"Say at once your cousin," said Ireneus, frankly.

"That my cousin" resumed the timid Eric, with more confidence, "had arrived, I was unwilling to remain longer away, and my father was kind enough not to wish to retain me."

As the Upsal student pronounced these few simple words, Ireneus observed him, and discovered in his face such an expression of kindness, and in his clear blue eyes such intelligence that he felt a real sympathy for him.

"I thank you," said he, "for thinking of me before you knew me. I hope that when we shall be acquainted you will grant me a portion of the love you have conferred on my family. I am already disposed to love you as a cousin."

"Ah!" cried Eric, springing up, and glancing at Ireneus with an expression of radiant joy, "how happy I am at what you say! I was afraid. I will confess, that I might find in you one of those careless men of the world, as we hear most of the Parisians are. I see, however, you are a worthy nephew of him I shall soon call uncle."

"Gentlemen," said Alete, who from the door had, with a pleasant smile on her face, heard this amicable exchange of sentiments, "will you be pleased to come to dinner?"

"Have they any caviar?" asked M. de Vermondans.

"Certainly, and as good as possible."

"Then we can give this Parisian a complete specimen of the gastronomical refinements of our out-kitchen."

"You must know, Ireneus," said he, as he led his nephew to a little table placed in the corner of the dining-room, "that we do not commerce our meal as the rest of the world does. Our good ancestors certainly discovered, that the walls of the stomach being contracted by cold, needed to be refreshed by something spirituous, and from time to time this estimable precaution has been perpetuated in the country. We will therefore first take a glass of this brandy, and then a cake of this caviar, a few anchovies, and a slice or two of ham, after which we will really sit at the festal board, where the soup, to which you assign the first rank, appears only as a secondary entree, after many culinary preparations."

This was done to the great amusement of Ireneus, who really would have taken for the dinner itself the prelude to it.

When they had sat down, Alete undertook to put him through a course of national gastronomy.

"What do you think," asked she, "of the fish to which my father has just helped you?"

"They are very good," replied Ireneus, "and resemble smelts."

"What do you mean by smelts? They are doubtless some tasteless product of your warm rivers. Know, Monsieur, that these are stroemlings, the finest and most delicate fish in the icy waters of the north. This other fish, which glows like a piece of gold in its porcelain plate, you would find it difficult to call by the correct name. It is a salmon, caught by a skillful hand, and smoked with particular care. Near you is the tongue of a reindeer, prepared by a Laplander, unrivaled in this useful art. This bird, which yet looks fixedly at you with open eyes, though it died two days ago, you might fancy a barn-door fowl, fattened up by the cook. Not so: it is the briar-cock, the honor of our forests. The two fowls in that dish are not a pair of vulgar pullets, but succulent grouse. I will not mention that haunch of sanglier, which, however, is worthy of a royal table; nor of those vegetables, which strangers say are nowhere as finely flavored as they are in our loved Sweden; nor of those berries, gathered last fall on the sides of our hills. Pay some attention, however, to that bread which you break so carelesely with your fingers. It is not coarse and heavy, like that of other countries. It is our kneach-brad, delicate and light as a sheet of paper, and white as the purest flour."

"Have you done?" said M. de Vermondans; "and can you not, as an accompaniment to so many exquisite things, bring us a bottle of claret?"

"Wrong again." said Alete; "as if this beer, prepared from the best barley, the most perfumed hops, yellow as the Baltic, amber and pure as spring-water, was not more valuable than the coarse red fluid you send to such a distance for."

"I agree with you," said Ireneus, who in his turn wished to laugh at the young girl. "It seems to me, that when seated in front of the riches of the north, it would be a profanation to pour out a libation in a foreign beverage. This beer has besides so excellent a flavor, that were there anything like it in France, it is probable that the owners of the Clos de Vaugeot and Medoc would root out their vines to make room for hops and barley."

"You are laughing at me, dear cousin," said Alete; "take care, however."

"Peste!" said M. de Vermondans, "any one who knows you would be rash indeed to excite your ceaseless babble. I do not think that Ireneus, who has more than once proved his courage, is bold enough for that."

"Two royal officers contending against a poor country-girl," said Alete. "We are not fairly matched, and I will go for the claret."

It was wrong for Alete to leave just then, for the conversation, which hitherto had been gaily sustained, immediately began to languish, and assumed a direction which compelled her to silence.

Ireneus complained of the inroad of democratic ideas, of the trembling and fall of aristocratic institutions, of the authority of right divine, which in his chivalric enthusiasm he looked on as the basis of society.

"Ah," replied Eric, with a tone of voice which seemed aroused by a feeling of affection, "this holy authority will lift itself up from the level of the popular waves which threaten to overwhelm it. It will appear clear and brilliant as our polar star, above the clouds which now surround it. It would subsist in all its power, if it were exercised by men who comprehended the holy duties it imposed on them. Everything connected with this primitive law, with this noble image of patriarchal government, would yet exist, if each member of the great social family would contemplate from a just point of view his own condition, and carry out the consequences in a Christian-like manner.

"Charity, that is to say love and compassion, the two expressions in which are summed up all the joys and miseries of human life, are two virtues, ennobling and consoling man. Let the rich man be charitable to the servant he has subjected to his will, toward the poor man who begs of him. Let him say every day, as he awakes, every night as he prepares himself for repose, that the more powerful he has been made by Providence, the greater is the obligation he is under to aid and protect those around him. In his turn, let the poor man be charitable to the rich; let him know that no rock of marble, no gilded platform can rescue the prince from mortal anxiety, and that human grief is found beneath the imperial purple as well as wrapped in rags, and that often the noble, surrounded by riches and at the festal board, is forced to envy the humble hut and obscure repose of the coal-burner.

"If ever," pursued Eric, with an accent of enthusiasm, "I shall be called to expound the word of God, this especially shall be the text of my sermons: Charity! Charity! By charity I do not mean the habit of extending the hand, which by a kind of instinctive motion, lets alms fall in the blind man's basket, nor the graceful action of a lady who at certain hours leaves the saloon to visit the garret. True charity consists not so much in material aid as in the gifts of the heart; and every individual, humble as he may be, may perform a precious act of charity. To pay correct esteem to a poor man who has been calumniated; to revive hope in a mind overpowered by misfortune and tortured by doubt; to console by kind words a soul mistaken and suffering from errors; each of these is a charity. To be mild and kind to all who approach you, to be indulgent to those blinded by the glitter of prosperity, to be kind and affectionate even when an effort is required to be so, to open a sympathizing heart to all complainings, to all diseases, to all human errors, is the way to gain daily the choicest opportunities of charity. To be charitable is to be good. One of your illustrious writers, Bernardin de Saint Pierre, said, 'Were every one to regulate his own house, order would be the law of nature.' We may also say, were each one to do good, universal happiness would be certain."

"Dear, dear Eric," said Alete, clasping his hand. Then as if she reproached herself for this emotion, she suddenly withdrew it and said, "You need not get into the pulpit to preach a very edifying sermon. You treat us already as your future parishioners, and honor my cousin in the same manner. Since you have begun, will you not complete his education? That beautiful France, the wit and learning of which is so much extolled, exhibits a haughty disdain of the science of other lands. I am sure my cousin knows very little of the history of Sweden,—that magnificent chronicle which in its royal genealogies dates from the deluge. You can teach him. My learned sister Ebba will also teach him Swedish, the most beautiful and harmonious tongue in the world, and certainly the oldest, since savans have proven that Adam and Eve spoke it in Paradise. I also wish to do my duty, and will guide my cousin in the study of natural history of grouse and briar-cock, and the aromatic plants which grow on our hillsides."

"You jest," said Ireneus, "but I seriously adopt your proposition."

"Bah! bah!" cried M. de Vermondans. "He would be a pretty Captain of Lancers if he were to subject himself to pedagogues, like a school-boy, and study themes and versions like a college lad."

"Excuse me, my dear uncle, the most unpleasant thing in the world to me is to be idle. Since circumstances condemn me to inactivity, I would, if possible, employ my time usefully. I shall be very grateful to Eric and my cousins, if they will give me the instruction I need so much. I shall be delighted to study the history of Sweden, a language spoken by persons I love better than any in the world, and the products of the soil of Which Alete is the amiable Buffon."

"So be it," said M. de Vermondans, who, in spite of his eclecticism in politics, had, with a strange mental contradiction, preserved in relation to certain things very deeply rooted ideas, "So be it. In my time people took up no such fancies—more than one emigre passed ten years of his life in a foreign country, and never learned to speak its language. The young men of our times are not like those of to-day. The world, which when I knew it was so gay and careless, which from its very recklessness and its choleric daring was so interesting, now looks to me like a vast school. Its atmosphere, formerly impregnated with perfumes, is now saturated with the atmosphere of dusty tomes and damp newspapers. We meet with no one but persons anxious either to teach or learn. What will become of us if we give way to this pedantic pride? If we surrender to this anxiety to analyze everything? If we go on so, to suit us, God will be compelled to make a new world, to give occupation to the lofty fancies of naturalists and physical philosophers, who seem to me to have weighed and examined this thoroughly.

"Bah! bah! Mademoiselle the philosopher," said M. de Vermondans, as he saw Ebba smile, "I am not ignorant that just now I talk very much like a heretic. You have delighted in reading a multitude of books. I excuse you, however, because you never boast of your acquisitions.

"You do not belong to those blue-stockings, and I have met many such, who, as soon as you approach them, throw at your head the name of a poet like a bomb-shell, and exhibit the wealth of their arsenal by firing a philosophical cannon, or algebraic chain shot.

"May God almighty keep me from those women who forget in this manner the natural graces of their sex. Let him protect me from those Laureates who can see no natural phenomenon without crying out with stupid satisfaction, 'I know the reason.'

"Imagine how delighted I should be, if when enjoying the delicious luxury of sunset, some bachelor of arts should say—

"'Monsieur, will you suffer me to explain how various clouds assume the colors which so vividly impress you, and with what rapidity light comes to the eye?'

"For heaven's sake let me enjoy in peace all the gifts of Providence, admire its works in the innocence of my heart, and discover by what geometrical process God has regulated the form of the globe, and to what pallet, to use the painter's phrase, he has ground his colors."

"There you express a pious and respectable sentiment, which, however, permit me to say, cannot be admitted without some qualification. We must not forget that the greatest gift with which God has endowed man is intelligence, and that one of our first duties is to attempt to develop that intelligence by means of every faculty and all the means of application with which he has endowed us."

"Good. If you were sure that you would not lose yourself amid temptation, or, if like Tobias, you had an angel to guide you in the stormy voyage you undertake. Into what derangement of pride has not man fallen, from the fabulous Prometheus, who sought to snatch fire from heaven, to the Philosophers of the eighteenth century, who extinguished fire in the lights of their reason. Prove to me that what you call human reason has in any manner purified or ennobled the moral sentiment, and I will bow myself before your logicians and rhetoricians. To what direction soever I turn I see only vain puerilities, useless labor, doubtful hypotheses, presumption and falsehood. I admit that you may count amid the multitude of books lumbering the shelves of your libraries many innocent and instructive works. Those books, however, prove your impotence.

"Act as you please, and you will never be able to develop equally the various mental powers. To expand one it is necessary to repress the others. By giving your reason the rude aliment of scholastic argument, you neglect your imagination. By illuminating your mind you overshadow your heart. You congratulate yourself at the discovery of a problem, the solution of which you have long sought for. Scientific journals become filled with numerous dissertations about it, academies decree crowns and medals to the author of the precious discovery. No one remembers, that each of these solutions breaks one of the wonderful chains of charming symbols, of naive ideas which once animated and vivified the people. That it strips it of poetry, of the emotions of the heart, and the delightful and fairy-like creations of the imagination.

"The ancients were not so learned as we, yet they were wiser. They did not explain the phenomena of nature, but described with a graceful and imposing imagery. The rainbow, reduced in our colleges to a mere conformation of matter, was the scarf of Iris; the light-footed hours preceded the car of night, and the rosy-fingered Aurora opened the horizon to permit the car of Jove to pass. When the thunder rolled, Jupiter spoke to attentive mortals. When volcanic mountains trembled, the old Titans sought to throw off the mass of rocks which weighed on them as an eternal punishment of crime. The middle age, yet more naive and poetical, peopled the air, fields, woods, and waters with a crowd of mysterious beings who spoke to the senses and thought, and awakened in the human mind a mild sentiment of faith or healthful fear.

"Now, thanks to your haughty reason, we have banished, like idle fancies, all these creations of our forefathers. Now we know that the air has no other voice than that of the wind and tempest; that the wood has no animals other than those the structure of whom has been minutely described; that there are no fairies in the green fields, and no invisible spirits watching over the hearth and fireside. Man, relying on his reason, would be ashamed to suffer himself to be excited by tales of ghosts. He has cast aside all supernatural apprehensions; and I see the coming of the time when even Saint Nicholas will not impose on children. What have we gained by thus shaking off the network of smiling and serious fancies, which both enlivened and restrained our fancy? Are we happier, stronger, or better? Alas! for my own part, even were I to pass for a mind behind the times, I would confess that I regret those days of candid credulity in which each dark forest had its legend, every chapel its history. One of the reasons why I love the Swedes, amid whom I found a peaceful home, is, that they have not yet sacrificed to the teachings of modern times their old poetry; and that in the majority of their woodland homes are a multitude of popular songs, of traditional faiths, of domestic customs, which recall the poetic days of the middle age. Is not this true, Ebba? You know something of this matter, for you participate in my predilections in relation to them; and more than once I have seen you listen anxiously to the stories of the old women of Aland."

"Yes, father," said Ebba; who had listened with eager sympathy to the long dissertation of the old man, while Eric and Ireneus listened modestly to all he had said.

"When you give me a lesson in Swedish," said Ireneus, "will you be kind enough to add to it some of those histories, which, I assure you, interest me in no small degree?"

"If you wish it," said Ebba, "I will." Whenever she spoke she seemed with difficulty to surmount her timidity.

"Well, my dear nephew," said M. de Vermondans, with Eric on one side, Ebba on the other, and the practical knowledge of Alete, "it seems to me you can employ your time very profitably; for my own part I can only induct you into the mysteries of bear-hunting, and the chase of the stag and reindeer. It is so rude that I shall not be able to keep up with you. Among my people, however, I shall be able to find a guide, who finds game like a blood-hound, and follows it like a lion."

"That will do wonderfully well, uncle; with so attractive an offer, I fear only that amid my amusements I shall forget my country and my regiment, and become faithless to my king."



PART II.

Even if Ireneus had not willingly accepted the plan worked out for the Employment of his leisure in study, the rigorous climate of Sweden would, in some manner, have made it compulsory for him to do so. To the cold and dry days, which, during the winter, enlightened and animated the people of the north, succeeded storms and hurricanes. Tempests of snow floated in the air, covered the paths, and blocked up the doors of the houses. A cloudy horizon and black sky seemed to close around every house, like a girdle of iron. At a little distance not even a hill could be distinguished from a forest; all was, as it were, drowned and overwhelmed in a misty ocean, in movable columns of snow, which were impetuous, and irresistible as the sand-whirlpools of the desert. About midday a light purple tint, like a dying twilight, glittered in somber space: a ray thrown by the sun across the clouds, gave an uncertain light. All, however, soon became dark again. One might have fancied that the god of day had retired over-wearied from regions he had in vain attempted to subdue. Nowhere does the symbolical dogma of the contests of darkness and light manifest itself in more characteristic traits than in the Scandinavian mythology; and nowhere does it appear physically under a more positive image than in the regions which have been for centuries devoted to this mythology. During the summer at the north, the sun reigns like an absolute sovereign over nature, and ceaselessly lights it with his crown of fire; he ever watches it, like a jealous lover. If he inclines toward the horizon, if his burning disk disappears behind the purple mountain brows, he leaves for only a moment those polar regions, and leaves even then a clearness behind like the dawn. He soon reappears in his spotless splendor.

In the winter, however, he yields to night, which, with her dark cortege, occupies the northern world. She envelops space with her black wings, and casts the ice and snow from her bosom. Sometimes, for weeks, the storms are so violent, that one cannot, without danger, venture into the fields; and cruel necessity alone induces the peasant to take the road, either to offer something for sale in the nearest market, or to gain a few shillings as a guide to some adventurous traveler. Sometimes, even the peasants of this country are afraid to cast their nets in the river, and gulf, which in the greatest degree contribute to their subsistence. During the greater portion of the time, the poor people of the north, secluded in their homes by masses of snow, isolated from their neighbors, pass whole winters by the fireside. The men occupy themselves in repairing the harness of their horses, in mending the iron work of their carriages—for in that country the homes of people are so far from each other, that each family is forced to provide for its daily wants, and every peasant is at once saddler, wagon-maker, and carpenter. Women are busy in weaving and spinning. In many provinces, especially in that in which the uncle of Ireneus had established himself, there was in existence an industry, which, during the last twenty years, has been much developed. Every peasant's house is a perfect workshop, for the manufacture of linen. Woofs, white and fine as those of Holland, and quite as good, are there produced. This variety of work commences after harvest. In the autumn evenings, women, young girls, &c., assemble at different houses, with their distaff or bundle of flax, which they place before the hearth. It is pleasant, indeed, to see this collection of industrious women, busied in the performance of the task prescribed to them, laughing, talking, without sometimes taking time even to listen to the young lovers who hover around them.

Often a respectable grandmother, the fingers of whom were wrinkled by age, and which neither weave nor spin, would bid the wild troop be silent, as she told one of the mad histories of old times. Then, one of the work-women would merrily ring out the peasant songs, the chorus of which her companions would re-echo. After a few hours of toil, a young man would arise, and give a pleasant signal. All chairs and benches would at once be removed; the work-shop would be changed into a ball-room. To supply the deficiency of an orchestra, one of the spectators defined the modulations of a dance by some old traditionary song. Young men and women took each other by the hand, and formed together one of those country groups which are the elements of the chorographic art. They then parted, making a rendezvous for the next day, for another hearth-side, but for similar amusements. All the work-women, returned to their own houses, where they gaily retailed all the episodes of the evening's events, some recording merely a silent glance, which met their own, or a furtive clasp of the hand which had aroused a blush. More than one happy acquaintance originates in one of those northern evenings—and more than one girl, who, in the autumn, has a heart free as air, in the spring wears on her finger the ring of a promised bride.

When the weather was good, Ebba went out sometimes alone, to be present at these re-unions. All rose to welcome her with a sentiment of respect and attention, for she was kind to the poor.

The young people silently withdrew, and the matron of the house gave her the most pleasant seat by the hearth-side. The children, however, to whom she brought every day fruits and presents, leaped and danced around her. The old village story-tellers were also glad when she came, for no one Questioned them with more kindness, or listened with more attention to their popular tales. Her delicate tournure, her graceful form, her pale and melancholy look, were in striking contrast with those around her. To see her motionless and mute amid the merry girls and the robust young persons, would have induced a belief that she was one of those supernatural beings, one of those fairy inhabitants of woods and waters—strange legends about whom she so much delighted in. She entered and retired silently, and her light feet seemed scarcely to touch the ground. She flitted away like an aerial being, leaving with all those whom she visited an indefinable impression, and arousing in some the vague remembrance of a superstitious being.

One evening, when she was about to leave, a woman, who had looked Attentively at her, said, "Dear young lady; how feeble and ill she seems!"

"Yes," said a timid voice, "one might almost think she had joined in the elfin dance."

"What is the elfin dance?" asked a young man; "I have seen many, but never that."

"God grant you never may," said the one to whom he spoke; "the elves are wonderful beings, who come we know not whence; and live, we know not how, in the mountain gorges and woods. Probably they are the descendants of some race accursed of God, and sentenced to live on earth, deprived of every joy and hope. They never enter towns; do not associate with us; but when they see a solitary wanderer, they seek to win him to them, and exercise a most unhappy influence over him.

"You sometimes have seen large circles of grass in the meadows trampled down. They are traced by the elves, as they dance in the summer night when the moon is shining. Wo to the wanderer, wo to the young girl, who at that time passes near them. The elves invite them to join in the dance, and sometimes drag them by force away. Into the veins of any one who comes within their circle, a secret poison is infused, which makes him languish and die. I tell you, I fear that Ebba, good and charitable as she is, has been surprised by those accursed beings; for she has the pale face and languid air of those who suffer from philtre of the elves."

Sitting one morning in the room of her father, Ebba was discharging the task she had proposed to herself in jest. She was teaching Ireneus the elements of the beautiful Swedish language, of the Islandic from which it is derived, and which has its ulterior origin in the old tongues of India, the cradle of the great Gothic races. "It is pleasant," says Byron, "to learn a foreign tongue from the eyes and lips of a woman." Ireneus enjoyed all the luxury of such a system of instruction.

Without having what is called a poetical nature, he was not a little under the influence of the poetry of his situation, of the beautiful girl who taught him, of her sweet smile, and the affectionate voice which stimulated his zeal or reproved his mistakes. Any accidental question, any quotation, a single word often would hurry the young girl's mind to her favorite theme, the mythology of the north.

In her early youth, she had studied the curious dogmas of the old Scandinavians, a singular assemblage of terrible symbols and smiling images borrowed from the flowery regions of the east, and of dark conceptions produced in the cloudy north.

Not only did she know all the tales, but in some sort she lived in the memory of the heroic and religious traditions sung in the solemn dithyrambics of the Edda, and met with in every page of the Islandic sagas. Though her heart was always Christian, she was amazed, from time to time, at hearing herself speak, like a pagan, of the beneficent Baldus, of Loki, the spirit of evil, and of Freya, the golden tears of whom formed the Baltic amber. To her, the world was yet peopled by the mythological beings, created by the naive faith of the north, and to them she had learned to adapt the phenomena of nature. When she heard the thunder, she thought of Thor, and his mighty hammer, driving across the heavens in his iron car. If the sky was clear, she thought the luminous Alfis lighted up the horizon.

In the pantheism of Scandinavian mythology, which, though less seductive, is less comprehensive than that of the Greeks, all that she heard assumed a mysterious existence. Plants were watered by the foam the horse of night shakes on the earth, as he tosses his mane and champs his bit.

Crows had a prophetic power. The eagle sailing through the air, recalled to her that deathless bird which sits on the boughs of Ygdrasil, the tree of the world. A secret spring, hidden amid the woods, seemed to her the emblem of that deep spring in which the Nornas spin and cut the thread of life. To these traditions, far older than Christianity, she united the popular legends of the middle age. If night, the whistling of the wind, the rattling of the rain, the murmur of the trees, made a confused murmur in her ears, she fancied that she heard the barking of dogs, the sound of horns, and the cry of the wild huntsman sentenced to wander forever from vale to vale, from mountain to mountain, because he had violated a Sabbath or saints' day. If, on some calm day, she looked at the golden and purple surface of the lake, she fancied that she saw, in the depth of the water, the spires and roofs of the houses of some city which God had punished for impiety, by burying it beneath the waves.

If she stood on the banks of a rapid stream, at the foot of a cascade, she said that the sounds she heard came from Stromkarl. The Stromkarl has a silver harp, on which he plays wild melodies. If his favor be gained, by any present, he teaches the listener his songs. Wo, however, to the man who hears him for the ninth time. He cannot shake off the supernatural charm, and becomes a victim to his imprudent temerity.

One evening all the family was collected around the earthen stove. Eric was there. Suddenly the sky, which in the morning had been dark and cloudy, was lit up as if by the blaze of a immense conflagration. The aurora-borealis, that wonderful phenomenon of the north, glittered in the horizon, and gradually extended its evolutions from the east to the west. Sometimes all the colors of the rainbow were visible, and again it glittered like a mass of fusees, or transformed itself into a vast white cloud, sparkling like the milky-way. Again it would assume the most splendid blaze, and appear like a mantle of purple and gold. For one moment the rays would be alligned, and gradually disappear in the distance; then they would cross each other like network. Again they would arrange themselves in bows, dart out with arrowing points, shoot into towers and form crowns. It might have been fancied the creation of a kaleidescope, into which the hand of a magician had cast jets of life, oscillating and floating under every form. At the same time, there was heard in the air a sound like that accompanying the discharge of fireworks.

Eric, who had been asked to give an explanation of this phenomenon, analyzed the various theories of philosophers on the subject. He especially referred to those of the Society of Copenhagen. He said this was one of the phenomena which no philosopher had as yet explained; that of all the hypotheses on the matter, the most specious was that which ascribes the aurora-borealis to the reflection of the northern ices.

"My wise daughter, what do you think of it?" said M. Vermondans, speaking to Ebba, who, with her hands crossed over her chest with religious silence, sat looking at a phenomenon she had witnessed every winter, and which on every occasion awakened a new emotion.

Ebba said, "I do not know the dissertations of academies, like Eric. Since, however, they do not explain the cause and motion of the aurora borealis, I had rather rely on the simple and religious traditions of an ignorant people, to that of the Greenlanders, who say that the rays of the aurora come from the glare of souls which wander over the skies."

"On my soul," said M. Vermondans, "that idea pleases me. Like the problems of the natural philosophers, it does not explain the problem of the aurora-borealis, but it is much more poetical. This tradition contributes to the assistance of an idea I advanced the other day, on the vanity of scientific speculations, especially when we compare them with the delicious conceptions of the ignorant."

"True," replied Eric, "in the infancy of nations, as in the childhood of the individual, there is a graceful poetry, an ideal and intellectual understanding of nature, which does not resist grave impressions or the reason of mature age. Thus, amid the wild nations of North America, the poor mother who has lost a child, fancies that she scents the perfume of its breath in the flowers, and hears its sigh in the voices of the birds. Thus is it that our Lapland neighbors attach a touching faith to many physical incidents.

"When one of them becomes ill, they say that his soul has been called to a better world by the loving beings he has lost; and that his soul is about to depart to yield to their prayers, and seek its final home with them. Then they send for a sorcerer, who casts himself on his face on the ground, and in mysterious words beseeches the wandering soul to return. If it yields to the supplications, if it returns to the tabernacle it has inhabited, the invalid recovers breath and strength; if not, he dies. Such, and a variety of other examples, we find in every direction, in the wonderful tales of the east, in the popular traditions of the north, and they prove clearly enough that there are flowers of poetry and spring-like perfumes full of inimitable grace in all primitive societies, even where gross ignorance and coarse usages distress us.

"Think you though that science also is without poetry? If you understand by poetry, what I think you do, every ennobling of thought, every exaltation of mind, do you think there is no lofty and grand poetry in that geology which searches into the bowels of the earth, and exhibits to you the different layers of which it is composed, and the revolutions it has undergone; in the researches of the naturalist, who exhibits the creations of an antediluvian world; in the observations of the astronomer, who explains the configuration and harmonious movements of those luminous orbs removed millions of miles from that on which we dwell? Do you think there is no poetry in the material development of civilized societies, in the industrious activity which digs canals, pierces mountains, subdues the elements, and moves all to man's will?"

"Ah, certainly I experience a very agreeable emotion, when in an old custom I find the traces of the religious spirit of our fathers, and listen to their legends and songs. This emotion, however, does not prevent me from thinking of that which should be created by the imposing spectacle of the progress of civilization, more than the pleasure I would enjoy if I reposed by the side of a fresh spring, mysteriously concealed amid a forest, would prevent me from loving to look on a majestic river, down which floated the canvas of some ship, or the boilers of a steamer. The perfection of matters would be to kindle our soul with the lights of science, and at the same time preserve the innocent candor of our hearts. Thus will we obey the Bible-text which says, 'You shall not enter the Kingdom of heaven, unless you be as little children.' To be a child in simple-heartedness, a man in toil and labor, is the end we should propose to ourselves."

"Yes," said M. de Vermondans, "that is a truly noble object. We cannot however expect to attain it. Pride unnoticed, is created by the very labor of our minds, and when that poison has inoculated our hearts, farewell to innocence. I will agree with you as to the indisputable benefits of science. Confess, however, that all the learning of your philosophers and mathematicians can I never confer on any people the precious customs of the days of old. When we look back on what has been done by the would-be wise men of antiquity to ennoble the moral state of man, I will not speak of the mad ceremonial of the burlesque festivals invented by the revolutionists of 1793. They were but scenes of disorder and frenzy. Imagine, however, the purest and most solemn of the discoveries of science, and compare it with the Christmas festival which the Swedish peasant will celebrate in a few days, and tell me which contributes to true emotion, to the moral good. Alete, give me my pipe."

The last words were the usual signal given by the good old man when he felt the length of the conversation fatiguing, or felt his favorite ideas paradoxical, though they sometimes were pressed on by arguments the tenor of which he found it difficult to resist.

Alete went to get the long pipe, with its stem of maple-root, and filled it with tobacco with her own pretty fingers. A sweet smile and a deferential look from Eric recompensed her. When he saw M. de Vermondans seated in his chair, and inhaling the aroma of tobacco through the amber mouthpiece, he said,

"Since you remember our Christmas festival, you will not forget that we expect you, Ebba, Alete, and Ireneus to keep it at our house."

"Yes, Eric," said M. de Vermondans, "I like your father, and shall be happy to pass a day with him."

"Yes, dear Eric," said Alete, "I love your father. Pay however some attention to old Marguerite's preparations. I wish to be received like a princess, and if all the plate is not produced to do me honor, if the table be not covered with the finest linen and loaded with delicacies, if the furniture does not glitter like glass, and the passage-hall and corridor are not bright as if for a wedding, I will turn all the house upside down."

"Well well," said Eric, "there you are a queen. My father will turn over all power to you, and you may make as many reforms as you please."

Part III.

A few days after the visit of Eric, the groom of M. de Vermondans took from the carriage-house two sleighs, trimmed with wolf and bear-skins, and harnessed to each of them a spirited horse, the activity of which seemed enhanced by the cold morning air. In the first sleigh sat M. de Vermondans and Alete; and Ireneus and Ebba entered the second.

"Are we ready?" said the old man, as he took the reins in one hand, and the whip in the other.

"Yes," said Ireneus, after he had wrapped up the delicate frame confided to him in a large Astracan-skin.

"Well, let us start." The horses, as soon as the reins were loosed, left the house at a gallop.

"I am glad," said Ebba to Ireneus, "that you are in Sweden at this season, which to us is so solemn."

"Do you then celebrate Christmas with so much pomp?"

"I do not think it is celebrated in any country of the world with so much joy and unanimity, from the northern extremity of the realm to the southern boundary, in town and country, in palace and peasant's hut."

"I am sure that in this festival there are touching usages, with which you are thoroughly acquainted. I shall be delighted if you will explain them to me. All you have told me of your popular legends and superstitions, opens to me, as it were, a new world, in which, I assure you, I am glad to wander."

"Were I not afraid that I would appear pedantic to you." said Ebba, "I would tell you what Eric has told me about our Christmas festival. It appears to date back to a remote day before the Christian era. At this season our pagan ancestors celebrated the winter solstice, just as on the 25th of June they did that of summer. The early name of this festival, which we yet preserve, indicates an astronomical idea. It was called Julfest. (the feast of the wheel,) certainly because the sun, the evolutions of which are on the 25th December marked by the shortest day, and June 25th by the longest. Whatever may have been, the primitive nature of this festival, Christianity gave it an august character. To us it is not a material symbol, but tho commemoration of the day on which the Savior of earth was born in a stable. That day seems to announce glad tidings to the Swedish peasant, as it did to the shepherds of Bethlehem, for each seem to rejoice. The courts and schools have recess, parents and friends visit each other, not to discharge the common duty of politeness, to leave a card with the porter, but to pass whole hours in gayety and frank intercourse."

On all the high and cross-roads, you see sleighs filled with travelers. One will contain a daughter married at a distance from home, who at this time of universal enjoyment wishes to visit the old hearth-side, The other contains a son, who comes from the University, or from the city where he is employed, to kiss his mother. The soldier who all the year has borne in patience the severity of garrison duty, is satisfied with his profession, if he can at that season obtain a leave of absence for a few weeks. The sailor returned from a distant voyage, looks anxiously at the sea and sky, and increases his zeal and activity, to be enabled to reach Sweden by Christmas. The houses everywhere are open, and the table is always spread. All is made scrupulously clean, for at this season, every housewife loves to display her order and carefulness. The rich display damask and rich hangings. The poor strew pine branches on the floor, and white curtains newly bleached, deck the windows. You reach the family-hearth. One of the servants takes your horse to the stable, another hangs your valise before the fire to dry it. The mistress of the house, while dinner is being prepared, offers you a glass of brandy, or of beer prepared expressly for Christmas, and called JULAEL. The young women bring you cakes prepared by themselves. Your hands are shaken cordially, presents are made, it matters not whether trifling or rich, they are Christmas remembrances and a pledge of love.

In many of the peasants' houses, all the shoes of the family are, as a sign of this union, placed side by side of each other. In many also before and after meals, a hymn is sung. Then when dinner is over, old men, women and children dance together. Servants and masters mingle together, and even the mendicant is kindly received. On that day the God of mercy descended to save indiscriminately the rich and the poor, and to teach the proud and the humble the brotherhood of the Gospel. At this season of universal sympathy, even the animals are not forgotten, a larger ration of grain and hay is carried to the stable, and barley is strewn on the snow for the birds, who are then unable to glean in the fields, and who, delighted by this unexpected provender, in their cries seem to warble forth a Christmas hymn. In some villages the little tomtegubbar or invisible genii, protecting the household, are yet remembered, and vases of milk are placed on the floor for them. Other superstitions are also joined to this religious festival. Thus in many peasant houses, a straw-bed is made on the floor, and on it the children and servants sleep during the night. On the next day, this bed is taken to the court-yard, or barn, and it is thought to preserve the fowls from birds of prey, and the cattle from disease. This straw is also strewn on the fields around fruit trees, which it is thought to make healthy. At evening, two torches are lit to burn all night; if one of them becomes extinguished or is burned out before day, it is a sign of trouble, that during the course of the year there will be a death in the house. All fancy that in Christmas a revelation of the future is found. To read this prophecy however, it is necessary to rise before dawn, to go fasting and in silence into the wood, without speaking or looking around. If too at sunrise, the church is reached before the crowing of the cock, the coffins of those who will die during the year will be seen, and by turning the head around, it may be learned if the harvest will be good or bad, or whether there will be a conflagration in the village.

While Ebba was describing these usages and superstitions of Sweden, the sleighs passed rapidly along the snow plains, which had been previously leveled by other vehicles. The spire of the church in which the father of Eric for thirty years had officiated as PROST with honor and dignity was seen. About fifty houses were arranged in a circle around the ascent of a hill. There was one among them of comparatively large dimensions, of two stories, and built of stone, a rare thing in Sweden, whose country houses usually have but one story and an attic, and are built of wood. One side of this house adjoined a large and beautiful church, and the other on an inclosure. Two rows of windows in the principal facade looked out on the gulf, and before the principal door was a terrace commanding a most extensive view. At this moment the sun lit up the polished windows, and the plain, covered with an immense sheet of snow, shone brilliantly. The sea with a fringe of ice close to the shore, rolled in the distance its free and azure waves, and the forests which appeared here and there in their somber verdure and mute majesty, the vast and silent space, the little village, the motion of the population of which was already visible, presented to Ireneus a picture which differed so much from all he had seen, that it filled him with wonder and surprise.

"The house," said Ebba, "which I see has attracted your attention, is that of Eric's father, a good and venerable old man, the whole of the life of whom has been an example of prudence and usefulness. He does much good around him, by means of his religious exhortations and agricultural industry. In Sweden, many of the clergy act in this double capacity. The greater portion of the revenue of many livings consists entirely of the revenue of the lands with which they are endowed. If the priest does not take pleasure in rural occupations, he farms out the lands, and quietly receives the rent. They render important services to the districts amid which they live. They are teachers of labor, and often introduce systems of agricultural improvement revealed to them by science or a new machine.

"The father of Eric is one of those farmer priests; for more than twenty years without neglecting any of his sacerdotal duties, he has cultivated a large farm attached to the presbytery. He has given lessons in agriculture to the peasants, and enforced them by success, for no fields are more productive than his own, and no yard has seen fine cattle. How great is his activity!

"How often have his people seen him brave, with a vigor they could not but admire, the summer's heat and winter's ice. At present the infirmities of age render this rude toil impossible. He, however, does not cease to correspond with many agricultural societies, and encourage those who have recourse to his counsels. He is one of those rare men gifted with meditative faculties, and with great practical capacity."

"How pleasant is it." said Ireneus, "to suffer my mind to repose in the asylum you have opened for it. Since my coming hither I have met with none but pure hearts, and have beheld only the mild pictures of a pure and peaceable existence. How different is it from the agitation of all parties in my own land! Yet, however, even amid the calm and repose I here enjoy, how I regret it. I saw it so great and prosperous, and thought its destiny so certain!"

"Console yourself, cousin," said Ebba, "you will see that country again, which it is both a necessity and a duty for you to love. You will see it in that normal condition from which it has by a great crisis been thrown. Moral diseases, like physical ones, sometimes attack men, and God, to punish the errors of a people, to abase its pride, strikes it with one of these mental contagions, yields it up to the effervescence of its bad thoughts, until the people humiliates and corrects itself, bending before the arm of the Avenger in penitence, and returns to the path from which it has wandered."

Ireneus was amazed to hear her speak thus. The timid young girl seemed like a prophetess animated with a mighty inspiration. A flush was on her pale face, and in her glance was the light of enthusiasm.

"You are a noble creature," said Ireneus, taking her by the hand. The hand of Ebba lay motionless and pale in his, her blush passed away, and the dark shadows of her habitual melancholy returned.

Just then the sleigh of M. de Vermondans arrived at its destination. Eric was waiting for them at the threshold, clasped the hand of his father-in-law, and helped Alete out, as Ireneus did as much for Ebba. The servants took care of the foaming horses.

The little party, as soon as they entered the house, could see that the faithful Eric had sought to avoid the reproaches of his betrothed. The entrance of the corridor was so completely washed and dried that one might fancy the joiner had just finished the floor. Through the open kitchen door a large brazier was seen in a glow, and the ringing of plates and dishes was heard. The antechamber was covered with a woolen carpet, and the Christmas pine brought on the day before from the neighboring forest, decked with garland and moss, rose proudly from a large box, as if it knew how proud a part it played in the festival.

As she passed from the antechamber to the drawing-room, Alete paused to look at the arrangement of the table. Seeing a false plait in one of the napkins, she was probably about to give vent to her epigrams. The door of the other room however was opened, and a handsome old man dressed in a long frock appeared. His head was covered with a cap of black velvet, from beneath which his white hair escaped. This was Eric's father, and Alete paid much respect to him.

"Come, my daughter," said the pastor, as with much kind dignity he kissed her forehead. "You too, my friend, and my gentle Ebba (speaking to M. de Vermondans and his other daughter), are welcome. You too, Monsieur," said he, turning to Ireneus, "though I have not before had the honor to see you, I welcome as a friend. You are all welcome to the hearthside of the poor priest, and may the festival of to-day be to us a commemoration of the past, and a happier tie for the future."

The old man took his guests into his own room, in which there was an Inconsiderable library, a few models of utensils for agricultural purposes, testifying to both his taste and his occupation. He sat on a sofa, which debility in his limbs made necessary to him, and placed his guests beside him. Alete, who could not sit quiet long, soon arose and took Eric to the window. While, as was the custom with her, she tested the patient character of her husband that was to be, the old man conversed with Ireneus, who from the very first had been attracted by his venerable and pleasing face.

"From these instruments of labor collected around you, I see," said Ireneus, "that you have contrived a sure method of making your solitude active. Ebba has already told me how usefully you employ your time."

"Usefully," replied M. Guldberg, with sincere modesty. "Alas! let us act usefully as we may, how much weakness is there in our will, and forgetfulness in our best resolutions. If by the grace of God we accomplish any good, what is that in comparison with what we should do. I love toil, but I can make no merit of it. In my youth it was a necessity. The son of a laborer, who earned with his own hands the money which supported me at school, I was compelled, at every risk, to repay him for his paternal tenderness by my success. Gradually labor became a habit, and then a quasi dogma of religion. I thought it my duty, as soon as possible, to release him from the necessity of sacrifice. I feel myself attracted by a brotherly sympathy to all who toil. I look with respect on the sweaty brow and toil-stained hand. God himself prescribed labor to us as a law, and his infinite goodness unites with obedience to it the enjoyment of much happiness. Certainly no person with a heart can repress sympathy at the sight of the poor laborer, who is busy from morning to night to earn his moderate wages, who braves every weather to sow and harvest his crop. This laborer, however, is often happier than the majority of the rich, who, as they pass, look on him with pity. He has done his duty. When his task is done he sits contented at his humble hearth. The sparkling wood, the bread on his table, he has earned himself. He educates his child by his own exertions, and as he seeks his bed, may say he has done his duty. He is ignorant of the troubles which fill the hearts of the opulent. Ceaseless toil to him is a cuirass warding off stormy passions. The door of his soul is shut to dark chimeras, to the mad fancies which people the area of the palace, and on his rude pillow he enjoys a peaceful repose, which the lord of his village often asks for in vain. When I thus praise the efficaciousness of toil, I do not speak only of manual labor. The labor of thought is often most painful, and its fruits infinitely more valuable."

"Take care," said Ireneus, "you touch a sensitive string of my uncle's breast."

"Yes," said the old man, "Eric has told me of your discussions on this subject. I however know my friend M. de Vermondans, and whatever disdain of science he may affect, I believe he would be distressed if he did not know all that he has turned to so good a purpose in life. In attacking in your conversations books and writers, he did not tell you how much he had borrowed from them, and how earnestly he had read them."

"What books?" asked M. de Vermondans; "a few incomplete histories, and some odd volumes of philosophy. One must examine closely the reveries of human pride to be able to judge of them."

"Traitor!" said M. Guldberg, shaking his finger affectionately at his friend, "you not only persist in hypocrisy, but you attack the character of my library. A few incomplete histories! a few odd volumes! Must I then recall to you the admiration with which you looked at my books, and studied all that I had collected? Some incomplete histories! a few odd volumes! Must I recall to you the delight with which you often have studied my collection? Must I defend it against you? Know, that to attack my books is to make war against myself. I passed forty years of my life in collecting them, and to each one is attached some pleasant remembrance. From some I date my student life, and my entry into the priesthood. From some I fix the epoch of my marriage, and the various phases of my existence; some I found in a country cabin, where they were forgotten; some I brought from Stockholm, where I had been to see my bishop and an old friend. All therefore recall to me kind teachers, skillful guides, and are the memorials of different events, which are the great items of my life. Gradually I have collected around me those books which interest me the most. When I am here in my woodland home they are company to me, and the most instructive friends man can meet with. Here I have the philosophers, who aid me in the examination of the mysteries of the soul; the historians, who record the revolutions of nations; the geologists and natural philosophers, who expound to me the organic laws of nature; the poets, who sing the joyous or sad emotions of the heart. Whatever may be my moral disposition, I need only to reach my hand toward one of them to seize on some brilliant intellect, to enlighten, strengthen, and console me."

"How that delights me!" said Ebba, in a low tone.

"Listen," said M. de Vermondans, with emphasis, and with an intonation of grief entirely contradicted by his face, "see, this woman has been bewitched: the poison of your pernicious doctrines has reached the very interior of my house. I fancied I would be able to educate my daughter in the love of good principles, but I have warmed a very serpent at my heart. Luckily, I see my faithful Alete attending only to the positive and who now says that dinner is ready or Christmas-day. Christmas comes but once a year."

The dinner was in truth solemn and splendid, the whole table being loaded with enormous dishes.

"What a luxuriance of richness!" said M. de Vermondans. "Thank God, a love of books does not make us forget material things."

Ireneus said, "This is in truth a banquet, with which, in France, a candidate for the Chamber might win over many electors."

"Luckily," said the old priest, "we have no electors here to lead astray. When, though, we leave the table, my farmer-boys will make merry over what we have not eaten, and with them many poor people who on Christmas are in the habit of coming to the parsonage. You do not to-day dine with me, but with my people. On Christmas, in Sweden, we make presents to each other as in France is done on New-Year's day. This game, these fish, have been brought to me by the huntsmen and fishermen of my people. A peasant gave me a quarter of veal, another gave me cream, a third the butter. Even one woman has brought me an egg or two, saying that they should be boiled only for myself. Before long the house will be filled with a crowd, and many strange stories will be told around the firesides. Whole pitchers of beer will be emptied to the health of the old pastor and his friends."

"They will dance?" asked Alete.

"No, mademoiselle, you will not have that profane amusement. But Nils the schoolmaster has a very fine voice. Olaf the fisherman, and his brother Christian, will be there also, and your cousin will be able to hear some of the popular songs. He never heard anything like them in Paris."

"So be it," said Alete; "one or two rounds with those merry figures would however have been amusing enough. Hark! it seems to me I hear hurras at Nils's arrival. If the two others are come, may I bring him?"

"Do so, my child," said the pastor.

"Yes, go, Alete," said Ebba, gaily.

Alete went out, and came in shortly with three young men, who modestly looked down, and twirled their hats between their fingers.

"Good morning, friends," said the pastor. "Alete has told you I had a favor to ask. I have a friend here who does not know our old Swedish songs, and I rely on you to give him a good idea."

The three young men looked toward Ireneus and then toward each other. Then, being encouraged by signs from Ebba, and having drunken a glass of wine which was offered them, they sang a song which was designated.

They sang, one after the other, the romance of Agnete, who was surprised on the shore and borne beneath the water by the amorous Neck. That of fair Carine, the victim of her virtue, the soul of whom flew to heaven in the shape of a white dove, where it was again transformed into a joyous harp, the sweet sounds of which won the crown of queen. Much to his regret, Ireneus could not understand the sense of these songs, which are, so to say, idyls and charming dramas. He however listened with undefinable emotion to those simple and artless melodies, which, in their expression of grief and joy, were so pure that they seemed to spring from the very heart of the people. He begged Ebba to say to the singers how delighted he was, and they then went to the kitchen to tell how pleased the Parisian had been.

After dinner Alete and Ebba went into the drawing-room, and having carefully shut the door, might have been heard going and coming, and giving orders, while the pastor entertained his guests. Alete seemed very busy. She called the servants—had the position of the furniture changed—sometimes talked loudly, and then whispered. Some mysterious scene occupying the thoughts of Ireneus was taking place there.

Toward evening the mystery was explained. Alete came to take the arm of the pastor in triumph, and he, M. de Vermondans, and Ireneus, went toward the room. Drapery of many colors covered the wall, and bouquets of moss and artificial flowers, candelabras reflected from the mirrors, boughs of trees, all made the light soft as that which penetrates the forest. On a large table was the Christmas tree, full of lights, and adorned with bows of ribbon. The pastor had asked Alete to arrange everything as she chose, and to place in the best possible light the presents intended for his friends. With them Alete and Ebba had placed those they intended to make, and all had been arranged most tastefully. Of the pine branch she had made a tree, miraculously bearing silk dresses, portfolios, slippers, embroidered collars, gold ear-rings, &c. The branches bent beneath the weight.

M. de Vermondans gathered a meerschaum mounted with silver: Ireneus several pieces of silk worked by his cousins, and a wooden cup, very beautifully carved by an Angermanian peasant. Exclamations were made as the different objects were detached from the mystic tree, for Alete had taken care to wrap each article with a double and triple envelope, in order to prolong the expectation of the spectators, and to enjoy their surprise. Afterward the servants came in, and also the farmer's boys, none of whom were forgotten, and who kissed the hands of the old priest. The Christmas tree was stripped of its treasures, and all deserted it, as barren and useless. Alas, for human ingratitude!

The pastor, taking advantage of a moment when none were looking, went to the solitary tree, and took from it a letter with a red seal. Then calling his future daughter-in-law, he said, "Since when, dear Alete, have you become so careless of the good things of this world, or so negligent, as to abandon the Christmas tree, without ascertaining all that hangs from it?"

"I do not know that I can get anything from it, except a few pieces of ribbon and half-burnt lights."

"You think so, do you? Well, look here."

"What?" said Alete; "a letter, with Eric's name on it. This is a surprise for him. What is it? That puzzles me. Look, Eric—one day I shall have a right to open your letters, but now be quick and open this yourself."

Eric unsealed the letter; and scarcely had he read it, then casting himself at the feet of the old priest, he said—"Ah, father, how I thank you! Then turning to Alete, he said—

"It is an appointment by the Bishop of Hernos and of myself as vicar of this parish. We waited only for that to be able to marry. Now there is no obstacle to our happiness. We will live here with my father, near your own family. May God grant that our hearts may not be disunited. May God grant us new pleasures without robbing us of those of the past. Now, when shall we be married—tell me?"

"How you go on!" said Alete. "Must I, because it has seemed fit to our venerable prelate to make you a vicar—(after all it is a sensible appointment)—put on my wedding dress and go to the altar? Do you know I expect a letter from Hernosand or Stockholm! Do you know———"

The artless girl, however, sought in vain to conceal, beneath pretended laughter, her deep emotion. She was unable to finish her sentence. She threw herself in her father's arms, then into the old priest's, and gave her hand with dignity to Eric. She said:

"Whenever you please, dear Eric, though I am much amazed. I trust you will never have occasion to repent having given me your love and honor."

This episcopal letter the pastor had received on the previous evening, and he had been courageous enough to keep the secret until Christmas night, in order to give it more solemnity. It was now the sole subject of conversation, and they talked only of preparations for the marriage, and of the day on which it was to be celebrated. At the instance of Alete he consented to prolong the delay, and the wedding was postponed for a fortnight.

"Confess," said Alete to Ireneus, "that you were fortunate in arriving here in the middle of winter, when you could witness our dark tempests, our Christmas festivals, and be present at a Swedish wedding. You will then have only to behold our delicious summer nights; and then, when you return to France, you will be able to speak more learnedly of Sweden than other travelers, who wrote long volumes about it."

"I owe to this country some of the pleasantest hours of my life. I owe to it a calmness which I cannot any longer find in France. I am indebted to it for good and healthful emotions. I owe to it, exile as I am, a tender asylum, a family; and I shall feel your wedding-day one of the happiest of my life."

On the very next day all the house of M. de Vermondans was occupied with preparations for the approaching marriage. Dressmakers were busy, and cabinet-makers were preparing furniture, platforms, &c., for the wedding-day.

Alete had enough to do to watch over the different works. Smiling and merry as she used to be, a change had come over her, and she seemed already dignified and matronly.

Ebba assisted her with great devotion, and ceased to give Ireneus lessons in Swedish.

M. de Vermondans smoked his pipe with an air of thought, and sometimes of sorrow, for the idea of separation from his daughter weighed heavily on him, much as he desired that she should marry so near him.

For the first time since he had reached his uncle's house, Ireneus was alone. A few days before the merry chat of Alete, the philosophical conversation of the old gentleman, the dreamy poetry of Ebba, and the activity and motion of all the household had diverted the young officer's attention from himself. Now his thoughts involuntarily returned, in consequence of news he had received from his country. His mother, who shared all his secrets, sought to encourage him, and to unfold a new horizon. In spite of this, however, every letter increased his unhappiness. Some of his friends also wrote to him; and this correspondence surprised him painfully. He heard, in this manner, of political defections which he, in his chivalric exaggeration looked on as felony, and at which he was most indignant.

"Villains!" said he, one day, as he read to his uncle a letter which he had just received. "Now, this man owed everything to the kindness of Charles X., yet for the sake of office he has cast himself at the foot of a new master. Here is one who, on the 28th of July, applauded the ordinances, and swore that the hydra of liberalism should he destroyed: and said that he would pour out the last drop of his blood in defense of legitimacy. He is now a partisan of the revolution. We live in a scandalous age. All principles of honor and religion are forgotten. Office has great value, indeed, when honor and conscience are sacrificed to it."

As he spoke thus, Ireneus strode up and down the room, and crushed the letter in his hands.

"My boy," said M. de Vermondans, with his kind philosophy, "your feeling springs from a sentiment which does you honor. Unfortunately, however, it can but injure you without benefiting those for whom you have so much sympathy. To-day is not the first time that man has violated his oath, and made a traffic of obligation; one need only open a history, and read on every page amid some noble actions, countless base intrigues and unworthy cowardice. The Roman senate erected statues to monsters it had dignified with the imperial purple. The middle age, which we are pleased to look on as an epoch of faith and chivalric devotion, is everywhere sullied by acts of felony and the consequences of mad ambition. Civilization, while it corrected the gross errors of rude nations, also restrained their virtues. Love of prosperity, the sensations of luxury, bear to the wall the energetic principles of self-denial. Some individuals, who, by their elevated position, attract attention to themselves; here and there break a link of the moral chain; others imitate them, and by fracture after fracture the whole series of austere ideas is interrupted and dislocated. A few of the faithful may attempt to preserve the remnants, but others look on them with pity, and treat this religious faith as an anachronism. The worship of the great is destroyed, and replaced by that of sensual enjoyments. We do not ask God to give us the heavenly manna. We have made another God from which no prophet can win us. We prostrate ourselves before the calf of gold. This, dear Ireneus, must be a sad prospect for a heart like yours. That all the respect for the past, for religion and misfortune, which exists in your heart, should rise at the prospect of what you have read to me, I can well enough understand. Can you however, repress the wrong which offends you? Can the evils of which you complain be prevented? No, do what you will, there must ever be men, over whom the passion for power will exercise vast influence, and this feeling will always induce them to turn from the sinking to the rising star. Even if you go to the depth of a desert, to the jungles of an Indian archipelago, to the woods at Caffraria, to the desert plains of North America, or to the Cordilleras, you will not escape from the miserable spectacles of human hypocrisy. The Turks have a proverb which says, 'Cure the hand you cannot spare.' Now we can add to this maxim, 'Cure the hand which can serve you, satisfy your pride, avarice and egotism.' Young and happy when you first entered on life, dear Ireneus, you have seen much. A sudden revolution has covered your eyes with a cloud, and unexpected treachery has pierced your heart. Time will show you many others, and if you do not give yourself up to useless misanthropy, the most foolish and idle of all maladies, you will learn to resign yourself to chagrins you cannot avoid. In your time of distress you will draw near to those who do not deceive your esteem. You will, without hatred and anger, be able to look at those whom base calculation or cowardice has led astray, and if you congratulate yourself that you have not followed their example, you will be glad that heaven has endowed you with more firmness and a loftier ambition."

The wisdom of these reasonings touched the heart of Ireneus, but could not subdue it. The ardent young man continued to curse those whom he had seen in the ranks of legitimacy, and who now had linked themselves with the revolution. Often, to avoid the remonstrances of his uncle, or not to annoy him by recrimination, he wandered alone across the desert plains, calling all the deserters of the cause he loved by name, and sometimes he even resolved, like a true knight-errant, to set out and demand an account of their crime. When he returned from these solitary walks, his uncle, thinking that all argument would at such times be useless, said nothing. Ebba however looked at him with eager sympathy.



PART IV.

The marriage of Alete, for a while, however, diverted him from his moody thoughts. The pastor and M. de Vermondans wished the marriage to be contracted according to the custom of the country. Invitations had already been given to many in the neighborhood, to the friends of the pastor and of the two families. At the appointed time, a great number of carriages had collected at the house of M. de Vermondans. Beds had been made in every room. The house was full of guests, the stable of horses, not to remain a few hours, for a wedding in Sweden lasts a whole week. M. de Vermondans, assisted by Eric and Ireneus, did the honors of the house. Ebba dressed her sister, and this alone was not a trifling task, for in Sweden brides are richly decked, and the daughter of the humblest peasant borrows or hires jewels to dress her like a lady.

The toilet, according to the old usage of the country, was at last finished, under the inspection of the matrons of the village. Alete entered the drawing-room in a dress of rose-colored silk, covered with flounces, rosettes, a mass of ribbons, etc., and with a girdle, suspended to which were many ornaments of different devices, all of silver, and which, as she walked, rang like bells. Nothing can be more ungraceful than such a dress, which, however, Alete wore with grace. When she appeared, a cry of admiration escaped from every mouth, and the spectators' eyes turned involuntarily to Eric to congratulate him.

Alete took her father's arm to walk to the church, and the guests followed her. At the head of the procession were musicians, playing the flute and violin; next came about thirty young girls, two by two, in their richest dresses; then the guests and the women and children of the village.

After the ceremony, the young girls stood on each side of the altar; the bridegroom advanced to the altar; then the bride was led thither by her father, who handed her to Eric, and withdrew a few paces, as if he thus transferred to another all his own rights. The old pastor then, with an earnest voice and with tears in his eyes, pronounced the nuptial benediction, and gave his children a touching exhortation. A religious chant terminated the ceremonies, and the couple left the church amid the sound of horns and the firing of guns. On their return home, M. de Vermondans, after an old custom, handed each a glass of beer, which they drank at the same time, as if to show that thenceforth all was common between them.

Dinner was soon served. The newly-married people sat side by side under a canopy, prepared as if to shelter their happiness. At the end of the repast a carpet was spread representing the nuptial bed. The two knelt together, and the company sang a hymn. Then the priest, speaking to the company, invoked every blessing on the couple about to enter a new walk of life, and bespoke the kind wishes of all their friends. He asked every guest to give them some token of sympathy, and no one sought to avoid this invitation. Each one paid tribute: relations gave the married couple a sum of money; their friends gave them furniture, stuffs, and jewels. In similar cases, at peasants houses, corn, wool, etc., utensils of household use, are presented, so that often the house of the newly-married couple is provided for a long time with provisions in this manner. It is however true, that they are dearly purchased by the hospitality they have to extend for a long time to many guests.

From the house of M. de Vermondans the guests went to that of the Pastor, where similar festivals were gone through with. Alete remained there, and M. de Vermondans returned with Ebba and Ireneus. As he placed his foot on the threshold of the door where he had hitherto always been welcomed by his smiling daughter, he was attacked by a sadness which he could not overcome, and went to his room to weep.

Ebba also was sad, for though her character was very different from Alete's, she loved her sister dearly, and was most unhappy at the idea of a separation.

Ireneus sought to console her.

"I thank you," said the young girl, "for your kind expressions. I am not unhappy only on my own account at this separation. My father will never be able to use himself to it. Alete was always happy. Joy left our household with her. I wish I could replace her. Do however what I may, I never shall succeed. You and all who know me, are aware that my nature is of altogether a different character. I am melancholy."

"Gentle, Ebba, gentle," said Ireneus.

"Gentle perhaps, and surely inoffensive, but I repeat melancholy. Why does this sadness continue? Alas, it is the law of God. Do not look at me, I beg you, as on one of those women whom I have seen and of whom I have read, who create imaginary misfortunes for themselves, and deck themselves with ideal suffering and melancholy. I have neither sorrow nor passionate regrets and I do not know the meaning of deception.

"My life has passed without storms, but without noise, like the spring which bubbles from the hill. Father and mother have sought to make me happy, and no untimely event has interrupted the course of my life. Melancholy, however, I was born, and will die. That is all.

"Listen to me," added she, fixing on Ireneus a look impressed with strange grief and affection. "Heaven which denied me a brother seemed to supply its neglect in yourself. The attachment you evince toward me appeals to my heart, and I will make you a confession.

"When I say nothing has troubled my thoughts, I do not say all. There is one impression which to me has been an event, a circumstance, the influence of which I cannot speak of. I wish, however, to ask you, if you believe in presentiments?"

"What a question!" replied Ireneus, "no one ever addressed me thus before, and I do not know what to say."

"You do not"—said Ebba, with as much evidence of surprise, as if she had said you do not believe in the sun or moon. "I do, and I think this matter plain and evident as the existence of God, to whom we are indebted for all our faculties. God endows us with that intuition of secret events, that species of devotion, sometimes as an act of mercy to prepare us for a misfortune which will overtake us, sometimes in mercy to point out to us the consequences of the concealed peril in which we are engaged.

"Even you, who seem not to believe in presentiments, have more than once been seized with an involuntary apprehension. This dread, this sadness, is the antecedent of the tempest. It announces regret, accident, and unforeseen distress. Nay, I think we thus are informed of dangers which menace one we love. I think there is a real link between souls which love each other, a mysterious tie, an invisible union, so powerful however, that how great soever the distance may be, one cannot suffer without the other being unhappy; I will even say, that I think these bonds exist between the living and the dead, that the chilly grave does not crush all love, that the dead are touched by the tears we shed for them, and by the fidelity of our affections to them. I will not in this connection repeat to you stories of apparitions, ghost stories, etc. If you do not believe what I say, you will also doubt all popular anecdotes. There are sentiments which cannot be demonstrated, inductions and revelations which austere reason rejects, and casts amid the empire of dreams, which exert a great influence over the heart. I saw one night my mother standing at the foot of my bed. She died when I was born. She leaned over me and kissed my forehead. Her lips seemed cold as ice, yet her kiss burned me. She looked at me for a moment in silence, and her large blue eyes were filled with tears. She then slowly withdrew, and as she did so, opened her arms to call me to her. Once again, as I opened a door I saw myself, pale as my father used to describe my mother to me, and clad in a long, white robe, which fell about me like a shroud. Old people will tell you there is no more certain sign of death, and I am sure I shall not live long. For that reason I do not attach myself to this world, nor indulge as others do in reveries about the future."

This conviction of Ebba was evidently deeply rooted that Ireneus knew not how reply to it. He, however, sought to represent to Ebba that these impressions should not be taken too seriously to heart, and that at her age, and with her qualities, she should not anticipate a sacrifice of existence, nor give up the joys and hopes of life.

Ebba said nothing. She, however, looked long and moodily at him, clasped his hand and left him.

Ireneus was yet more desolate than he had been during the days preceding Alete's marriage. A letter from one of his friends greatly excited him. This friend informed him that the legitimist party was about to attempt the reconquest of the realm. The Duchess de Berry had left Scotland, for Massa, thence she had opened a correspondence with many provinces. La Vendee and the south opened their arms to her, and crowds of devoted servants had pledged themselves to her.

All announced an approaching conflict, and all seemed to promise success. Will you not, said his enthusiastic correspondent, join in our enterprise, and share in our glory? I have always known you faithful to your principles, and determined to defend them. You will not suffer yourself to be led astray by a repose which is unworthy of you, and slumber in peasant life. Shall I write to you some day as the valliant Beornere did, "go hang yourself, Crellon, for there was a battle at Arques, and you were away?"—No, the color under which you first fought is about to be flung to the wind, and your friends will not expect you in vain.

When he heard this news, when he heard the trumpet call, Ireneus felt all his military ardor revived. Often in the peaceable days he passed in his uncle's house, he reproached himself with a happiness to which he did not think himself entitled. Now he could not absent himself from the arena, in which his friends were about to enter; he could not desert them. In the ardor of his monarchical sentiments he forgot that this enterprise was civil war, in which brothers would be arrayed against each other, and the soil of France steeped in the blood of its own children. He only thought of his oath of allegiance and his banner. His first idea was to go. When, however, he reflected more calmly, he thought it his duty to inform his uncle of his plans, and, under the pretext of hunting, wandered over the fields with his gun on his shoulder, forming his schemes and dreaming of the glory that awaited him.

An accident delayed the execution of his plans, and at the same time gave him an additional excuse for leaving Sweden. M. de Vermondans, who saw him come home every night with an empty game bag, said to him:

"I must, dear Ireneus, recompense you for your useless wanderings; and I will procure you the pleasure of a bear-hunt. There are two young men in the village, who will take you to a good place; and, in case of accident, will assist you with a sure aim. Shall I send for them?"

Ireneus, who was anxious to be actively engaged during the few days he expected to pass in Sweden, accepted the proposition with eagerness. The two huntsmen, having been sent for, said that they knew the lair of an old bear they had hunted during the last winter. It was arranged, that on the next morning, they should come for Ireneus.

Ebba had heard this conversation with evident uneasiness; but had said nothing. When the huntsmen left, she said, with an emotion which was evident in every glance, tone and gesture.

"Cousin, bear-hunting here is a very serious affair, and none but the boldest of the villagers undertake it. When one of these ferocious animals is killed, it is borne home in triumph, and the victory is celebrated with shouts of joy and traditional ceremonies. He who kills one of these old northern forest-kings, drives a brass nail in the stock of his gun. Our peasants have various superstitions about the bear. They will not pronounce his name aloud for fear of offending him, but style him the 'old man' and the 'grandfather.' When they have killed one, they ask forgiveness, and speak kindly to him, and beg him to come with them, where he will he gladly welcomed. All these customs, and many others, which it would be too long to relate, evince the idea of danger attached to the pursuit of the bear. I do not wish to divert you from a plan, the very danger of which, perhaps, pleases you. Be prudent, however, my dear Ireneus, and take care of yourself. I beg you."

These words were uttered with an accent, the tenderness of which the young officer had not previously remarked. He looked at Ebba and saw that she was troubled. A loud laugh, an exclamation of M. de Vermondans, dissipated the vague impression which Ireneus had received. "Pardon," said the old man, "women are strange things. If one yielded to their terrors, the front-door would never be passed, and a gun would be useless. Because our peasants will not call a bear, should a brave young fellow hang up his gun, and never venture to pursue the animal? I trust, Ireneus, that you will refute the dreams of this girl by success, and bring me home tomorrow a fine skin, to make a new hearth-rug of."

Ireneus said, "I have listened to my cousin, but having a sure foot and a quick eye, I shall be rash enough to wait until the bear reaches the muzzle of my gun, or I shall seek him out in his lair."

Before dawn, on the next day, the young officer, being well armed and equipped, took the field with his two companions. A servant had arisen to give him breakfast. Every one else in the house slept. As, however, he was about to leave the house, Ireneus heard a faint noise on the first story. He looked up and saw a window. A white figure advanced to the glass, and then withdrew, as if afraid of being seen. Doubtless this was Ebba. Under other circumstances, Ireneus would have called to bid her adieu. Since the conversation of the evening before, however, Ireneus felt annoyed, when he thought of her, and left without seeming to have seen her.

His guides led him across hills and ravines to a forest some leagues from the village. When they had reached it, there was an eager discussion between them.

Thenceforth they differed about the course to be followed. One wished to go directly forward, and the other insisted that a detour should be made. After a long discussion, they resolved to place Ireneus between them, and advance in three lines, keeping, however, near enough together to be able to unite against the enemy. They made Ireneus understand them by signs, and he assented to their plan. One of them took a bottle of brandy from his pouch, and offered it to the young officer, who, par complaisance, placed it to his lips, and handed it to his companion; he gave it an embrace, and passed it on to the third, from whom it received equal attention. Ireneus, who also had brought some provisions, drank a glass of generous wine to their health.

The three huntsmen then entered the forest. The boughs of the pines were sufficiently far apart not to impede their passage. The ground, however, was covered with underwood, and trunks of trees covered with snow on which his foot slipped every minute. After a short time the peasants slackened their pace, and sought for the tracks of the bear. Ireneus went on, without observing that he was in advance. He soon found that he was far ahead, and halted for them. As he looked round for them, he saw something at the foot of a tree.

It was the bear, and an immense one. His paws were bent under his body, his head was concealed in the snow, and he seemed asleep.

Ireneus rejoiced at this discovery, and recalling what Ebba had said, smiled at the idea of acquiring, in the first attempt, the honor so much desired in the country, of having a brass nail in the stock of his gun.

To make his shot surer, he ascended a little eminence still nearer the animal. He cocked his gun, and advanced carefully. The eminence, however, was formed only of a mass of leaves and twigs, the interstices being concealed by the snow. As he put his foot on it, it gave way, he fell, and his gun was discharged.

Before he could rise the animal was awake, and rushed on him. It placed its two paws on the shoulder, and having him thus in its power, with its eye sparkling with rage, joked at its victim. Unable to move, Ireneus closed his eyes, and commended his soul to the mercy of God.

The claws of the animal had already pierced his flesh, when he heard the report of a gun both on his right and left. Each had reached the animal's head, which fell dead on the meditated victim, covering him with blood, and lacerating Ireneus's breast and chest in its convulsive agony.

At the same moment, with a cry of triumph, the two peasants ran to him. They found him paralyzed by the weight of the animal, and bathed in blood. They lifted him up, rubbed his temples with brandy, and holding him by the belt, made him take a step or two, to see if he could walk. He could do so.

It was necessary to take him out of the forest, where no assistance could be had. With great care, and frequent pauses, they at last reached the open country. There the strength of Ireneus completely gave way, his wounds bleeding, and his limbs failing him. One of his companions took off his vest, laid it on the ground, and assisted Ireneus to stretch himself on it, with touching kindness of heart and solicitude. The other ran toward the high-road, and seeing a car loaded with hay, induced the driver by tears, threats and promises to come to Ireneus's aid. They placed him in it, and thus went to the village.

When there, one of the hunters sent for his wife, and said:

"Go, fast as you can, to M. de Vermondans, and say that his nephew is ll, but in no danger, and hurry back to prepare the table. We have made a famous hunt. To-morrow we will have the bear-feast."

The old gentleman, when he heard the news, hurried to his nephew. Then Looking into the huntsman's face, he passed his hand over Ireneus's body.

"Nothing serious, that is good."

Soon after came Ebba, pale and trembling, who, when she saw her cousin's blood, fell half dead in her father's arms.

The physician said that the wounds of the young officer were trifling. He, however, enjoined a few days of rest and repose.

Immediately, on hearing of the accident, Eric and Alete hurried to see Ireneus, evincing the tenderest sympathy for him. M. de Vermondans, by his assiduous care, proved how he loved his nephew. He also gave the two preservers a munificent reward.

Ebba seemed completely crushed. Her sister found her seated in a chair, with her eye fixed, her lips motionless, and her face pale. Completely wrapped in thought, the young girl did not rouse, except at the sound of Ireneus's name, and when she heard the various reports of the physician. Often, during the day, she went to the invalid's chamber, passing timidly up the steps, and placing her ear to the door. She would then to her father, and sink again into her morbid sadness.

One night, when the nurse who sat with him had seen him sink to sleep and retired, the young officer awoke under the impression that a delicate hand was passed lightly over his forehead. He opened his eyes, and saw the shadow of a woman flit behind the curtains. It was Ebba, who, unable even to sleep at night, had furtively come, when she thought no one would be aware of it, to be certain that his medicine was prepared, and to look into his position.

Through the care of the physician and the affectionate friends who surrounded him, Ireneus regained his strength.

The day he returned to the table was a very festival. M. de Vermondans had invited his daughter, son-in-law, the doctor, and the two huntsmen to dine with him. The latter brought the skin of the bear they had killed, and which they wished to present to their less fortunate companion.

They then told gaily all the incidents of that memorable day; and when, during the course of conversation, they heard how lightly Ireneus had considered the bear-hunt, one of them said:

"Ah, I am not surprised at what has happened. One should not trifle with a bear. He is cunning and proud, and understands everything said of him. If he is not treated with respect, he takes a cruel revenge. I would not be surprised if, having heard what Monsieur said, he laid at the foot of the tree expressly to teach him a lesson."

Ireneus, to whom Ebba translated this, laughed at the superstition. The huntsmen, seeing him laugh, shook their heads, as if to say, "There is an imprudent fellow, who will not profit by experience."

As he regained strength, Ireneus again felt the necessity of action. The last letters he received informed him that the legitimist movement had become more serious, the Duchess de Berry preparing to leave Massa. He also heard that she had gone successively to the south, and had unfurled the white flag in La Vendee. Ireneus resolved to go. When he saw the conduct of Ebba, her deep distress when he was sick and the joy which had burst forth when he recovered, he could not conceal from himself that she entertained sentiments toward him which he did not reciprocate. He loved the young girl, and experienced much pleasure from the contemplation of her delicate grace and melancholy beauty. He loved the sound of her melodious voice. More than once since the discovery he had made, he asked himself if he should not look on what had happened as a signal interposition of Heaven in his favor. A quiet life, a comfortable home, the love of friends and of a pretty woman, certainly deserved some thanks. He however was soon hurried from this idyllic existence by the ardor of his youth, and the prospect of an adventurous career. To some men a peaceable life does not seem existence. They are like certain birds, which show themselves only in the tempest.

Ireneus was of this character. When he carefully scrutinized his heart, he saw that but a portion of it could belong to Ebba: that with her he would constantly be persecuted by repinings at fate, and would long for the excitement of battle and camp. Should he then accept a pure heart from the young girl? Should he deceive her? Honor required him to leave her.

M. de Vermondans was painfully surprised when he heard of this determination. He had grown to look on Ireneus as a son, and perhaps, in the fondness of his heart, had made a happy dream for the future career of Ebba and himself. He attempted to persuade him to lay aside the plan, but in vain.

"Take care, dear Ireneus, that you do not become dazzled by the prestige of a sentiment, generous and noble it is true, but which may result in misfortune to yourself, without benefiting others. How many men thus neglect their advantages, and attribute the blame to Providence, which places happiness within their grasp, but which they do not see, so dazzled are they by some imaginary attraction. If this attraction fades away, they tell how they looked behind; they regret what they have lost when it is too late. Fortune has granted what they wished but neglected to others."

"But duty, uncle! duty!"

"God forbid that I cease to respect that word. Suffer me only to observe, that in the ardor of youth one easily mistakes that obligation. There are circumstances in which duty appears so clearly and distinctly, and speaks so loudly, that it must be obeyed at all risks. Our force must be devoted to it—our soul, our life. Ordinarily, however, we are forced to decide between conflicting duties, and the one which seems the best is ordinarily the least praiseworthy. The man who devotes himself to daily toil has family affections, and diffuses good around him. Does not he discharge his duty? Does not he occupy an honorable place in the social system? Does virtue exist only in extraordinary actions? Is there no crown to be gathered except in adventurous enterprises or in the battle field? And is not he a good citizen, who toils usefully, and properly educates his children?"

Ireneus did justice to his uncle's arguments, and was moved by the touching kindness he evinced. His mind was however made up, and nothing could divert him.

Alete, her husband, and the old pastor, sought to retain him. When Ebba heard he was about to leave, she said nothing: her head sunk on her bosom, and tears stole into her eyelids.

Ireneus left not without effort and distress. At sunset the rays of the sun have singular beauty, and life is never so attractive as to the dying man. Just at the moment of separation a strange reaction also takes place. In an instant we see a kind of dazzling light, unfolding to us what we love and what we abandon. We regret in anticipation what we are about to leave. The door is not yet passed, the farewell is not spoken. We pause and hesitate. We may return, and joyfully cast ourselves into arms still open to us. This is the last contest of the heart, perhaps the last remonstrance of a good genius. Passion however conquers, and the bark is launched upon a sea without a port, beneath a sky without a star. May God guide it!

Thus Ireneus departed, deserting domestic peace, leaving a family in distress, and crushing a young heart. He was himself unhappy, but was sustained by the idea that he hearkened to the voice of honor, and that the sacrifice was noble in proportion as it was painful.

It was the beginning of summer. The earth had become green, and the woods Were filled with the sound of birds. A pure sky, silvery lakes, all the varied beauty of the north, seemed revived as if by magic at the first breath of spring. Had anything been able to retain him, nature would.

Thanks to the clearness of the nights which permitted him to travel, he soon reached Stockholm, where he embarked on the Lubeck steamer, went to see his mother, and hurried to La Vendee, where he joined the flag he had come so far to stand beneath.

During his voyage, he wrote more than once to his uncle. Three weeks, however, rolled by and they received no news. M. de Vermondans complained of his silence—Alete sought to excuse him. Ebba suffered in silence. After the departure of her cousin, the delicate young girl had sunken into a state of sadness which daily assumed a more dangerous character. She loved to sit alone, looking toward the south, as if there lay her last hope. She sometimes tried to read, but from her very look it was plain that her mind was unoccupied. If she saw her father, she sought to smile and appear gay to soothe him; as soon, however, as he left, she became prostrate again. Her cheeks grew thin and flushed, she was ill, and the physicians were sent for—one said she had a slow fever, another that she was consumptive. Ebba carefully followed their advice, and did all that her father and sister recommended. When alone, she shook her head as if she thought all remedies in vain.