Sweden once more! All seemed unchanged after thirty years, save the emigrant and whatever specially concerned him. The familiar homes far back from the road, he remembered them well. His own home, he knew, had been ravaged by fire, and scarcely a vestige of it remained. His parents were no more. He could not, if he had wished it, shed penitent tears over their graves; for their bones were mouldering in a far-away ancestral vault, with no kindly grass to mantle them, and no glad wild flowers to whisper of a coming resurrection. The possessions that should have been his had been willed away to strangers. The once well-known family name was now rarely heard in the neighbourhood, and then only sorrowfully whispered as connected with the sad and almost forgotten past.

It was Sunday morning. The church bell had rung out its peals the appointed number of times, and now all was silent, for the rustic worshippers were gathered within the sacred walls.

The congregation were all seated, and the Confession was being repeated, when a tall, slender man, with peculiarly broad shoulders and a peculiarly small waist, came with an ungainly gait up the aisle, holding in his hand a limp felt hat as if it were glued fast to his long, thin fingers.

He stopped a moment, as if mechanically, before a full pew, and then stood doubtfully in the aisle.

A little chubby girl perched just behind him had not been too devout to observe the proceedings of the stranger. She unhooked the door of the seat in which she was established alone with her mother. The slight click attracted, as she had hoped, the attention of the new worshipper. She whispered to her bowed mother, "He has no place to sit; may I let him in to us?" The head was slightly nodded in reply; the door was gently pushed open; and the stranger sat down in the offered place. His dark face was thin, and wrinkled too much apparently for his years. His thick black hair and beard were irregularly streaked in locks with white, rather than grey with the usual even sprinkling brought about by age alone; and his forehead threatened to stretch backward far beyond the usual frontal bounds. He apparently took no part in the service. His eyes seemed looking far away from priest and altar, and his ears were dead to the words that fell upon them.

Above the chancel there had been a painting representing the Lord's Supper, not copied even second or third hand from Leonardo's masterpiece, but from the work of some far more humble artist. The cracks that had crept across the cloth of the holy table and scarred the faces of the disciples were no longer to be seen. The disciples, whose identity had so occupied the minds of the little church-goers and been the subject of week-day discussions, were now hidden with the whole scene from the eyes of all beholders. A red curtain veiled the long-valued painting in its disfigured old age. Against this glowing background was suspended a huge golden cross of the simplest construction. It was, in fact, the work of the carpenter of the neighbourhood, and was gilded by the hand of the pastor's wife, who had solemnly thought to herself as she wielded the brush, "We must look to the cross before we may draw near to the holy supper."

Some idea like this flitted through the mind of the stranger, though he did not appear like a devout worshipper. His whole bearing gave quite another impression. Even when, during prayers later on, he held up his hat before his face, as is supposed to be a devout attitude in some Christian lands, the little girl fancied she could see him peeping here and there round the church, as if he were taking an inventory of its specialties. It was but a simple country church, with square pillars of masonry supporting the galleries, from whence light wooden columns rose to the vaulted roof. Indeed, in the old-fashioned building the rural seemed to have been the only style of architecture attempted. The whole interior had been thoroughly whitewashed, however it had fared with the hearts of the worshippers.

During the sermon the stranger was evidently lost in his own meditations. As soon as the service was over, he followed the clergyman down the aisle to the sacristy, on one side of the main door.

The reverend gentleman was in the midst of disrobing, when the dark-faced man hastily entered and said abruptly, "Will you kindly look over this paper, which must be my only credential with you? I belong to this parish, and should be glad to have the privileges of membership when broken down and needing a home."

The pastor glanced at the paper. It was a simple certificate, from a well-known dignitary high in authority in the land, requesting that the bearer, without being subject to further investigation, should have his right acknowledged as a member of the parish to which he now made application. The pastor could treat him accordingly, only showing the paper in case any difficulty arising from this arrangement should make such publicity necessary.

The paper was properly signed, witnessed, and sealed. The pastor put it in his pocket, looked wonderingly at the applicant, and said, "The poorhouse is but a mean place, with accommodation for a few persons, and the present occupants are of the humblest sort. There are now living there an old woman, formerly a servant in respectable families, who has a room to herself; a half-mad fellow, who will not speak when spoken to unless he can hit on some way of answering in rhyme. He, of course, has a room to himself. There is, besides, a large room with sleeping-places for two persons. One of these places is occupied by an old man who has been a hard drinker; you would have to share the room with him. Would you be contented with that arrangement?"

"Contented and grateful," said the stranger. His name was given as "A. Johanson," and was so registered in the pastor's note-book. Particular directions were then kindly lavished on the stranger as to how he was to reach his future home.

A peculiar smile stole over the face of the listener. He took politely the permit which ensured his admittance at the last refuge of the unfortunate, and then, with a bow and a slight waving of the limp hat, he disappeared.



CHAPTER III.

IN THE POORHOUSE.

The poorhouse was not an imposing structure, but it could boast of antiquity, as it had been built long, long ago for the purpose for which it was now used.

It was not difficult for Johanson to locate the poorhouse poet. His room, like the other two, opened directly on the vestibule. On his own door he had been allowed to paint his name and publish his chosen occupation:—

"I take my bag, My legs my nag, And never fail To fetch the mail."

So ran the poor rhymes, yet the mad poet had not given himself his full meed of praise. No storm was too wild, no cold too severe, no snow too deep for the faithful mail-carrier to make his rounds. Rather than give up the leathern bag entrusted to him to teasing country boys or desperate highwayman, he would have died in its defence.

The principle of growth had exerted its power eccentrically with the poorhouse poet. His legs and neck were elongated out of all proportion to the rest of his body. His small, pale face was raised unnaturally high in the air, as if he had suffered decapitation and his head had been posted as an assurance that offended law had been avenged. Unconscious of his own peculiarities, the persistent rhymer went about pleased with himself and all the world. Now he was particularly happy, for he considered himself a kind of presiding officer at the poorhouse, and as such the proper person to show the premises to curious strangers, or to formally install new inmates. On the entrance of Johanson with the pastor's permit, the poet immediately took the odd-looking pauper in hand, to make him at home in the establishment.

He knocked at the small room opposite the main entrance, and a shrill voice having shouted, "Come in!" the visitors opened the door.

"I bring a new-comer, Our guest for the summer! He's Johanson, he; Gull Hansdotter, she."

So presented, Johanson bowed to the little old woman, who stood up beside the chair in which she had been sitting, and deigned to bend her knees for a courtesy just sufficiently to bring her short skirts possibly one inch nearer the floor. Her stiff demeanour, however, changed suddenly as she darted to a corner and produced a bit of rag carpet, on which she requested the visitors to stand, as her room had been freshly scoured for Sunday.

"Scour Sunday, Scour Monday, Scour every day, That's her way,"

said the poet, retiring precipitately with his companion. The poet had described the absorbing pursuit of his fellow-lodger. Chairs, table, and floor in that little room were subject to such rasping purifications, that if there had ever been paint on any of them, it was a thing of the far past, while an ashy whiteness and a general smell of dampness were the abiding peculiarities of the apartment. The eyes of the owner had become possessed of a microscopic power of discovering the minutest speck that might have been envied by any scientific observer of insect life.

The poet next threw open the door of the room opposite his own, as he said to his companion,—

"Here is your place— No want of space; According to diet, Not always so quiet."

These were the quarters Johanson was to share with the broad-chested man in a big chair, who sat with a stout stick beside him, as if ready at any moment to meet the attack of a roving marauder.

"This is our cellar-master, Who lived faster and faster, Till here with us he had to be.— It's Johanson who comes with me; He'll share your room, at least to-night, And longer if you treat him right."

There was only an inhospitable grunt from the gouty, red-faced man whose biography had been more justly than politely abridged for the new-comer.

Johanson had no luggage to deposit. He thanked his conductor for the trouble he had taken, and then seated himself on a wooden chair on his side of the room, and had evidently no further need of his guide, who promptly disappeared.

Johanson seemed gazing out of the window, but was really seeing nothing, while quite lost in his own thoughts, and altogether forgetful of his companion.

There was a pounding on the floor, followed by a rumbling sound, as of some one preparing to speak, and then the other occupant of the room said roughly: "Here, you! Do you see that crack across the middle of the floor, with three big, dark knots in the middle on each side of it? That's my landmark. You come over it, and there'll be mischief!"

"I shall take great pleasure in attending to your wishes. It is not likely that I shall visit you often," said Johanson, rising and bowing with much politeness, and then promptly resuming his seat.

The next step of the new lodger was to take a small, carefully-covered book from his pocket. The gilt edges, dulled by time, were, however, observed by the watchful spectator, a prisoner in his chair. The fine print and the divided verses were evident to his keen eyes, that twinkled in their red frames with an uncanny light. "No hypocrisy here! it don't take. Put up that book, or I'll throw my friend here at you. I never miss, so look out!" He touched the club-like stick beside him.

Johanson quickly put his hand in his breast-pocket and took out a small revolver. "Here is my friend," he said. "I never miss with this in my hand!" He spoke coolly, but his eyes were fearless and determined. "You let me alone, and I'll let you alone. I want to live peaceably. I shall do what I please on my side of the room, and I want no meddling from you."

The cellar-master understood at once that he had here a person not to be trifled with, and from that day there was no difficulty between them.

The revolver may or may not have been loaded, but the sight of it had been enough for the cellar-master, as for many a "rough" before.

As to the little woman who had given Johanson so ungracious a reception on his first appearance in her room, he had evidently taken an aversion to her society. When she came into his duplicated quarters, he was always looking out into the street, or so occupied that she had a better view of his back than of his face. He never named her, nor was she ever mentioned in the establishment by her lawful cognomen, but was always spoken of as "she," representing alone, as she did, her own sex in the poorhouse.

It seemed to her a wonder that with all her claims to respectability she had ever found her way to her present home. The walls of her room were decorated with silhouettes of this or that grand personage in whose service she had enjoyed the honour of being in days of yore. Such mementoes failing her, there were coveted seals to letters, or paper headings cut out and duly pointed at the edges, to shine forth from red backgrounds. A daguerreotype of herself, in all the buxom freshness of youth and the "bravery" of a gaily-adorned peasant costume, was always to be seen standing on her bureau half open, like the book of an absent-minded scholar disturbed in his researches. Her pretensions imposed not a little upon the cellar-master, who treated her with a certain respect; but the poet was unmindful of her social claims, and perhaps took a pleasure in showing his independence of her rule. Rule it was, for she condescended to cook for "those poor men folks," as she called them.

Not that her cooking was ever of an elaborate order—coffee and porridge being the only dainties on which she was permitted to display her full powers. Warming up and making over other dishes kindly sent in by benevolent neighbours she did to perfection, and showed in this matter an ingenuity most remarkable. When, however, she took in the meals she had prepared for the various recipients, it was with a studied ungraciousness, abated only for the cellar-master, who, as she said, had a respectable title of his own, and was suitable company for her.

Johanson, who had come to his present abode empty-handed, provided himself by degrees with needful articles of clothing of the simplest sort, as well as necessities for the toilet and the writing-table. The pen was much in his hand. It was used occasionally for a letter to the nearest large city, and such a missive was generally followed by a parcel, which was stowed away at once in the capacious chest appointed for his use.

The cellar-master was sure that it was on sheets ruled like music-paper that Johanson was almost constantly writing, though they were locked up in his chest almost before they were fairly dry. He did not seem to be a reader, but the objectionable little book with the gilt edges came out at a regular hour each day, and for five minutes at least had his full attention, without offensive interruption.

On the whole, the poorhouse had become for Johanson a peaceful and in a measure a comfortable home.



CHAPTER IV.

PREPARING FOR CONFIRMATION.

With the autumn began for the pastor the most pleasing duty of the year—the instruction of his class for confirmation. He announced in church one Sunday that after the service he would be in the sacristy to take the names of any of the young people who wished to join the proposed class. He was sitting in the sacristy at the appointed time, with a group of young rustics standing about him, when Johanson came quietly in.

"I can attend to you first," said the pastor, turning kindly towards the dark-bearded man.

"I can wait; I am in no hurry," was the reply.

The waiting was long, as had been expected. When the boys and girls had all gone out, Johanson stepped to the pastor's side and said, "Please put down my name."

"For what?" asked the pastor, in astonishment.

"For the confirmation class," was the calm reply. "I have never been confirmed."

The pastor had noticed, naturally, that Johanson had not been forward to the Lord's Supper even when the cellar-master had been helped up the aisle from the poorhouse seat near the door, and Gull and the half-mad poet had decorously followed. At this he had hardly been surprised, for there were other members of the congregation who did not communicate more than once a year. The good man felt a sudden repulsion towards the stranger still without the Christian pale.

"You wish then to be confirmed?" said the pastor, looking Johanson directly in the eye.

"I wish to receive the instruction, and it will be your duty to judge of my fitness afterwards," was the reply.

"Perhaps I could find time to teach you privately, though it is a busy season, with all the certificates of removal and that kind of thing," said the pastor doubtfully.

"I would rather be taught as you teach these young people," said Johanson. "Please try to forget that I am not a boy."

That was a hard duty to impose on the pastor, who looked into the browned face and the troubled dark eyes. He did not promise, but simply said, "The class, as you heard, will meet in the dining-room at the parsonage on Wednesday afternoon. I hope the instructions may be blessed to you," and they parted.

Wednesday came. The available chairs in the pastor's simple home had been ranged in long rows on each side of the dining-room.

"May I sit here, dear, with my work?" said the pastor's wife, coming in with a basket of stockings in one hand, her needle and yarn for darning in the other.

She did not expect to be refused, nor was she, though a little girl of five years old, her only child, held pertinaciously on to her dress. "I may come too, papa; I am sure I may," said a sweet, cheery voice, and only a pleasant smile was the reply. The mother sat down in one of the chairs still at the table, and the little girl took joyously a place at her side.

"I always like to hear your confirmation instructions, for many reasons," said the wife. "I seem to take a fresh start in the right direction with the children."

The pastor seated himself at the head of the table, with his books before him, laying near them the list of the names of the class.

The pastor was a stout, sensible-looking man, with a plain, quiet face, and a modest, shy air. Indeed, he was hardly at ease anywhere, except in his home, or in the pulpit or chancel, where the sense of the sacredness of his official duties made him unmindful of earthly witnesses.

Now he thought it a stay to have his wife with him; for the informal nature of the meeting, and the beginning of something new, made the whole at first an effort for him.

Perhaps the pastor, in the presence of persons of high standing, found it impossible to forget his humble birth, and suspected that in some way there was always a lack of gentility about him; while with companions of more modest pretensions he must maintain the distant dignity which he fancied appertained to his profession.

He was a straightforward, matter-of-fact man, who intended in all things, temporal and spiritual, to do his duty. He believed fully in the inspiration of the Bible from cover to cover, and was possibly convinced that every word, and almost every letter, in the then authorized Swedish version had a sanction not to be disputed. In his view the sacraments, properly administered, were direct, undoubted channels of grace. The organization of his church was perfect, he was sure, to the least particular, and would have the approval of the apostles were they now on earth, though during their lives the circumstances of their surroundings might have made it impossible for them to have their ministrations conducted according to the admirable order so long established in Sweden. Martin Luther he looked upon as having a kind of supplemental apostleship, almost as incontestable as that of Peter himself. Luther's catechism was for him the best medium for imparting religious instruction to children, and for strengthening the Christian life of young people approaching maturity. With this sound, hearty belief in what he was called on to teach, and with the rules for his ministrations, his work was simple and most agreeable.

The pastor was not an emotional man. He had never been deeply stirred by religious feelings of any kind. He had had no agonies of penitence, no distressing doubts, no strong struggles with temper, no vivid thought of the possibility of his being excluded from eternal blessedness. His heavenly Father was to him rather a theological abstraction than a near and ever-loving friend. The Saviour was to him more an element in a perfect creed than the Deliverer—the hand stretched out to the drowning man—the one hope of poor tempted humanity.

The pastor was, in his way, a good man, a kind man, an unselfish, true, sincere man. Peaceful he lived, peaceful he ministered, and yet heart to heart he came with no human brother. With no human brother, we say; but there was one woman whose life interpenetrated his, if they did not in all things come heart to heart. Her presence gave him a sense of sunshine and quiet happiness that was the greatest joy of which his nature was capable.

Merry, impulsive, devoted, self-sacrificing by nature, the whole existence of the pastor's wife was pervaded by a Christian life that exalted her naturally lovely traits, and made her shortcomings the source of a sweet, childlike penitence that was almost as lovely and attractive as her virtues. She had soon found that the deep language of her inner soul was to her husband an unknown tongue. Of her spiritual struggles and joys and exaltations she did not speak to him or to any other human being. They were her secret with her God and Saviour. Yet her husband stood to her on a pinnacle, as rounded in character, blameless in life, and perfect in his ministrations. Almost angelic he seemed to her when he stood in the chancel, and in his deep, melodious voice sang all the parts of the service that the church rules allowed to be so given.

The pastor's sermons were excellent compositions. Compositions they were in the strictest sense of the word. The epistles and gospels for the ecclesiastical year were the authorized and usual subjects for the sermons, being called even in common parlance "the text for the day." These texts had been so elaborated and expounded by wise divines whose works were to be had in print, that when a sermon was to be written, our pastor but got out his books of sermons, studied, compared, compiled, extracted, transformed, and rewrote, until on Friday his sermon for the coming Sunday was always ready. He had made it his own by hard, conscientious work, and not without a deep sense that he was, in his way, to deliver a divine message as an authorized ambassador of the King of kings, accredited and appointed in an unimpeachable manner.

With his confirmation class the pastor was different. He was fond of young people. He had been young himself, and had not forgotten the circumstance.

He was getting a little impatient to see the fresh faces he was expecting at the first meeting of the class, when Johanson made his appearance, bowed distantly, and took the seat nearest the door. He had passed through a knot of young people without, who were, with some cuffing and shoving, contending who should go in first on this to them august occasion. Johanson had left the door slightly ajar, and little Elsa, the pastor's child, having caught a glimpse of a familiar face, ran out, to come back immediately leading triumphantly a rosy-cheeked girl, who was all blushes as she was brought into the dining-room, made to her for the time sacred ground. Of course, the whole troop from without, boys and girls, followed, taking opposite sides of the room.

It proved that Johanson had taken his seat on the girls' side, and carefully away from him the skirts of those nearest to him were drawn; for it had been whispered around the parish that the queer man at the poorhouse had never been confirmed. An outcast of the outcasts he must be, was the common conviction.

A hymn was to be sung, all sitting, to open the meeting. Little Elsa went round with the "psalm-books" in a basket, and began with Johanson, who took one as he was requested. The pastor began, and the young voices joined him. There was a hush for a second, when a wonderful tenor came in, and seemed to fill the room with a strange melody.

But one verse was sung; then followed a short prayer from the church liturgy, after which the lesson began.

Johanson sat alone in his corner, when Elsa tripped away from her mother, and giving a gleeful little hop, she seated herself beside him, laid her small hand lightly on his knee, and looked up at him lovingly and protectingly as she did so. Now she felt she really owned him. He was her poor man, a kind of friend and relation to her.

Through all those long preparatory lessons Elsa kept her place by the side of the dark man, without word or comment from her parents.

The time for the confirmation was drawing near. "I do not know what I shall do about Johanson," said the pastor to his wife. "I get nothing from him in the class except plain, direct, and most correct answers to my questions. I suppose it must be all right, but we don't seem to come near to each other at all. He is a wild, strange man. Perhaps you could somehow get on better with him."

"Maybe Elsa could," said the wife. "She loves him. Perhaps that is what he feels the need of among us who call ourselves Christians."

"Call ourselves Christians!" repeated the pastor, in as severe a tone of reproach as he had ever addressed to his wife.

She did not seem to notice his manner, but went on: "Elsa might reach him. You know it says, 'A little child shall lead them.' I'll send her to the poorhouse this afternoon with a message to Johanson from me, and the book she likes so much. I know which is her favourite picture, and she will be sure to tell him about it."

"Send her to the poorhouse!" exclaimed the pastor.

"She's been there often with me when I've been there to wind up Gull's clock, which she is sure to get out of order if Gull touches it herself. Elsa is not afraid of any of them, even of the cellar-master. He really likes her."

The pastor was called away suddenly, and he was glad, for that was one of the occasions when he did not quite understand his wife.



CHAPTER V.

LED TO THE LIGHT.

Little Elsa's errand to Johanson was to take to him a small pocket "psalm-book" (as the Swedish book for the services and hymns is called). It was well known in the poorhouse and parish that the stranger pauper had a Bible, and read it too, at least for five minutes every day. Gull, who had a strong taste for gossip, had not left that particular unmentioned.

Elsa came in with two little packages in her hand. "Here's your book mamma sent you," she said. "She has put your name in it. I want to show you my book too."

Johanson put his gift in his pocket hastily, with a short expression of thanks, and then looked expectantly at the child.

"May I sit close to you, so we can both look over it together?" she said, as she pushed a chair to his side and worked herself up on to it.

The illustrations were generally from Old Testament scenes; but Elsa hurried past these, turning the pages briskly with her skilful fingers.

"Here it is! Here's the one I like best. You understand it, don't you? It means something," and she looked up questioningly into his face.

The picture was a most admirable representation of the Good Shepherd bearing a lost lamb home on His shoulders.

Johanson was silent.

"You don't know about it, then? I will tell you," she said, and went on, while her tiny finger was impressively pointing from lamb to shepherd, and from shepherd to lamb.

"That little lamb got far away from the shepherd and the fold and all the little lambs he knew. And he was dirty, not a bit clean, and his wool was all torn by the briers, and the thorns had hurt him, and he was hungry and thirsty and tired, and did not know where to go. He could hear the wolves growl, and he thought he could see their eyes looking at him as if they wanted to eat him up. You see he had run away, just gone away from the Good Shepherd and his mother and his home, when he did not need to. And now he wanted to get back, but he didn't know how; and then he began to complain and to bleat (that's his way of crying), and to run this way and that, but he didn't get on at all.

"At last he was quite tired out, and he thought he must give up and lie down and die where he was. Then the Good Shepherd heard his cry and came to him. The poor little lamb wanted to follow the Shepherd; but he was too weak—he could hardly stand alone. And then"—and here the little voice grew triumphantly glad—"then the Good Shepherd took him in His own arms, just as sweet and kind as if the naughty lamb had never run away, and carried him over the stones, and past the briers, and across the little streams, and up the steep hills, and through the dark places! He carried him all the way home, not just half-way and then let him drop. He carried him all the way home to the fold, where his mother was, and there he was safe—safe—safe! Wasn't that a Good Shepherd?"

There was no answer.

"My mother told me all about it, and I like that picture best and that story best. You understand what it means?"

"Yes," said Johanson. There were tears in his eyes.

Elsa lifted up her loving hand to Johanson's face as it was bent over the book, and with her own little handkerchief wiped his tears; then she went out silently, which was probably the best thing she could have done under the circumstances.

The next day Johanson went to the pastor in his study. "I have not come to talk about my fitness for confirmation," he said. "Little Elsa has taught me better. I have turned my face towards the Good Shepherd, and I believe He will carry me home. May I meet with the class to-morrow?"

"Certainly," said the pastor, and the interview was ended.

Johanson sat among the candidates for confirmation the next day—among the boys and girls, like a battered old ship that had been dragged into the harbour beside the trim fresh vessels just starting with flying colours for a bright far-away land.

He did not mind the nudges and half-smiles among the rustic congregation, but answered the questions put to him with the others, in his strong man's voice, as simply and naturally as a child.

He knew he was safe in the hands of the Good Shepherd, who would carry him tenderly home, and his heart was full of humble joy.

The administration of the holy communion took place next day. The newly-confirmed with their friends were to "go forward," while the rest of the congregation were to remain in their seats praying for the young soldiers of Christ, now fully enlisted under His banner.

Johanson had taken a modest place at the chancel railing; but even there he was an outcast, for it was plain that no one was willing to kneel beside him.

The pastor's wife was bowed low with new food for prayer and thanksgiving. Little Elsa moved quickly from her mother's side up the aisle, and to the astonishment and almost horror of the congregation she knelt by Johanson, her little head not appearing above the railing; but she held fast to his left hand. He felt the tender familiar grasp, and it was to him like the Good Shepherd greeting him through one of His little ones.

At the close of the service, when all the authorized words for the occasion had been read, the pastor stepped to the front of the chancel, and said, in loud, clear tones,—

"And the father saw him afar off, and ran and fell on his neck, and kissed him." "Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out." "A broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise." "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

"I hope it was not amiss to say those words I did from the chancel to-day," said the pastor to his wife when at home and they were alone together. "They are not in the service, but I could not help it. I never felt so deeply before how freely and fully God forgives us—us Christians as well as what we call 'poor sinners.' Yes, it came over me as it never has before, and somehow heaven seems nearer, and God more really my Father and Christ my Saviour. Do you understand me, my dear?"

"Yes, yes," she said—"yes, dear; and you too seem nearer to me than ever before."

The pastor answered, tenderly and solemnly: "It is you, wife, you and Elsa, and that poor Johanson, who have somehow opened my eyes. I have seen before, but seen darkly. May God lead me to the perfect day!"



CHAPTER VI.

PAINFUL DISCLOSURES.

Something about the strange inmate had affected the mad poet, long a dweller in the poorhouse, as unusual in that establishment. These fancies he had versified, and having written the result down on a half-sheet of paper, he folded it into a narrow strip, and then twisted it into an almost impossible knot, and handed it to the person nearest concerned.

Johanson read with astonishment:—

"It striketh me That you should be A gentleman, And drive a span, Live high, drink wine, Ask folks to dine, And make a dash. With poorhouse trash You should not be— With folks like me."

In return, the reply was promptly put under the poor poet's door:—

"Of who I am, or where belong, Please do not whisper in your song."

These communications were followed by a few days of unusual silence between the neighbours. The mad poet did not like being answered in rhyme. Of versification he considered himself the inventor, and as having therefore an exclusive right to use it, in conversation or on paper.

At last Johanson made up his mind what course to pursue in the matter. He went to the poet in a friendly way, and said to him, "I take you to be a gentleman who knows how to keep a secret, and does not mention what he can guess out concerning other people's matters. I know your principles about your post-bag. I have heard that you never even read the address of a letter to be sent off, or the post-mark of one to be delivered. Now I call that a high sense of honour."

"Just decency It seems to me,"

broke in the poet.

Johanson did not seem to notice the interruption, but went on: "Now you keep anything you suspect about me, anything you can't understand in my ways, just as secret as if it were written on the back of a letter. You will, I am sure. So now let us shake hands upon it." They did, and were established as better friends than before.

The weather had become extremely cold, but the poorhouse poet went on his rounds, persisting in being dressed as in the autumn.

It had been snowing all night, and the cold was excessive. Johanson was awakened by an unusual chill in the air. A long point of snow lay along the floor of his room, as it had drifted in under the not over-tight door. He dressed and hurried out. The vestibule was one snow-bank, and the outside door was wide open. He pushed his way into the poet's room. It was empty. It was plain that the poor fellow had been out on his usual rounds, and had not returned to put up the outer bars, as was his nightly custom; for the old locks were not to be relied upon. He probably had not been able to force his way through the heavy drifts and the wild storm which was still raging.

The cellar-master was a late sleeper. He woke now to see Johanson hurrying about, evidently making ready for a trip.

"What are you doing? You are letting the cold in here, sir," said the old fellow, only half awake.

"The poet is missing. He didn't come home last night. I shall go and look him up. Have you any whisky? You have, I know. I saw Gull bring you in a bottle last night. Let me have it, will you?"

"Yes; a pull will keep you up," was the answer.

"I don't want it for me," said Johanson hastily; "it has pulled me down low enough. I'll never taste it again. But that poor fellow, he may need it, if I find him."

"You are not going to risk yourself out looking for him!" said the cellar-master, now fairly awake. "You are right down crazy. Quiet yourself. He'll be coming in soon, and making rhymes about his trip. You don't look over hearty. I should think you would be afraid to risk it."

"Afraid!" said Johanson. "Have you ever been in a tornado? Have you been in an earthquake? Have you been out in a blizzard, with no house within miles?"

"No, no, no!" was the threefold reply.

"I've tried them all," said Johanson, "and I am not afraid of a little snow. Lend me your stick, and I'm off."

Off he was, but not to return through the long morning. Towards noon, a party who had been out with a snow-plough and a sledge came back, bearing two bodies carefully covered.

The poet was still and white. He had been found lying under a rock, in a tiny natural cave. On a ledge near him, in some lightly-sifted snow, he had traced with his finger:—

"I must be ill, I've such a chill. Here I'll die, Nobody by. Who'll cry? Not I! The bag'll be found, It's safe and sound. There'll be no snow Where I shall go; There'll be no storm, It will be warm. Good-night! Good-night!"

It was good-night indeed for the poorhouse poet. In his pocket was found a worn scrap of paper, on which was pencilled his simple creed:—

"The tickets buy For when we die, For where we go We fix below. Death clears the track; We can't come back!

"Somehow, I guess, If we confess, And say, 'Forgive!' Up there we'll live. Conductors quail, And kings prevail. When God has said, 'Alive or dead, I own that man,' He save him can."

In Johanson there still was life. He had been found lying close to the dead poet, as if trying to share with him his little remaining vital warmth. The doctor, the pastor's wife, and Gull were soon doing all that was possible to call him back to life. In a few days he was almost well, for broken down though he was, he still had some of the vigour of his naturally strong constitution.

The funeral was over. Johanson was apparently dozing, lying on his sofa, now in its form for the day; while Gull and the cellar-master were chatting together in low, whispering tones.

Gull, who had prepared the body of the poorhouse poet for interment, now talked over all the items of the expense with evident satisfaction, and concluded by saying, "It was a beautiful corpse. It really was a pleasure to lay him out, he looked so sweet and quiet when it was all done."

The cellar-master, who had been helped into a sleigh to attend, remarked that it was a charming funeral; he did not know when he had enjoyed himself so much as on the late occasion.

"What luck he had to come in for the bell!" said Gull; "he was just in the nick of time. It was really quite a grand funeral, with the three coffins—the baby and the old woman and our young man—and the mourners for all. The pastor did it beautiful too, and the bell sounded so solemn. It is, of course, another thing when the big bell is rung for some high body that is carried out. We may be thankful that we have the little bell rung once a week for poor folks' funerals in this parish; it is not so everywhere."

"It would seem more solemn to see the pastor in his black gloves if he didn't wear them always," said the cellar-master. "Why does he do it? I never happened to meet anybody that knew. He's still-like himself, and nobody likes to ask him questions. Some people say it is to make him look grand with fine folks, and to kind of put down them that have bare hands used to work."

"Don't you know about his hands?" asked Gull, with surprise. "I've known it so many years, it seems as if everybody must have heard that."

"I don't happen to have inquired into the matter," said the cellar-master, somewhat humiliated. "I have never been one to gossip."

"Why, I was there when it happened," broke out Gull, eager to tell her story to a new listener. "He was stable-boy when I was housemaid at the major's. My lady was sitting in the carriage one day, and Lars—we called him Lars then—was standing holding the horses. My lady had sent the coachman in for his cape, for it was getting cold—just like her. The horses took fright at a travelling music-man who came along, and must begin just then to play. Off they started full run, dragging Lars, who hung on to the reins until they stopped. He'd have held on to those reins, I'm sure, till he died (what he began he always stuck to); and my lady sitting there in the carriage half scared to death. The fingers on his left hand were cut to the bones. They were long healing, and a sight to be seen then at the best. The right wasn't much better, dragged along the road as it had been. My lady always liked Lars after that. He had always been for reading; and when he took it into his head he wanted to be a priest, she helped him, and other folks helped him too. He changed his name, as poor fellows do when they go to Upsala. When my lady and the major were taken off so sudden with the fever, he kept on at his learning. He wouldn't have given up if he'd had to starve. But he didn't, for one way and another he got on. And then what a wife he picked up, and a little money with her too; not that it's enough to wipe out old scores. Those Upsala debts hang after him, as they have after many another. He's got them all in one hand now, they say, so that he hasn't to pay on them more than once a year, and that time is just coming on. You can see it in him as well as you can see in the west when there'll be snow next morning. He's rubbed through so far, but it sits heavy. I'm not in their kitchen for an odd bit of work now and then for nothing. I see what I see, and I hear what I hear. Beda is lonely like, and she's pleased to have somebody to talk out to. What if the pastor and his wife should find out who's who!" she continued, pointing over her shoulder at the supposed sleeper.

The cellar-master gave a stupid look at her mysterious face.

"That's the major's son over there," she whispered—"Alf, who ran off and never came back. I must tell somebody, if I should die for it. But you mustn't breathe it to a living soul."

"Not that beautiful young fellow! No, no; you don't make me believe that. Don't I remember him? This one isn't a bit like him—an ugly, worthless-looking old tramp. He was a wild chap, Alf. My wife used to tell me it was a shame to let him come there and drink—drink down a glass as if he couldn't swallow it quick enough, and then another, and then go out to the stable-boy, who was there to help him home. But that's not Alf. I'd know that handsome fellow anywhere among a million."

"But that is Alf," she whispered. "When he was almost frozen to death, the doctor told me to open his breast and rub him well; and I did. But what did I find there, hanging on to a black string, but his mother's picture, in a little locket she gave him when he was a little fellow; and he was so fond of it then he would wear it outside his clothes, where everybody could see, he said. He's willing enough to hide it now; he don't want to shame such parents, and that's the only good thing I see about him. I found it out, and I know it; but I won't tell anybody but you."

"That's Alf! And I helped to make him so! My wife said I'd rue the day. Now I do. It's very fine to be called 'cellar-master' when you sit fast in the poorhouse; but it's a bad business dragging people down. Think what Alf was and see what he is! I don't want to talk any more to-day. You go, Gull. I've got something to think about."

Johanson, lost in his own thoughts, had not noticed the whispered conversation till his own name of the past was mentioned. After that, in bitter repentance he heard the galling words that penetrated his inmost soul. Now he understood Gull's new politeness to him, and the kindly willingness with which she saved him in his degradation, for his mother's sake. She could not treat him like a common tenant of the poorhouse, and he was sure she would keep his secret. With the cellar-master it might be a different thing. That his companions knew him was an added humiliation. He had deserved it all; but there was One who had called Himself the Friend of sinners, and that Friend had received even him, a poor prodigal who had returned to his Father's house.



CHAPTER VII.

A HAPPY CHRISTMAS.

The pastor had fallen into the pleasant habit of having his wife with him when he wrote his sermons. Alone in the morning he made his researches and his copious notes for his compilation. In the evening he talked over with his wife the subject in hand, before the work of writing really began. She found him one night, shortly before Christmas, sitting dolorously before his table covered with papers, while an unusual cloud overshadowed his face.

"I cannot even think how to begin, wife," he said; "my thoughts will run in quite another direction. I feel all the weight of the new year upon me. Those old debts of mine, that I can never hope to clear off, hang upon me like a hopeless weight. A few years less at Upsala, and a good deal less debt, would have been a far better preparation for such a parish as this."

The pastor's wife was not at all cast down by this sorrowful lament. It had long been a familiar strain to her. She answered cheerily,—

"You had nothing to do with the arrangements as to what you were to learn at Upsala, and how long you must be there. You worked hard, and denied yourself almost the necessaries of life, as you well know. Now you are here and at your higher mission, which must be faithfully performed. So you will have to throw all these cares overboard. Just when we are to remember that 'God so loved the world,' we must not forget that He loves us still, every one of us. We here in this little parsonage are under His care, and He is not going to let us have burdens heavier than we can bear. We live simply enough; there is no faring 'sumptuously every day' here, as all the parish knows. I have thought out a little help. We will not give each other anything for Christmas. If gifts are but an expression of love, we do not need that kind of expression between us. For Elsa I have made a big rag doll, dressed in a fine peasant dress, from the scraps in my piece-bag. We will have a little Christmas-tree on a table for a variety, and I have put tinsel round nuts to hang upon it with the pretty red apples from the garden; and as to candles, we have enough left from last year. We will all learn that beautiful carol we had sent us by mail yesterday. Our good Beda, she must not be disappointed. I have my uncle's last present to me in money, which I shall share with her, and give her the dress from my aunt that I have not yet made up for myself. The rest of aunty's present will do to make Christmas cheery for the poorhouse people and the hard-pinched folks in the parish, who look for a little from us at this time. So now all those troublesome matters are blown away. As for the interest on the old debts, that is not to be paid until January; and we will leave that to the loving Lord, who has given us so many blessings, and see now after the sermon with cheerful, thankful hearts. Come, dear; now I am ready to hear about it."

And they did begin on the sermon, and it was the best the pastor had ever written. Something of the sweet cheerfulness and loving gratitude of the wife had made its way among the sound theological quotations and the judicious condensations. There was new life in the whole, which now came really from the pastor's uplifted soul, and would find its way to the stirred hearts of the hearers.

Christmas morning came, and little Elsa was early at the poorhouse. She had a present for Johanson. It was but a bit of work on perforated paper, done by her own hands—a lamb outlined in gay silk; but it was a lamb, and she felt that meant something between her and Johanson, and it did.

He was moved when he took it, and thanked her with good wishes for Christmas from the depths of his heart.

"I am so happy, Johanson," she said, "for papa and mamma are so glad. I heard them say, 'Now the past is all wiped away, and we can begin the new year as free from care as the birds.' I have often heard mamma say that the past is all, all wiped away when we are sorry for what we have done and want to do better, and I am always so glad about that. But this, I am sure, meant something different; for they said something about a letter, and then they looked together at a paper as if they could kiss it, and said, 'We must thank God for it, and ask Him to bless an unknown friend with His best blessings.' And they just talked to God where they sat, as they do sometimes. Papa has been sorrowful lately, but he really looked to-day like mamma when she is the happiest."

The child had found Johanson bowed, sitting with his head in his hands, while his thoughts were far back in his sinful, sorrowful past. He had felt as if he had hardly a right to welcome the day when the Saviour was born. Now his face beamed with joy; but he only said, "I am glad you are all so happy. I am sure you will be pleased again when you see something in church to-day."

Many weeks before Christmas, Johanson had asked permission to go into the church, and to have a tall ladder carried in with him. The pastor was astonished at the request. The permission had been granted. No results of the matter had, however, appeared. The same permission had been given the day before. There had been some hammering then, he understood, but had no misgivings in the matter, as he had begun to trust Johanson as an upright, honest man.

There were surprise and delight on all faces when they entered the church for the early service on Christmas morning. Of course there was a perfect blaze of light within, but that they had expected. The golden cross was gone; the red curtain had disappeared; the old picture, now but a ragged canvas, had been removed, and in its place was a beautiful painting. It represented the Lord Jesus, sitting with a glory round His benign countenance, welcoming a penitent, weary pilgrim from afar, who knelt to receive His blessing. Below was the legend, "Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out."

The carol that was sung was the same that the pastor's wife had chosen to be used at the lighting of the tree in her own home the evening before. The rural choir had practised it well, and it sounded out over the old church like angelic music.

At the first notes Johanson started and covered his face with his hands. A moment later, though he held no notes to follow, his beautiful voice rang out loud and clear and in full harmony with the other singers.

When the service was over, there was a crowd lingering in the aisles, praising and admiring the beautiful picture and the new carol; but Johanson was soon alone in the poorhouse, with "Hosanna! hosanna!" in his heart.



CHAPTER VIII.

THE BEATA CHARITY.

Gull had come to the cellar-master with a choice bit of news to tell. A stranger had bought the land where the major's home and stood, and buildings were to be put up there immediately. The long lonely spot was soon a busy scene, as the architect, with plans in hand, was hurrying about among the skilful workmen.

Whoever would, might hear where the new poorhouse was to stand, and where the orphan home, and know that the little red cottage, just like any other, was for a musical composer, who must have one large room built with special care and according to all the most scientific acoustic rules; for there he was to have a fine organ, which was now being constructed in the most particular manner. "I want to call it all 'The Beata Charity,' for Beata was my mother's name," Johanson had said to the pastor, who was now in his full confidence. They knew each other as the Alf and Lars of the olden time. They knew each other now as forgiven sinners, each striving in his own way to work for the glory of the Master's kingdom. Each felt that he was indebted to the other. The stable-boy's words, "The duties are the same whether you make the promises or not," had lingered in the mind of the wanderer in the midst of the lowest depths of sin, and had brought him home at last to try to make the promises firmly resolved to keep them.

The methodical, authorized, ordained, instructed, conscientious priest had learned from a repentant sinner to bow at the foot of the Cross, and thank God for the Saviour who could forgive him his poor, blind, cold, self-satisfied service of the past, and wake him to penitence and love, and humble, grateful faithfulness in his sacred office.

Johanson's work in the poorhouse on his music-paper had been the solace of those long, dark penitential hours. His alternations between deep depression and dawning hope, and at last his full, deep conviction that there was pardon for all in the abundant mercy of God through Christ, had been expressed in the musical compositions that had made their way over the length and breadth of the land.

Many of them were linked with old familiar sacred words; for others, some master-poet must be warmed to write their language in glowing verse.

"The white-haired pauper," as Johanson was called throughout the whole country, had his satisfaction in his life-long incognito. He felt that he had cast aside his old name and old privileges to be a worthless wanderer, and had but returned to repent and be forgiven. He would, himself forgotten and unknown, praise and serve as God had given him ability.

The grand-uncle in America, so munificent for Alf's confirmation day, had always cherished a hope of the prodigal's reformation. Only when in desperate need had Alf applied to him, and had never been refused assistance. Dying, the old man had left a will bequeathing his large fortune to his grand-nephew, in the firm belief that Alf, having run his wild career, would find his way to his native land, to lead a faithful Christian life, and be the centre of wide benevolent enterprises.

The hopes and wishes and prayers of the uncle were fulfilled. The white-haired pauper lived to see the results of his efforts, and to know that many who starving had been fed, or sinning reclaimed, or suffering ministered unto, were calling down blessings on his unworthy head.

From the pastor and his wife and Elsa Alf had sympathy and aid in all his undertakings, and their friendship was cemented by common work for the common good.

The cellar-master did not live to have a place in the new poorhouse. Gull had her own trial in the midst of the comforts of her old age, that she must still keep the secret that the celebrated composer and wide philanthropist was her beloved "major's" long-lost son.

THE END.