritance, as her father was not without his own tendencies in that

direction--a fact of which he was naturally unconscious.

He went on: "You have been a good girl, Karin, and I am pleased with

you. Elsa needs now some one who has a right to take her more steadily

in hand."

There was a pause, and the tears sprang to Karin's eyes. Was she to be

dismissed, when she felt almost as much at home in her master's house as

his daughter herself?

"Yes, you have been a good girl, Karin, and you deserve your reward. You

never ought to leave my home. What Elsa needs, though, is a mother's

care. She needs one who with a mother's name will have a strong right to

her respect and her affection."

He paused a moment. Karin, not knowing what else to do, dropped a

courtesy, and waited for him to go on. He got up, blushed, took a few

steps on the piazza, and then turned and said abruptly: "I am going to

be married, and I want you to tell Elsa about it. Tell her that it is

the lady whom the children called 'aunty' there in the country--their

mother's sister. She is willing to marry me. I never thought to get such

a good wife." And Possessionaten Bilberg looked humble, for perhaps the

first time in his life.

"She is not like me in many things," he continued, as if pleased with

his subject. "She is pious--something I don't quite understand, but it

makes me sure she will be a good mother to Elsa. I really believe she

would hardly have taken me if she had not longed to get my child under

her care," said Possessionaten, with another unwonted attack of

humility. "Please tell Elsa at once," he said, and sat down again, to

indicate that the interview was over.

In a few moments Elsa came flying along the piazza, and surprised her

father by taking a seat on his knee and putting her arms round his

neck. "Papa! papa!" she said, "how could you think of doing anything

that would please me so much?"

"Your own mother loved her, Elsa, and so I am sure she is the right kind

of a woman, and that you will be happy together."

Possessionaten had spoken in a matter-of-fact sort of way, and Elsa went

upstairs in a less ecstatic mood than when she came down, and told Karin

calmly that her father seemed pleased that she liked having a new

mother.

CHAPTER VI.

CHRISTMAS EVE.

Christmas Eve had come. There had been joy in the curate's home--carols

and prayer around the lighted tree, the distribution of simple gifts,

and the consumption of any amount of rice porridge. Even the grave

pastor had grown playful as the evening went on. This had prompted one

of the boys to exclaim that he was the very best father in the world--a

comprehensive assertion that was approved by all parties present. The

power to cast off care and even serious thought for a time, and frolic

with children, was one of the secrets of the curate's personal power. In

his sacred capacity he was above and apart from all; as a father or a

friend he was near and familiarly dear to all, even to the youngest in

his household and the humblest of his people.

Now he gave a start, and there was a look of astonishment all round the

family as there was the sound of heavy cart-wheels grinding along over

the sand under the parsonage windows.

In another moment there was a steady tramping on the side steps, then

through the passage to the dining-room, where the family were assembled.

Four strong men were bearing a huge box, and now entered, much

embarrassed at being unable to take off their caps in the presence of

the pastor, but their deep voices pronounced a "Good Yule!" and their

thick, soft caps went off in a hurry when they had deposited their heavy

burden. "We were to open it, pastor," they said, and they forthwith

produced their tools from the slouching pockets of their strong coats.

The pastor's wife disappeared instantly, thinking, as usual, of others

more than of herself; for she, too, would have liked a peep into the box

when the thick boards had been thrown up and the packed stores were

first visible. She had, however, what pleased her better--some hot

coffee, a cake of saffron bread, and the remains of the porridge on the

table in the kitchen when the last nail had been drawn out. The men

disappeared, grinning with satisfaction; while the wondering children

superintended, with occasional wild dances and leaps of delight, the

unfolding of the secrets of the wonderful box.

A prosperous "possessionat" who had learned that the chief joy of

possession is the power of giving had sent household stores on a

munificent scale. A happy wife, accustomed to see her own husband always

dressed as for a holiday, having a full remembrance of the pastor's

outer man, and of his wife's forgetfulness of herself, had sent for him

a full black suit, and for his wife a handsome dark dress, as well as a

warm fur cape. A little girl, who had learned to remember that there

were other people beside herself to be thought of in the world, had

selected books and toys for the children. The orphan girl had not been

forgotten. She looked with astonishment at the substantial winter coat

that had been marked with her name, and wondered who could have thought

of _her_. There was still a beautiful, closely-woven white basket, with

a firm handle, at one side of the box. It was lifted out and opened.

There were all sorts of things--potted, canned, dried, and preserved, to

make, with good bread and butter, a nice evening meal for an unexpected

guest; a most welcome present in a family where hospitality never

failed, and yet the larder was often scantily provided. At the bottom

of the basket lay a card, on which was written, "From a humble friend,

in remembrance of 'the basket.'"

The tears rushed to the eyes of the curate and his wife, and their hands

met, while their thoughts were with the little old cottage saint now in

heaven, and a prayer was sent up for the daughter that she might

continue to walk in the ways of peace.

"O mamma, what a good basket to keep all your mending in!" said one of

the boys.

"Just what I will do," said the mother; "I shall like to have it always

near me."

"Do put on your new suit, papa," urged the children. He vanished into

his room close at hand, and soon reappeared transformed into a new and

complete edition of his old self, as it were, in a fine fresh binding.

The suit was not a perfect fit, but hung less loosely about him than his

wonted best garments, made long, long ago.

The pastor playfully walked up and down the room with a consequential

air, to the great amusement of the children. "You will wear your new

suit to-morrow!" they exclaimed, one after another, as in the refrain of

a song.

"On New-Year's Day, perhaps," said the father. "For to-morrow I like my

old suit best; for we are to remember then how the loving Lord of all

humbled Himself to be the Babe of Bethlehem."

There were a few words of prayer and thanksgiving, and then the family,

with a kiss all round, parted for the night.

Perchance the angels who sang again the Christmas song, "On earth peace,

good will toward men," lingered over the curate's home with a kindred

feeling for him; for was he not, too, a messenger, sent "to minister for

them who shall be heirs of salvation"?

ALF.

CHAPTER I.

A FOOLISH RESOLVE.

Tall, handsome, and young; that one saw at a single glance. The age of

the lad it was not easy to determine. The mind wavered between sixteen

and nineteen, but sixteen it really was. It was no true Swedish face,

yet such faces are often found among the fair children of the North. The

boy had a clear, dark complexion, and his waving hair was intensely

black. His nose was decided, but there was a weakness about the small

mouth that seemed quite inconsistent with the fiery glance of the full

brown eyes.

It was late, yet he was sitting looking steadily before him, while his

thoughts were evidently wandering. "_So_ they want me to promise, and

_so_ they want me to live?" he said at last. "I cannot make promises I

do not mean to keep. I can do many things, but I cannot take a false

position as to what I intend to be." He stood up and straightened his

whole person with an admiring self-respect as he spoke.

_He_ would not be compelled by public opinion to do that for which he

was not inclined! He was old enough to choose for himself, and choose he

would! He would not be confirmed! He would not assume obligations

contrary to his wishes, and make professions he did not honestly mean!

There seemed to him to be in this something noble, something determined,

something manly, and he pleasantly reflected upon his righteous

independence.

The confirmation was appointed for the morrow. He had seen the slender,

swift horse that was to be his--a gift from his father. He knew a gold

watch was lying in his mother's drawer, to be one of his many presents

to commemorate the important occasion. The guests were invited for the

splendid dinner his parents were to give in his honour. He would be

expected to appear in one of the stylish new suits provided for him as

now a fully-grown young gentleman. He would be toasted, complimented,

and, in short, the hero of the day in that beautiful home. He knew that

his mother had retired early. She was doubtless praying for him then,

and would be on the morrow. She, at least, would expect him to keep his

promises. She should know that he would not disgrace her by a false

oath.

His pocket-book was well filled by a munificent present from his

grand-uncle in America. He could go where he pleased. He took out a

small, light trunk from one of his closets, and it was soon packed with

his new garments and a few specially dear personal valuables. There were

no books but the pocket Bible, in which his mother had so lately written

his name. For her sake he would take it with him, and for her sake he

would open it at least for five minutes every day.

Stealthily he crept down the staircase and through the broad halls,

dropped from a low window, and was soon in the open air. There was a

light still in the stable-boy's room, and he would so have help for the

harnessing of the horse, and an opportunity to leave a parting message

for his mother.

He moved slowly and silently. He looked in through the small panes, and

could see the boy bending over a book. He tapped gently. There was a

start, and the door was opened in a moment.

"I am going to town, Lars," he said, "and I want your help. Get up the

spring wagon as soon as you can."

The stable-boy looked suspiciously at his young master, and at the small

trunk he had set down beside him. "Where is Master Alf going?" asked the

boy anxiously. "Anything dreadful happened? Won't you be here for the

confirmation?"

"No; it's that that sends me away," was the answer. "I can't even seem

to make promises I don't intend to keep. I mean to be an honourable

gentleman, and I shall not begin that way. Come, hurry!"

"But stop, Master Alf! Why don't you make the promises and try to keep

them?" said the stable-boy.

"I suppose that is what you mean to do--eh?" said the young gentleman

scornfully.

"It would be my duty any way to live right," was the answer. "I can't

see that the promises make any difference. I ought to live right, I

know, and I mean to try. It won't be easy. That's all I understand about

it." The round, dull face of the boy expressed clear determination, and

he looked his young master full in the eyes as he spoke. "Perhaps

you've made up your mind to go wrong!" he added, with a doubtful look

at his companion.

"Do as I bid you, and get up the horse at once!" said Alf, in a

commanding tone. "Tell my mother what I have said to you, and tell her,

too, I have taken with me the Bible she gave me, and I'll read in it a

bit every day for her sake. _I_ believe in keeping promises. As for you,

you'll find the team at the usual stable; you must go in early to-morrow

for it."

"Where are you going, Master Alf?" urged the boy. "I'm afraid it's clean

out to the bad!"

"That's none of your business! You don't know how a gentleman feels

about a promise," was the answer.

"My father is here for the confirmation. He talked to me about that

matter last night," persisted Lars. "He said when people were married

they promised they would be good to each other, but that was their duty

any way, if they were man and wife, promise or no promise. About

confirmation, he said that was a good old custom that it was well to

follow, but any way when boys get to our age they've got to make up

their minds what sort of men they mean to be, and start clear and

determined on the right track, or else they'll be sure, as the world

is, to go to the bad. He said, too, we'd better be in a hurry, and have

that fixed, for there was no saying how long even young folks would

live. Young folks might be broken off right sudden, like a green branch

in a high wind. I do wish you, Master Alf, could hear my father talk

about this thing."

"I've heard you talk; that's quite enough of the family for me!" said

Alf impatiently. "Attend to your business at once, will you, or I shall

have to harness the horse myself."

"I _wish_ my father was here, I do!" murmured Lars to himself, as he

most unwillingly obeyed.

"That's for your sermon," said Alf, as he took the reins in his hand,

and tossed a bit of silver to the serious, stolid-faced boy who was

looking so sorrowfully at him.

As Alf said his last words to Lars, he wished in his heart that he had

the stable-boy's full, simple determination to do right whatever it

might cost him. The veil of self-contentment had fallen from Alf's eyes.

His motives for what he was now doing stood out plainly before him. It

was true that he did not wish to pledge himself openly to a life he did

not intend to lead, but it was also true that it had long been his

cherished wish to be free from the restraints of home, and able to yield

to any and all the temptations that assailed him. He was voluntarily

giving himself up to an evil, reckless life, and he knew it.