Gunnar: A Norse Romance: Part Vi

XV.

THE RETURN.

HE who has seen the bird of passage only in a comparatively southern latitude can form no idea of the wildness of rapture with which it hails its return to that far land where the blooming meadow and the eternal glacier lie basking together in the wealth of the summer day, and where the forest breathes its fairy life under the burning dream of the midnight sun. To the minds of many the name of Norway suggests a picture of winterclothed pines and far-reaching snowfields, with little or no relief from the influences of the gentler seasons ; and still, strange as the assertion may sound, Norway is peculiarly the Land of Summer.” There is no doubt that the birds at least think so, and their testimony is likely to be trustworthy. And he who stands in the glory of the morning in the heart of one of the blooming fjord valleys, hears the thousand-voiced chorus of the valley’s winged songsters welling down over him from the birch glen overhead, sees the swift, endless color-play of the sunsmitten glaciers, the calm, lucid depth of the air-clear fjord, and the trembling frailty of the birch-bough under the sturdy strength of the fir, — ah ! he whose gaze has but once dwelt upon all this will need no other persuasion than that of his own eye to unite in the song of the thrush and the cuckoo and the fieldfare about the peerless beauty of Norway’s summer. It is not heat that makes summer ; its life is of a far subtler and more ethereal essence. Who knows but the glacier itself may do its share toward intensifying this life, or at least our own perception of it? For the white, snow-peaked background, with its remote breath of winter, grazing the horizon of the mind, sets summer off into stronger and bolder relief. And if the bird feels and rejoices in this, how much more should the artist!

It was just on one of these wondrous summer mornings that Gunnar, after more than three years’ absence, saw his native valley again. He and his friend Vogt hail arrived the evening before at a little fishing-place on the other side of the fjord, and had immediately engaged a couple of boatmen to carry them over. Already the sun stood high ; it was about five o’clock. The boat shot in through the fjord, gliding swiftly over the glittering bays, in which rushing mountain streams mingled their noisy life with the great stillness, and forest-clothed rocks and headlands stood peering forth through morning mist, which still hung in a kind of musing uncertainty along the shore, while the fjord lay wondering at the endless caprices of glaciers and sunshine. A few stray sea-gulls kept sailing in widening circles round some favorite fishing-haunt, calmly judging of the prospects of the day, and now and then with slow deliberation grazing the surface of the water as if to convince themselves that it was not ether, but the veritable element of the cod and herring. Silent families of loons and eider-ducks rocked on the motionless deep, but vanished quick as thought when the boat approached.

They were already in sight of the Henjum shore, when the scream of a gull awaked Gunnar from the delightful revery in which he had been indulging. He had been sitting so long, looking down into the fjord, that for a moment he was quite confused, and hardly knew whether to seek the real heavens above or below. Now he stood erect in the stern, and with a bosom swelling with hope and joy saw the dear scenes of his childhood emerging from the fog and the distance, and smiling to him in the full light of morning. There was no denying that he had changed considerably in the three years he had been away. The cut of the features is of course the same ; the strength of contour in chin and brow are perhaps even more prominent than before ; while at the same time the lines of the face seem refined and softened into a clear, manly expression. That dreamy vacancy in his eyes which had once distressed his grandmother so much is now supplanted by the fire of lofty purpose and enthusiasm ; but the confident openness, which to Ragnhild’s mind had been the chief characteristic of the Gunnar who went, she should not seek in vain in the Gunnar who had now come back to seek her. The city dress, which at the request of his friends he had assumed on entering the Academy, would, at least in the eyes of the parishioners, by an added dignity more than compensate for its undeniable inferiority in picturesqueness. However, the broadbrimmed Panama hat and the large traditional artist neckerchief gave him a certain air of brisk activity, which accorded well with his general bearing, even if the light summer jacket and city-cut pantaloons did not show the plastic shape of the limbs to the same advantage as the national kneebreeches of the valley.

Vogt, Gunnar’s friend, was a great patriot. And as he often used to say himself, no one can be a good patriot without loving the nature of his country, or in fact all nature both in his own country and elsewhere. But as long as we are all flesh and blood, weariness has also its claim upon us, and even Vogt, in spite of his patriotism, had for once been obliged to recognize this claim. For sleep is rare on foot-journeys, and has to be taken at odd intervals, whenever an opportunity presents itself. Thus it happened that Vogt at this moment lay stretched out on a blanket in the bottom of the boat, and slept, quite regardless ot his companion’s rapture and the beauty of the morning. Now the rowers drew up their dripping oars, while one of them sprang forward to ward off the shock against the pier. Gunnar seized a rope, which hung from the flag-pole, and with a leap swung himself up. Vogt, who had just been forcibly recalled to consciousness, chose the safer method of climbing the staircase. He was a tall, slender youth of twenty, with a fine open countenance bearing the marks of earnest application and hard study ; he wore spectacles, and the traditional Norwegian college cap, with its Minerva cockade and the long silk tassel. His complexion was perhaps a little paler and his hair a little darker than is common among Norsemen. Gunnar had already climbed more than half-way up the slope of the Henjum fields before Vogt could find a chance to speak to him. For although the collegian strode along at his highest speed, he had not yet overtaken Gunnar, and would probably not have done so, if the artist had not at this point found something which peculiarly arrested his attention.

“ Vogt.” cried he to his panting friend, “there you see the twin firs.”

“ The — twin — firs,” repeated Vogt rather hesitatingly, but then suddenly correcting himself. “ O yes ! I should have imagined them to look somewhat like those. What majestic crowns ! ”

Gunnar made no reply, but seemed to take great delight in the twin firs.

“ Most extraordinary growth,” suggested Vogt; “and that little bench between the two trunks, don’t you think it peculiarly invites to rest ? What if we accepted the invitation ? ”

“ No, really, you would do me a favor if you would try to walk a little farther. My home is only a short distance from here.”

And on they marched ; but having arrived at the Henjum gate, Vogt’s strength gave out so entirely that he had to sit down in the grass at the wayside and implore his fellow-traveller, in the Hulder’s name, to save the last atom of breath which was still at his disposal. Gunnar had again to check his impatience, and flung himself down at his friend’s side.

“ Vogt,” exclaimed he suddenly, pointing across the river, “ do you see that cluster of houses on the hillside yonder, right under the edge of the forest ? Do you know what that place is called ? ”

“ Perhaps I might guess,” replied Vogt, with a quiet smile ; “ if I am not much mistaken they have hitherto borne the name of Rimul.”

“How the sun glitters in the long row of windows ; just as it used to do of old, when I came wandering up those hills from the river!”

“ Sunshine is a good omen,” answered the collegian, “ especially when it proceeds — But, by your immortal Holder ! ” (this had of late become Vogt’s favorite oath), “ who is that sunny-haired creature who is coming there? Charming! Now be on your guard, Henjumhei, for our adventures are fairly commencing.”

Gunnar looked aside and immediately recognized Gudrun ; she was carrying two well-filled milk-pails from the stables over toward the stabur, or storehouse, which, according to Norse custom, was built along the wayside. Vogt in an instant was on his feet and ran to meet her. She, seeing him, put her milk-pails down, shaded her eyes with her hand, and viewed him with unfeigned curiosity.

“ My fairest maiden,” exclaimed he, bowing in the most courteous manner, “ you certainly overtax yourself in trying to carry those heavy pails. Would you not have the kindness to permit me to assist you?”

Gudrun’s eyes widened not a little while she listened to this speech, and having with a second glance assured herself of the harmlessness of the man, the absurdity of his proposition struck her so forcibly that she could no longer contain herself, but burst out into a hearty laugh, which was echoed from behind the fence at the wayside. Vogt, who had imagined his deportment the very perfection of gallantry, looked utterly mystified.

“ I beg your pardon,”stammered he. “I meant no offence.”

“ Offence ! ” cried Gudrun, checking her laughter, “ who is talking of offence ? And if you are so anxious to carry those milk-pails, I am sure I shall not prevent you.”

If Gudrun had been shy in her childhood, she certainly must be credited with having now overcome that trait in her character ; for there was little of shyness in the way she harnessed the young man up in the yoke, hitched the milk-pails on the hooks, and marched him over to the stabur. But then she had now been taught for twenty years that she was the daughter of Atle Henjum, and need not be afraid of anybody.

Having, after some difficulties, gained the stabur and successfully landed his burden on the steps, Vogt, in the agreeable excitement of adventure, seated himself on the threshold of the door and tried to open a conversation with his fair unknown.

“ I supposed all young maidens stayed on the saeter during the summer months,” said he.

“ O no, not all ! ” replied Gudrun, coming out from the stabur with a huge wooden bowl filled with milk. “ Would you not like to drink a cup of milk ? I don’t know if yon like it fresh. This has just been strained.”

“ Thanks, a thousand thanks, I like it just tin’s way,” cried he, delighted, putting the bowl to his mouth ; “but,” added he, removing it, “would n’t you pledge me first ? I am sure it would taste much better then.” She laughed, drank, and handed him back the bowl, whereupon, having marked the place, her lips had touched, he greedily attacked it. “You have not been staying at the saeter this summer, then ?” resumed he, rising to return her the empty bowl.

“ Yes, indeed, I have. But my cousin Ragnhild and I take turns at it, and stay at home every other week. Her week will be out on Sunday, and then comes my turn again.”

“ Your cousin Ragnhild ? ” repeated Vogt, astonished.

“ Yes ; perhaps you know her ? ”

“ I have heard of her. And then your name is probably Gudrun.”

“ Yes ; how do you know ? Who told you ? Do you come from the capital? Yes, of course you do. And perhaps you have heard of a young lad from our parish, Gunnar Henjumhei by name, who has lately got to be something great. If you have, then please tell me all you know about him.”

Gudrun hurried her questions out in an eager, breathless haste. The young man eyed her curiously. “ You will excuse me this morning,” said he, reaching her his hand, “ my time is short. But you will see me again before many days, and then I shall tell you all you wish to know. I have a friend waiting for me out in the road. Farewell.”

Gudrun was so astonished that she could not even find words to return his parting salutation. Half an hour later she was still standing on the spot where he had left her, wondering how all this would end; for she had no doubt that the friend on the road was Gunnar.

Never had the little cottage at Henjumhei seen a day like this. It was a feast-day, and such a feast-day as had never been before, and would not be likely ever to return. On the bench out under the drooping birches sat old Gunhild, holding the young artist’s hands in hers, gazing into his face with tear-wet eyes, and assuring herself that it was just what she always had said, that the blessed child would be sure to turn out right, whatever they said of him. Opposite, on a threelegged stool, sat Thor in his new jacket, quiet as usual and of few words. Still there was none who would have questioned which was the happiest man in the valley that day, and Thor himself least of all. He had taken a holiday, and sat smoking his afternoon pipe. On the ground, a few feet distant, lay Vogt leisurely puffing away at a cigar and otherwise dividing his attention between the family and the huge overhanging rock, at which now and then he cast fearful glances, as if he were not quite sure that it was firmly fixed. Gunnar was the one who led in the conversation ; for of course he had to tell all that had happened to him, from the time he had left home, and Thor and Gunhild listened with enchantment. It did not escape his observation that, at one or two points in his narrative, his father turned his head abruptly, and suddenly found some interesting object across the river. Vogt also would throw in a remark here and there, either reminding his friend of some important circumstance which had been forgotten, or commenting upon his report whenever he put too modest an estimate upon his own merits. Thus the afternoon passed away, until about five o'clock. Then Vogt announced that he was expected at the parsonage, and Gunnar—well, Gunnar had also an errand which would admit of no postponement.

Ragnhild was at the saeter. To-day was Saturday ; her week would be out to-morrow, and then Gudrun would come. There was no time to be lost, A hundred wild longings drove him onward, and springing from stone to stone he hurried up the steep mountain-path. It was the path he had climbed so often before ; every old fir, every moss-grown rock, he knew. The shadows were growing longer ; a lonely thrush warbled his soft melodies in the dusky crowns overhead ; the river roared in the distance with a strange, sonorous solemnity, as if it were afraid to break the evening’s peace ; here and there the forest opened as by a sudden miracle, and through the space between the mighty trunks he could see the peaceful valley with its green fields and redpainted farm-houses stretched out in the deep below ; a gauze of light, bluish smoke hung over the tops of the lower forest regions ; and underneath lay the fjord, clear, calm, and ethereal, mirroring the sun-warm forms of mountains, clouds, and landscape in its lucid depth. It was indeed a sight for a painter; and still the painter had but little time to bestow upon it at this moment. The sun already hung low over the western glaciers, and glinted through the trees, wherever the massive heads of the pines opened a passage. The day had been warm ; but the air of the highlands was cool and refreshing. He had now gained the region where the heather and dwarf-birch begin to mingle with and gradually supplant the statelier growth of the forest. The slow, measured beat of the bittern’s wing and the plaintive cry of the curlew were for a long while the only sounds. Having recognized the rock from which on that eventful night he had beheld the merry scenes of the St. John’s hill, he could not resist the temptation to pause and recall the situation to his mind. Then a clear, ringing yodle, followed by the call of a loor, shook the evening air, while the echo answered from all the four corners of heaven. He sprang up, held his breath and listened. The loor sounded again, and the same clear, ringing voice sang out in the four tones of the yodle, as it were right above his head : —

There never was another voice like that ; it was Ragnhild, calling home her cattle. In the next moment the highlands resounded with the peal of bells and the noisy lowing of the cows. Peeping through the trees, he saw her standing on a bare crag not far above him. She looked taller, paler, and more slender than the last time he saw her, but more wondrously fair than even his fancy had dared to picture her. She held the loor in her hand, and stood bending forward, and half leaning on it. Her hair hung in golden profusion down over her shoulders, and as the warm rays of the evening sun fell upon her, it shone like a halo. His first impulse was to call up to her; but just as he had opened his mouth, she yodled again, then sang out her call to the same melody, only substituting other names, and ended with a long, alluring note from the loor. Again the echo played with her voice, the cattle lowed, and the sound of the bells, the waving of the tree-tops in the underwood, and the creaking of dry branches marked the progress of the returning flocks. He bent the dense copse aside with his hands, and began to climb ; he saw her glance wandering out over the valley, then farther and farther away, until it lost itself in dim immensity. There was a nameless longing in that look. To him it was a blessed assurance.

“ Ragnhild ! ” cried he, grasping a loose tree-root and swinging himself upward. She paused, smiled, held the hand up to her ear as if to listen. There was no surprise in her smile, but quiet, confident joy. Again her eye sought the distance, as if the distance had given her answer.

“ Ragnhild I ” called he again, “ Ragnhild ! ” and he was now but a few rods away. She stooped out over the brink and saw him standing on a stone below.

“Ragnhild,” said he, “do you not know me? ”

A slight tremor ran through her frame ; she looked once more, then in her bewilderment turned and started to run. But swifter than thought he was at her side, and held her hand in his. A deep crimson gushed over her cheek, and from under the drooping eyelids a tear stole down and lighted on the blade of her silver brooch.

“ Ragnhild, dearest,” cried he with sudden fervor, “ have I changed so much for the worse that you no longer know me ? ” And waiting no answer, he flung his arm round her waist and drew her closely up to him. She let her head fall on his shoulder, and gave free course to her tears.

“ But Ragnhild, beloved,” continued he, setting her gently down at his side in the heather, “is this the greeting you give me ? Are tears the only welcome you have for me ? ”

Gunnar,” answered she, now raising her head, and the brightest smile of happiness beamed through the tears, “ I am so very foolish. But then you looked so fine and — and — so foreign that I knew not what to say, and so I cried.”

“ Foreign, Ragnhild! Do I look foreign to you ? ”

But with the same open, trusting smile she met his anxious, searching glance, while she answered, “ No, Gunnar, not foreign. But you know I cannot in a moment overcome my wonder; I can only sit and look at you. And if you knew how I have longed for this day ! ”

“My fairest, sweetest girl ! and you have longed for me ? ”

He clasped her in his arms, and kissed her lips. “You shall long no more now, Ragnhild, for from this time I shall always be with you.”

She glanced anxiously up into his face, as if the words suggested something which in her joy she had forgotten.

“ You will always be with me, Gunnar,” said she as if to convince herself, — “ always ? ”

“Yes, beloved. And how beautiful you have grown, Ragnhild ! The same as you ever were, and still not the same. How many a time I sat at my garret window in the city, late in the night, and thought of you and longed for you ! And then often I would say to myself, ‘ I wonder how Ragnhild looks now, and I wonder what Ragnhild is doing or thinking now.’ ”

“ O, how delightful !” cried she in happy surprise ; “why, is n’t it strange, Gunnar! — it is the very thing I have always been thinking, when I sat in my window in the gable, and the woods and the fjord and even the river lay hushed into a great stillness. O, how many thoughts of you and longings for you took flight then through the stillness ! And whenever spring came, I was always so anxious to hear the cuckoo the first time in the east, for you know that means a wedding. And, do you know, always before for many springs I would be sure to hear him in the north, which means grief. But this year, when I never thought of it, he sung out in a fir right over my headland that is the best of all. I sat as quiet as a mouse, and counted on my fingers how long be should sit, while I could repeat my wish three times. And for every time I whispered your name, he sung. Then I was no longer in doubt, for I knew you would come, Gunnar.”

And now came his turn to tell the history of his pilgrimage. And he told her all, and in strong, glowing pictures, such as only love can paint and in words such as love only can utter. When he had finished, she sat still silent, gazing up into the tree-tops, and smiling to herself, as if rejoicing in the contemplation of some happy thought.

“ Ragnhild,” said Gunnar, “ what are you thinking about ? ”

“ Ah,” answered she, “ I was only wondering at your beautiful words. They flow like a poem.”

“ And if you could read that poem, Ragnhild,” cried he, “ you would know that its burden had ever been you, and would ever be you.”

XVI.

A SUNDAY AT RIMUL.

No one who was in the habit of visiting Rimul could have helped noticing how clean everything looked there. Indeed.the widow of Rimul had become quite proverbial in the valley for her tidiness, and people never talked about it without a sneer ; for what business had she to sweep and wash and scour more than other honest housewives in the parish ? Everybody, of course, had a thorough-going house-cleaning before St. John’s Day and before the three great festivals of the year, and that, most women found, was as much as they could manage ; and what would be the use, then, of wasting one’s precious time by distributing through ten days what might just as well be done all at once ? Thus ran the parish gossip. But the widow had her own notions on this subject, as indeed on every other, and if she chose to sweep and clean her house every Saturday, she was at all events herself the loser, if indeed there was any loss about it. She had also taken particular care duly to impress this necessity on her daughter’s mind ; for it had been an ancient usage in the family. “And,” said she, “when God rested on the seventh day, it was after having finished the whole work of creation, even to the least blade of grass or fringe of a cloud, and not with some bit of work lying over until next Saturday.”

This morning Ragnhild had come home from the saeter earlier than usual. In the large sitting-room with the many windows she found her mother seated at the table, turning over the leaves of her Bible. The floor was strewn with small tassels of juniper needles, which spread their fresh fragrance through the whole house. In the four corners of the hearth stood four young birchtrees, remnants of the St. John’s Day decorations. It was not sermon-Sunday to-day, so there could be no question about going to church ; but on such days it was not uncommon that some one of the neighbors would drop in during the forenoon, and chat with the widow about the state of the crops or the prospects of the fishery. Therefore, said Ingeborg, it was always well to read one’s gospel and sermon early in the day, lest by delaying one should be altogether prevented from making an appropriate use of the sabbath.

Ragnhild went to the window and stood for a moment looking down the road, then hurried to the hearth, and out of the door to look for something, then forgot what she was looking for, and again returned to the window, where she began to drum on the panes for want of other occupation. An hour passed, but no neighbor made his appearance. Ragnhild grew more and more restless. It was very nearly noon when at last steps were heard out in the hall and two men entered. The one was Thor Henjumhei, the other a young city-dressed gentleman. The widow raised her eyes, looked quietly at the men, and remained sitting,

“ Good morning, Ingeborg Rimul,” said Thor, approaching the table ami offering his hand, “and thanks for last meeting. It is blessed haying weather we have had this week.”

Ingeborg shook Thor’s hand, and returned his greeting. The daughter cast a stealthy glance at the young gentleman, but quickly turned again, and stood pertinaciously drumming on the window,

“Find yourself a seat, Thor,” continued the mistress of Rimul; “and the young man you bring with you, it is probably your son, — Gunnar, was n't that his name? — I can recognize him by his likeness to yourself, Thor.”

“ I hardly think I could have traced that likeness myself,” observed Thor; “ but they say strangers can see such things better.”

“ So they say,” was the widow’s reply.

The worthy houseman in the mean time had taken a seat at the window opposite the widow, and sat leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees, and deliberately turning his cap in his hands, as if weighing well what he was about to say. The son remained standing; For a long while no one spoke.

“Ingeborg Rimul,” began Thor at last, and his eye met the widow’s stern glance unflinchingly, “it is about this son of mine I have come to-day to see you.”

Ingeborg opened her eyes widely and gazed as if she would gaze him into atoms ; but it had no effect upon Thor. He sat there calm and imperturbable.

“It may seem strange that I should come to you on such an errand as the one I have to-day,” continued he, “but we have all of us to go through many strange and unexpected expertences before we are done with this world. And you know yourself, Ingeborg Rimul, that he who has but an only child will do much for that child’s sake. Now, what I came to propose to you is this. It hardly can be an unknown thing to you that Gunnar, my son, while he was yet a mere child, took a great fancy to your Ragnhild, and if her own word can be trusted in such a matter, she was not very old when she first discovered that he also had a place in her heart. And this is no longer a trifling, childish affair, now, Ingeborg Rimul; for when love springs up so early and grows with the years, it is hard to root it out. Three years ago I should probably have had many doubts and misgivings before venturing to speak to you of such a proposition ; but the son I offer you to-daycan speak for himself, and I dare say needs no apology from his father. He has learned his profession well, the newspapers say, and is well worthy of the love of any Norse maiden.”

It is difficult to tell how long it was since Thor had made a speech like this ; but one idea brought two others with it, and love and a slight but very pardonable feeling of paternal pride lent warmth and power to his words. He did not observe Ragnhild, who, attracted by his eloquence, had approached and now stood on tiptoe only a few steps from him, listening with open mouth and an anxious interest expressed in features and attitude ; but Gunnar did see her, and found it hard to check his impatience. And her mother also saw her, and her heart grew heavy ; for she felt her strength failing her.

“Thor Henjumhei,” said she, with a visible effort to appear composed, “ I do not doubt that your son is a worthy young man. or that he knows his profession well. And I feel as sure as you do yourself that there are maidens enough who would be more than happy to be called his wife. But just on this account I wonder that a man of your sense and judgment can come here and ask for him what you know yourself he cannot get. For it must be well known to you, Thor, that Ragnhild’s hand is no longer her own, neither have I the right to give it away.”

The daughter, knowing from a former occasion her mother’s mind on this subject, dared not interpose, and she turned away and wept. And Gunnar? Well, under such trying circumstances he may perhaps be forgiven for forgetting the rules of parish propriety ; for when the sunshine, after a minute’s absence caused by the passing of a cloud, again visited the large sittingroom, the widow of Rimul rubbed her eyes and would gladly have persuaded herself that she was not quite awake ; but there was no denying that, as the sunshine stole in through the south window, it found the heiress of Rimul with her hands clasped round the houseman’s son’s neck, and with her sunny head closely pressed to the houseman’s son’s bosom.

“Thor Henjumhei,” cried Ingeborg helplessly, and rising from the table, “ take your son away ! ”

But Thor did not stir.

“ Thor Henjumhei — ”

Then there was a knock; at the door, but no one answered ; the door opened, and in came a tall, slender youth ; he stooped a little, wore spectacles, and had the long-tasselled college cap in his hand.

“ Mr. Vogt,” said Thor, “ I am afraid you have come here in an unfortunate moment.”

“ I am exceedingly sorry to hear that,” replied Vogt, “and if my presence is inopportune —”

But the widow of Rimul, — what has happened to her, with her eyes riveted on the new-comer, and that ghastly paleness of her visage ?

“ O God, my God ! ” groaned she, sinking down into the nearest chair, “ thou hast visited me hard. Thy will be done.” And Ingeborg buried her face in her lap, while the tears fell fast from eyes to which they had long been strangers, — only God knows how long. There was a solemn stillness in the large sitting-room.

“ Children,” said the widow at length, — and as she lifted her tearful eyes Ragnhild, her daughter, and Gunnar, the houseman’s son, stood belore her, — “ may the Lord bless you now and forever ! And if I have struggled long and hard against you,” added she, taking their right hands and joining them together in hers, “think not that it was because my heart was against you.”

Then Thor, old Thor Henjumhei, stretched out his rough hand to the widow of Rimul, and the widow grasped it, looked into Thor’s faithful eye, and shook his hand heartily.

“ Ingeborg,” said Thor, “God bless you for that word.”

But Vogt, — how did he account for all the commotion occasioned by his arrival ? There he stood in the middle of the floor, with a blank, bewildered stare, turning now to one, now to another, but unable to utter a single syllable. Vogt knew not, perhaps, that in the widow of Rimul’s eyes he resembled his father as one drop of water resembles another ; neither did he know what long-buried memories those well-known features called back to the widow’s mind. So he remained standing as if he had dropped down from the clouds, until at last old Thor, seeing his helplessness, rose, and came to his assistance.

“ Ingeborg Rimul,” said Thor, taking the collegian by the hand and leading him up to the mistress of Rimul, “ this is Mr. Vogt, a young collegian and the friend and benefactor of Gunnar, our son.”

Then Ingeborg grasped the young man’s hands, held them long in hers, and gazed earnestly into his face.

“ Mr. Vogt,” said she, and she paused, as if the word sounded strange on her lips, — “ Mr. Vogt, your features were once familiar to us here in the valley. I bid them welcome again, and hope this will not be the last time they are seen at Rimul.”

Vogt stammered something about his pleasure at being present on this happy occasion ; then Gunnar and Ragnhild came up and joined in the conversation; and, before long, the happiness they all felt loosed their tongues and made each one feel at home with the other.

Thor, in the meanwhile, had despatched a boat for his old mother, and the widow of Rimul had sent a horse and a carryall to receive her at the landing-place down by the river.

Old Gunhild soon made her appearance, whereupon followed a little scene such as only grandmothers can act, and none but a genre-painter can depict.

It was about this time that the pastor, who had been preaching in a neighboring parish, came riding past the Rimul buildings, and, as it occurred to him that it was a good while since he had paid the widow a visit, and that he was much in need of a glass of milk to slake his thirst, he dismounted from his horse, hitched it to a post at the wayside, and in another minute entered the well-built mansion. The Rimul yard was in its usual holiday trim, everything in its place, and the staircase and the hall fragrant with the fresh juniper. There was certainly nothing unusual in this, and still, as he stood in the hall, the pastor could not rid himself of the impression that something extraordinary had happened; but when he opened the door and found the Rimul and the Henjumhei families gathered as in council round the big table at the south window, when he saw Thor seated at the widow’s side, and Gunnar whispering in Ragnhild’s ear, what need had he then of any further explanation ? But the pastor was too much of a diplomat to betray that he was previously informed. He had already resolved to afford every one the satisfaction of being the first to proclaim to him the happy tidings.

And no sooner had the worthy clergyman entered the room than the widow herself, with not a little pride and formality, informed him of the happy occasion of their rejoicing ; told him, what he already knew, of Gunnar’s wonderful proficiency in his art and great prospects for the future, and finally requested the honor of his company as well for this evening as for the wedding, which, according to agreement, would take place a month from date. It is needless to add that the pastor’s kind face then beamed even more than usual, and that he congratulated both the old folks and the young with a deep-felt earnestness which went to the heart as surely as from the heart it came. And when at the suppertable he gave the toast of the betrothal, and spoke of the sacredness of love, of the triumph of native worth over prejudice and all obstacles, and of the great and holy mission of the artist, then tears glittered in the eyes of all, their cheeks glowed, their hearts beat more quickly, and they were all happy.

But when the supper was at an end — the ale drank, the toasts finished, — when the sun grew red and weary, as evening was sinking over the valley, and the peace of evening into the hearts and minds of all, then Gunnar and Ragnhild sat together on the bridge of the barn out in the yard, and saw the gold of the sunset burning on the far steeples of the mountains.

“ Do you remember, Ragnhild,” said he, letting his fingers glide through her rich hair, while her head rested on his shoulder, “ I think it was on this very spot, about fourteen years ago, when I first met you, and — ”

“ O yes,” answered she, dreamily, “the time when you asked me if I were the Hulder.”

“ And you were my Hulder, Ragnhild,” said he earnestly, and pressed her more tightly to his heart, “ my fair, my good, my beautiful Hulder.”

XVII.

THE OCEAN.

AUGUST has come. The fjord still lies glorying in the life of the summer, the sunshine glitters still in the clear waters, the light birch-tree stands trembling over its frail image in the cool tide, the thrush warbles in the mountain glens, and the screaming hosts of sea-birds drift round the lonely crags, or stream over the heavens with the ebbing and flooding sounds of huge, airy surges.

There is life on the fjord in August, a teeming, overflowing life. All nature smiles then ; but in its very smile there is consciousness of decay, — a foreboding of the coming night and of the heaven-rending November storms.

Yes, August has come, — come to the fjord and to the valley and to Gunnar and Ragnhild. She is no longer Ragnhild Rimul now, she is Ragnhild Henjumhei, the wife of Gunnar Henjumhei, the artist. And no one would have doubted that she was Gunnar’s wife who had seen the two together that night, when they left their native valley; for it was much that she left behind, — mother, home, and country ; but, thought she, it was more that she had gained. Now it was morning, or rather night, for the sun had not yet risen. The wheels of the steamboat lashed the water into foam, as it rushed onward and onward through gulfs and straits, onward in its way to the ocean.

At the prow of the steamboat stood Gunnar Henjumhei and his wife, she leaning on her husband’s arm, and now and then glancing half timidly back at the dear old glaciers and mountainpeaks, as they faded one by one on the far horizon. His eye was turned toward the future, peering steadfastly through the light fogs of the morning.

“ Gunnar,” said she, and a half-sad, half-happy smile flitted over her features, “ how strange to be leaving all behind me that I know, and to sail out into a great foreign world, where all is unknown to me, — except you,” added she in a whisper. And as the thought grew upon her, she pressed the arm she held, and clung more closely to him.

“ Ragnhild,” answered he, “it is not a foreign world. But see how the great sun is rising — over the ocean.”

And he pointed toward the east, where the sun rose — over the ocean.

H. H. Boyesen.