From that day forward Gottlieb was taken under the especial protection of his aunt, and as her favorite he was certain of a comfortable and pleasant life. When she became acquainted with his manners, virtues and accomplishments, her esteem for him was, if possible, doubly increased.

What could he not do, the dear boy? Not to speak of his wonderful success in amusing little Jean Ulrick, Mr. Fabian's sole heir, he was able to read aloud to his aunt from her favorite volume, and to repeat with almost sublime patience, all those tender passages to which she in a plaintive tone would sigh de capo. More than all this. He could sing—the model nephew—and accompany his voice with the guitar not only to the tune of "my love and I," but also to his aunt's favorite ballad, "In the shadows of the wood; in the cavern hid away." And finally there was not a female domestic in the house who dared to compete with Gottlieb in the art of chopping string beans. In short, he was a nephew whose peer could not be found in all Sweden, and who knows whether the piece of linen he chose from the bleachery was the last he received from his indulgent aunt.

Poor Gottlieb, while you are thus the prime favorite of your strong minded aunt, having free access to the pantries and dairy-rooms, have you no misgivings that the day will arrive when the doors of this house shall be closed against you? Relentless fate who ever demands a sacrifice. How true are the words of the wise Solomon, "All is vanity and vexation of spirit; and there is no profit under the sun." But it is not to be believed that Mr. Fabian's slumbers were disturbed because his wife had deserted him. No, he even preferred the company of hunger and thirst rather than that of his Ulgenie. Not that this state of mind originated from the many lectures he had received from his wife. Ah, no, there were far more powerful reasons; but it is certain that if Mistress Ulrica had suspected that her husband's indifference arose from any other motive than the wish to escape a deserved punishment she would have, undoubtedly, increased the vigor of her tongue to such a pitch that his house would have been uncomfortably warm to him.

After dining upon Gottlieb's partridge which had done much to smoothe her ruffled temper, Mrs. Ulrica was thus insinuatingly addressed by her husband:

"Have you any errands for me to perform at the parsonage, dear Ulgenie? I wish to ride down there to talk over the parish matters with the parson."

"That's right, dear Fabian. Take Gottlieb along with you. He would like to see the young ladies, each of whom are worth a ton of gold."

At this proposal Mr. Fabian's brow darkened; but the gloom was soon dispelled as Gottlieb declined the pleasure of going, and the first smile which the young man had received from his uncle was when he replied: "Excuse me to-day, my dear aunt, I wish to write to my mother."

He had no desire to disappoint his young pupil of the valley.

"Excellent youth!" exclaimed his aunt, "pleasure cannot wile you from your duties. God forbid that I should attempt to do so; and you Fabian," she added extending her arms towards her husband, "kiss me before you go. Your Ulgenie has no desire to deprive you of any reasonable enjoyments."



CHAPTER IX.

MR. FABIAN AND MAGDE LONNER.

"O, how thankful I am that you can come out here on the green, dear father." Thus said Magde, as she gave old Mr. Lonner his hat and cane, after Nanna had filled and lighted his pipe.

It was a beautiful scene to behold the two sisters thus employed. Ragnar was right. Without waiting for a request, they were apparently striving to outvie each other in performing little services for the old man. In short, Mr. Lonner had not a wish which was not gratified. They anticipated his every desire.

"There, that will do, my daughters; I thank you. I feel so young to-day, that I am quite happy. My rheumatism has left me almost entirely; so give me your arm, Nanna, and we will go."

"Where are you going?" inquired Magde.

"O, after we have taken a short walk," replied Nanna, "I have proposed that we should go to the spring in the meadow, and sit down awhile. It used to be one of papa's favorite spots."

"Perhaps you had better take a book with you," said Magde, "and then you can read to him."

Nanna blushed. Her object was to afford to her father another and much greater pleasure. She hoped in this manner to introduce Gottlieb to him before the youth should visit the cottage, because she feared that Magde in that case would wonder at her familiarity with the new comer.

Many times during the day, Nanna had endeavored to say to Magde, "last evening, and the evening before, I met an elegant young man near the spring in the meadow;" but for some unknown reason, the words never passed over her lips. She imagined that if she was alone with her father, she would not fear to tell him, and she also thought that when Gottlieb would see her with the old man, he would know that she had not agreed to meet him alone.

Her father would also converse with them about the time when she should commence her school, about which she had already erected many castles in the air. A little house she had thought should be erected in the valley. Here she should dwell alone with her cat, her little goldfinch with his elegant green cage, and she would also have a shed for her cow. She also wished to take a dog with her; but finally she thought she would not do so, for he would eat too much, and aside from that, would not be of the slightest benefit to her, for Carl would certainly assume the entire control of him.

There was no doubt, she had thought, but that good Carl would help her with her heavy work. That is, he would come to her little house on Wednesday and Sunday afternoons, to scrub her floors and bring the wood, while she was engaged in making cakes and pies for her father and Magde, who should visit her on those evenings. Of course this plan was to be followed during the summer only. During the winter, she would spend those afternoons and evenings in the large house.

What true happiness did the girl experience as she thus innocently dreamed of her future life! Her joy was increased as she fancied herself seated in her little school-room after the close of her labors for the day. That little room was to be a bright place in her memory forever for was it not he, her friend, who had told her that she would require some recreation after school hours, and was he not also to teach her the means for doing so?

We will not describe Nanna's blushing confusion as she told her father of her acquaintance with Gottlieb, neither will we paint at length, the mingled sentiments of fear and hope which filled the old man's heart as he heard his daughter's story; but will simply remark that the meeting between old Mr. Lonner and Gottlieb was mutually gratifying, and that as is naturally the case under such circumstances, they each wished to continue the acquaintance thus pleasingly commenced.

Upon the sand in front of the cottage Magde's children were playing in the sun, while Christine, the servant girl, was dividing her attention between her sewing work, and the baby which was reposing in a kneading trough, upon a little bed of rushes. She would also occasionally cast her eyes towards the other children, as they dug little ditches which they filled with water brought from the house in an old kettle, and then sailed their little bark boats in these miniature canals.

In the meantime, Magde, as usual, was sitting in the parlor, weaving at her loom with such violence that the window panes rattled in their sashes. As she was thus engaged she hummed a little song, which Ragnar during their courtship had frequently sung beneath her window as a signal that he wished to see her alone. As Magde loved her husband above all other earthly things, his favorite song had never become discordant to her. This song she took most pleasure in singing when she was alone, for then she could give full rein to her fancy, and look forward to the time when her loved husband should become a captain, and command an elegant schooner in which he could receive his wife, for she hoped that she might be able to take one voyage at least to Goteborg, to preside at the table in Captain Ragnar's cabin.

Then thought she, what a great stir her appearance in the vessel would create! "Heavens," one would say, "what a beautiful wife our captain has!" Yes, the captain is a man of taste. "The captain, always the captain. O, how grand it sounded! The captain loves her so much," the sailors would also say, "that he scarcely takes his eyes from her, and how affectionately she looks at him! O, it must be a happy life, to be thus married!"

While Magde was thus engaged in her pleasant reveries, the latch was lifted and the door swung open slowly.

"Mercy! What can be Mr. H——'s business here!" she exclaimed.

"O, do not disturb yourself," said Mr. Fabian, for it was our valorous huntsman who thus disturbed Magde's dreams, "I hope everything may be arranged without trouble. I am not the man who would injure his neighbor, even if I had it in my power."

"What do you mean!" exclaimed Magde dropping her shuttle in her terror.

In the meantime the worthy gentleman had gradually approached Magde, but so softly and cautiously that he resembled a cat about pouncing upon a trembling mouse.

"Heaven forbid," replied Mr. Fabian, "that I should think that you knew anything about it. A woman so virtuous as you are, would not engage in any wrong action; but I do think that a man's property should be respected."

"Mr. H——, if you have any evil tidings speak them out at once. Perhaps Jon Jonson has arrived, and the goods that Ragnar—"

"With a deep blush Magde suddenly ceased speaking; but her visitor required nothing further. He pretended, however, not to have understood her words; but as he well knew that Jon Jonson's vessel was still at Goteborg for he expected some merchandise in it himself, it did not require much penetration for him to surmise that the mate Lonner had taken an opportunity of sending home some smuggled goods by his friend Jonson.

"I know nothing about Jon Jonson's vessel," said Mr. H—— after a moment's pause, "but, I can readily perceive that you expect some compliments from your husband."

"Yes, not only compliments; but also a quantity of merchandise," replied Magde, who, after a moment's reflection had concluded that it was better not to make a secret of it, "as Ragnar had a little overplus he concluded to send us a few necessary articles from Goteborg. We are poor, and cannot demand credit until he returns."

"It is better not to do so," replied her visitor, "but at present we have neither Jon Jonson nor Ragnar to speak about. A certain person in this neighborhood has placed himself in an unpleasant position."

"Who can it be?" exclaimed Magde, terrified by Mr. Fabian's imposing aspect, "I will run and call father!"

"If the old man is not at home," replied her visitor concealing his joy by assuming a frown of vexation, "it will be better not to call him as it will only cause the venerable man much pain."

"Tell me, do tell me, what has been done?" stammered the frightened woman.

"I refer to your brother Carl!"

"Carl, the half-witted Carl."

"O, he is in no want of wit, and his weak mind shall not serve him as a protection when he stands before the justice. Theft is theft, no matter who commits it. At least so the law considers it."

"The game!" cried Magde clasping her hands in despair and terror.

"You are right, the game that he stole from me this morning while I was sleeping. I knew full well that the proud and conscientious Magde, would not deny that he had brought it home."

"But who could have—have—"

"Right, who could have believed that he would have done so, and that is the very point, and an unlucky one, for it proves that he must have been seen while committing the theft."

"How terrible this is! A few days ago I happened to say that I wished we had some game for our old father, and now—now—"

"Calm yourself," interrupted Mr. Fabian, extending his hand and enforcing his consolation by a love-tap upon Magde's shoulder. In her affliction Magde did not withdraw from this salute, and Mr. Fabian had an opportunity of gazing upon her lovely neck for a full moment, to prolong which he would have given the value of a hundred hares and partridges. But Magde arousing herself from her stupor, looked her guest full in the face, and there read an expression which displeased her.

With a blush she replaced the handkerchief around her neck, and suddenly enquired:

"What then, sir, is the real intention of your visit? You said you would not disturb us, and as the game is untouched we can return it immediately."

"The game is not the object of my visit."

"What is then?"

"The theft. Carl will be brought before the justice, I told you there was a witness to his crime."

"But how can that happen unless you enter a complaint?"

"Have I not the right to enforce the law which is made to protect our property? but it is possible that I might hush the matter up if I chose; and when I fancy that I see the poor fellow under arrest, when I behold him in the culprit's box, in the court-room; when I—"

"May God protect him!" interrupted Magde, "you have said enough, Mr. H——. I am but the wife of a poor sailor; but if my humble prayers will be of the least avail—" and Magde, the proud Magde, who before had often dismissed Mr. Fabian with disdainful gestures, now clasped her hands, and looked into his face with an expression of tearful entreaty.

"O, do not despair, my dear Magde," said he, "such tender prayers and looks, have a wonderful influence upon me. Aside from that your present attitude is perfectly charming."

Overpowered by a sudden revulsion of feelings, Magde closed her eyes, and sank her head upon her bosom.

"I see," said she, "that you do not intend to assist us from our present trouble."

"On the contrary," replied Mr. Fabian with much animation, "I will do everything for you, if you will only conduct yourself towards me, in a manner different from that which you have done heretofore."

"If Mr. H—— demands nothing more than friendship," replied Magde, with difficulty repressing her anger, "that shall not be wanting."

"Nothing more, upon my honor," said Mr. H——, joyfully, "if you, dear Magde, will promise that when you meet me you will favor me with a look of kindness, I assure you by my honor, that nothing more shall be heard about this unpleasant affair; and as a proof that we shall hereafter be friends, I demand the slight favor of a kiss."

"That cannot be," replied Magde, with the coolness of despair, "I love Carl as my brother, and will give anything to preserve him from disgrace, except that which does not belong to me."

"What do you mean, my little piece of stubbornness, do not your lips belong to yourself?"

"From the moment that I entered my bridal chamber, I considered myself as belonging to my husband alone, and Mr. H——, you can be assured that you are not the person who can cause me to forget my husband's rights."

"Look you," shouted a harsh voice from the door, "before Magde should kiss your wrinkled old lips, I would run into the prison of my own accord;" and first Carl's head, and then his uncouth form appeared, as he entered the room. His face was convulsed with passion, and his eyes glanced irefully upon the surprised Fabian.

"Simpleton! you trespass upon my good nature!" exclaimed Mr. Fabian, foaming with rage.

"Do I?" replied Carl, "perhaps I shall trespass upon something else. Do you know, sir, what I shall say when the justice questions me?"

"What would you say, good Carl?" inquired Magde, encouragingly.

"I would say, for I know exactly how it will come to pass, I would humbly say to the justice, that I did take the hares and partridges from the proprietor of Almvik."

"Yes," interrupted Mr. Fabian, "you will be obliged to show your hand."

"'Now,' the judge will reply," continued Carl, without noticing the interruption, "'My lad, why did you do so?' Then I will answer, because it is not forbidden in my catechism; if the game had been an ox or an ass, I would not have taken it. Then I would say to the justice, at the same time looking at him in this way"—and Carl made such a ridiculous grimace that Magde nearly laughed outright—"that there was no danger that Mr. Fabian H—— would frighten such fierce animals as the ox and the ass, for it is his custom to charm the hares and partridges by the sweet sound of his snores, for your Honor must know that this huntsman pursues his game while comfortably snoring in the grass."

"What do you say, clown?"

"And then I can call as a witness the very man whom you intend to use against me, and finally I think that the justice will smile a little when I tell him that Mr. Fabian H—— was willing to forget all harsh measures for a kiss from Magde."

"Ha! ha! ha!" exclaimed Mr. Fabian, with a forced laugh, with which he attempted to conceal his uneasiness, "you are a waggish rogue! Your last words have afforded me so much amusement that I have not the heart to injure you for such a trifle. But listen, you little simpleton; you must not suppose that the justice would allow you to say all that. No, he would have sent you away long before you could have had time to utter a word about it."

Carl made no further reply than by applying his thumb to his nasal organ; and gyrating his fingers in a manner so significant that we will not endeavor to interpret his meaning. Having executed this manoeuver, he hastily left the room, but remained at such a distance that he could keep a watchful eye through the open door upon the unwelcome guest.

Mr. Fabian, who did not wish to appear vanquished, was at a loss how to change the conversation to such a theme as would afford him a suitable opportunity to take his leave in a dignified manner. But good Magde, who had now entirely recovered her usual equanimity, soon assisted him—by means of that instinct which sometimes puts superior knowledge to the blush—out of his dilemma by saying:

"I am grateful to you, Mr. H——, for having forgiven Carl because his words amused you; but what a simpleton the boy is!"

"It was because he was a simpleton that I forgave him; but now as my visit is at an end, I will release you from your unwelcome guest. As for the game, Carl can keep it. It would at all events create suspicion if it was sent to Almvik."

"And you, Mr. H——, you will not be angry with us?"

"I, God forbid. When I forgive I forget everything."

Magde arose and courtesied as her visitor took his departure. She accompanied him a short distance from the house, and waited till he unfastened the horse's halter.

After mounting his animal, he drove his horse near the spot where Magde was standing, and as he passed her he bowed deeply, but his face wore an expression that caused her entire form to tremble with an undefined fear.



CHAPTER X.

THE TRUANT.

Fourteen days elapsed. Gottlieb had fully learned the road from Almvik to the cottage in the valley. It had never entered the mind of any one of the inmates of the cottage to consider him a dangerous guest. Magde, who possessed a quick eye, soon discovered that Nanna was the cause of his visits; but she also perceived that Gottlieb was no dissembler. Magde did not look further than this, for she did not suppose Nanna would ever love one who did not return her affection. Unrequited love she did not believe in, and she thought that Nanna was of her opinion in this respect.

And in truth thus it appeared, for neither Nanna nor Gottlieb experienced the slightest degree of restraint when in each other's society. The change that had taken place in Nanna's appearance was marvellous; the blossoms of buoyant and happy girlhood had usurped the place formerly occupied by lilies on her cheeks, and our young hero had more than once laughingly said:

"It is fortunate, Miss Nanna, that we made our agreement when we first met, for if we had not I do not know what would have happened. You become lovelier every day, Nanna."

Yet in spite of these words Gottlieb would blush with displeasure when their meetings at the spring were disturbed by a third person.

The youthful teacher and pupil continued their meetings at the little fountain, and Gottlieb at this spot gave Nanna her first instructions upon the guitar. To his great pleasure she learned quickly, and soon she was able to sing her beautiful songs to her own accompaniment on his favorite instrument.

Words are inadequate to describe Gottlieb's pride and elation when this was accomplished, and he was none the less rejoiced when he discovered how readily Nanna comprehended him when he read to her the writings of his favorite bards.

On her part Nanna replied to her kind teacher, by confiding to him all of her little plans, among the first of which she mentioned the school-room, the cat and the singing bird which he was to have, and Gottlieb gave her his advice concerning the arrangement of the benches in the school-room; the position which the black-board should occupy, and what little presents she should make her pupils as rewards of merit. He concluded by promising to send her every year a letter of advice; possibly he might come himself, occasionally, who knew?

"I am sure of that," said Nanna, one afternoon in reply to Gottlieb, as he thus expressed himself, "for when you are married you will be obliged to visit Almvik to show your rich wife to your uncle and aunt."

"Perhaps," replied Gottlieb, with a laugh, "that journey will not be necessary, for if my aunt could only have her own way, she would certainly find me a wife in this neighborhood."

"Who could you possibly marry in this neighborhood?" inquired Nanna curiously.

"Ah! Mademoiselle Nanna," replied Gottlieb, "I easily perceive that you are not in the least danger, for you can hear that your friend Gottlieb is to be married and betray not the slightest emotion."

"Why should I be moved, Mr. Gottlieb? It will have to occur sometime," said Nanna innocently.

"And yet—"

"What yet!"

"You are a good girl."

"Ah, but don't you remember the agreement?"

"Yes, and I only intended to remark that it would not be difficult for you to adhere to it."

"Does that displease you, sir?" inquired Nanna in a tone of displeasure which was the more pertinent as it was foreign to her usual manner.

"Certainly not, Miss Nanna, on the contrary I am delighted that you should follow my advice so faithfully—either of the young ladies at the parsonage are suitable."

"Did you refer to one of those?" inquired Nanna, her countenance assuming a deathly paleness, "O they are so beautiful."

"Yes, perfectly angelic—especially Miss—Miss—what is her name?"

"You probably allude to Miss Charlotte."

"Right, Miss Charlotte, whose hair is so black and beautiful."

"O, no, that is Sophia!" exclaimed Nanna.

"Well then, Miss Sophia, I prefer her."

"But why is it that you changed their names?" inquired Nanna.

"Why, you heard that I did not confound her black hair with her sister's brown ringlets."

"How strange! Charlotte's hair is quite light!"

"Of what earthly difference is it," replied Gottlieb, "whether Charlotte's hair is brown or white, I think only of the roguish and pretty Miss Sophia."

"I think you are jesting with me, sir," said Nanna laughing so heartily that the roses instantly returned to her cheeks.

"I jest with you!"

"Of course. Miss Sophia is so serious and thoughtful that no person would call her roguish."

"Were you not as quiet as an old prayer-book the first time I saw you?" replied Gottlieb.

"And even if it was so—"

"Just look into the water, my little miss, and tell me whether you look as you used to."

"Then you would say, Mr. Gottlieb, that by some magic spell you have driven away Miss Sophia's gloominess?"

"Yes, I can say Miss Sophia's also."

"Also?—that is a bold speech!"

"Are you angry?"

"Oh, Gottlieb!"

"Ah, Miss Nanna. Are you weeping?"

"Mr. Gottlieb may be mischievous and tantalizing enough to compel me to do so; but this time he has not succeeded."

"Well, as I cannot force you to weep, I must confess the truth, and that is—"

"That you have seen neither of them," interrupted Nanna.

"Not that, there you are mistaken, for I called at the parsonage one evening with my aunt, and I was so much pleased with the young ladies, that now I am here with you, while they are at Almvik, where they arrived this morning. What do you think of that?"

* * * * *

What Nanna thought Gottlieb did not learn; but he soon was made acquainted with his aunt Ulrica's opinion concerning his absence. Gottlieb arrived at the latticed gate of the court-yard at Almvik, just in time to salute the young ladies from the parsonage as they drove forth from the yard on their return home. They appeared somewhat displeased, and returned Gottlieb's bow with a stiff and cold salute.

Mr. Fabian observed with pleasure, the cloud which shadowed the brow of his beloved Ulrica, foretelling the storm that was to burst forth; but not on himself.

"Nephew Gottlieb," said Aunt Ulrica drawing the young man aside, "you have to-day for the first time afforded me an unpleasant surprise."

"In what manner, dear aunt," replied Gottlieb.

"Is it your custom when in your father's house to remain away all day when young ladies are visiting your parents?"

"Nothing would have been thought about it if such had been the case. My mother is not overfond of such strict principles of etiquette."

"That is to be regretted, for boys who have not been carefully guided, rarely become gallant and well behaved young men; but we will say no more on that subject."

"In that I concur."

"We will therefore confine ourselves to that subject to which an innate knowledge guides us."

"That leads us back upon the same road."

"On the contrary, my young friend, if you will permit me to follow my own course I will place you on the road to heaven."

"Are you sure, my dear Aunt, that you have discovered the right road?"

"Certainly, only think, a ton and a half of gold; beauty, amiability, and a knowledge of cookery which excels that of Miss Nylander [The author of a celebrated Swedish cook book.] herself!"

"But love, my dear aunt, is that not to be found in heaven?"

"O, yes, and it might have already made rapid progress if you had assisted me in my first step towards the completion of my designs, by remaining at home instead of running away."

"Which proves that nothing existed before in which love could take root."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Mrs. Ulrica, "if you wish to succeed your father you ought to improve your situation by some good marriage. Miss Charlotte is a lovely blonde, and Miss Sophia, a beautiful brunette, a perfect Spanish donna."

"Yes, she has a remarkable resemblance to a donna; but unfortunately I do not prefer Spanish ladies."

"Well, then Charlotte possesses an affectionate disposition. You cannot but admire her fine sensitive nature, which should kindle a love equalling Werther's love of Lotta."

"That is precisely what I fear. How would I look imitating Werther?"

"I do not wish you to follow his example. Charlotte is a girl for whose sake a man might act foolishly, and still be pardoned—then you prefer Charlotte?"

"No, above all things in the world I detest preferences."

"That is to say, you will cheerfully take the one of the two sisters you most admire after you have had an opportunity of visiting them a few weeks, and judging of their good qualities for yourself."

"Nothing of the kind, dear Aunt."

"Then, what do you mean?"

"That I have a great desire to look out for myself in this matter; and that taking all things into consideration, I am much too young to think of marriage."

"Then you despise your aunt's assistance?"

"God forbid that such a sentiment should ever enter my heart. I honor and love God. I am grateful to Him that He has given me a heart, and I pray Him not to send me a bride which that heart cannot love."

"Your words sound well; but I shall not have my little plot marred by them. Will you or will you not, accompany me to the parsonage, and conduct yourself as you should before the young ladies?"

"I will behave politely towards any young lady; but, aunt, if you have any other meaning concealed beneath those words then—I will say no!"

"You wish to quarrel with me, then. Do you understand what that means, my dear nephew?"

"I dare not think of such a misfortune."

"Yet that misfortune will certainly come. God knows I would do much for you; but consider upon your words while you have yet time—you need not trouble yourself to be present at the fishing excursion this evening."

"Why so, aunt, am I outlawed?"

Mrs. Ulrica Eugenia assumed an air of haughtiness.

"Then I have fallen into disgrace," continued Gottlieb.

"I will not deny," replied Mistress Ulrica, coldly, "that you are on the road to disgrace; but I hope this wholesome lesson will cause you to think better of my exertions in your behalf."

"Of that I have my doubts," thought Gottlieb as his aunt majestically left the room; "and yet perhaps it is foolish on my part not to take her advice.—Oh, why is not my little nymph of the fountain the possessor of a ton and a half of gold?—The little creature—hm—She is really too beautiful!"



CHAPTER XI.

THE FISHERMAN.

The usually turbulent lake Wenner, presented, on the evening of which we are about to write, an unruffled and mirror-like appearance. In its clear bosom was reflected the lofty cliffs of mount Kinnekulle, and sloop after sloop passed over this gigantic image until a puffing steamboat dashed over it and the picture was lost in the foaming spray in her wake.

Almvik was situated on a truly romantic spot near the margin of the lake, of which a magnificent view could be obtained from the mansion. The surface of the lake this evening presented a pleasing spectacle. Fishes were leaping out of the water near little boats which were swinging at anchor, or were being pulled by sturdy fishermen who were going forth to ensnare the subjects of the water Queen; but the proud Queen, who, from her crystal palace beheld the danger, commanded her subjects to retreat, and quickly the sportive fishes hastened to the depths of the water that afforded them a barrier through which their enemies could not break.

In consequence of these manoeuvers on the part of the water Queen, our friend Mr. Fabian, who frequently endeavored to capture her subjects, was invariably unsuccessful. Undoubtedly this must have been a source of much misery to the poor man, for he was situated between two iron wills, namely that of his wife and that of the water Queen; the latter would not pay tribute, while the former demanded with all the firmness of an absolute monarch, that the tribute should be forced from the water Queen at all hazards.

After the above explanation our readers can well imagine Mr. Fabian's feelings when after having congratulated himself that his wife's anger with her nephew would occupy her mind for the entire evening, he received a summons from her that the boat and fishing tackle were ready for use.

Fishing was one of Mistress Ulrica's favorite pastimes, and although she did not generally participate in it, yet when she observed her husband's unskillfulness, she would indignantly cast aside her parasol, and grasp the fishing rod. However it may be, whether the water queen below wished to compliment the earthly queen above,—we know that ladies are prone to be polite to each other—or that some truant fish remained behind to become an easy prey to the enemy, suffice it to say that Mistress Ulrica was generally fortunate; but she did not—as she might have done—make use of her advantage, as she herself would say, "to cause her husband to blush with shame."

When the dutiful husband arrived at the landing, he found his tender wife, standing near the boat, clasping her child's hand in her own, and our friend was obliged to see that his jewels were safely seated in the boat. After he had rowed the skiff out as far as Ulrica thought was proper, he with many misgivings threw out his line.

"How strange it is my dear Fabian, that every time you fish you sit still there on your seat like a perfect automaton!"

With this preamble, Mistress Ulrica opened the floodgates of her ill-humor, to which on occasions like the present especially she gave perfect freedom.

"An automaton, my dear!"

"A post, a perfect post. You do not even turn your head; just as though the company of your wife and child was the most wearisome thing of your life."

But dearest Ulrique Eugenie, I must keep watch for a bite. If I turn around—"

"You would not lose the sense of feeling if you should; but you hope, I suppose, that persons on the shore will think you master of the boat. Simpleton! What folly to think that!"

"Dear Ulrique Eugenie, shall I ask if you have spared my nephew your ill-humor that you may vent it on me. It is my opinion—"

"What is your opinion, sir?"

"O nothing further than that I am sufficiently burdened with your natural bad-temper already, without having it increased by the aid of another."

"Burdened!—ill-humor—bad temper!—is the man mad? Do you thus speak to me, your wedded wife, who bears your stupid indifference; your want of tenderness and love with angelic forbearance? O, this is too much! It is shameful! It is undeserved!"

"Now, now, Ulgenie, do not be so hasty. You know how patient I am."

"And what am I, then, to be married to such a musty husband? Your wife is courted before your very eyes; you see nothing! you hear nothing!—I could be unfaithful to you, and even then you would close your eyes. O, fate! O bitter life! such a husband can drive a wife to desperation, and from thence it is but one step to madness."

"Who is again playing the gallant to you?"

And in this "again," reposed an expression which displayed that such scenes were not new to him. Mistress Ulrica, like other women, possessed her weak points, one of which was that if a gentleman happened to converse with her pleasantly, she immediately imagined that he was desperately in love with her. But to her great sorrow, Mrs. Ulrica, although she possessed entire control over her husband's actions, never could make an Othello of him. Had Mr. Fabian but known her desire in this respect, he could have deprived his wife of her sceptre, and taken up the reins of matrimonial government himself.

A tyrannical husband would have been able to bend Mrs. Ulrica like a reed, and to have trodden her under his feet which she would willingly have kissed; but now Mr. Fabian kissed her feet, and therefore she crushed him to the dust, and although she did not merit the reproach that Desdemona received, it was, nevertheless, no fault of his. But of what use would it have been even should she have merited it? Othello was a fanciful creation which her husband of all men would have been least willing to personate.

"My Fabian," she would say to herself, "my Fabian can never prove unfaithful to me. He is too much of an idler, and thinks only of his sofa, pipe and tobacco."

But we will resume the thread of the worthy couple's conversation.

"Who is again making love to you?" inquired Mr. Fabian again.

Mrs. Ulrica uplifted her reproachful eyes to Heaven. "He asks who! he has not even observed it!"

"No, my dear wife, I have not."

"And yet he has this entire day—," she turned her face aside, feigning to conceal a blush.

"To-day! Why we have had no gentlemen guests to-day, except the pastor's assistant who came with the young ladies, and took his departure before they did."

"No gentlemen guests! As if he, the accomplished scholar, and entertaining gentleman, was nobody! and it was nothing that—"

"Well, what further?"

"That he, carried away by those charms, that you have so long observed with indifference, should become deeply smitten with me."

"What! Do you think he entertains a secret affection for you?"

"Affection, I will not say affection; but passion, which word your dull brain cannot comprehend, you virtuous and modest Joseph!" the lady laughed at her own joke, and then continued, "I am not certain whether I had better tell the young man that I have discovered his hope; but I shall be forced to forbid his visiting me, which will be the same as telling the whole world how this delicate affair stands."

"Will you permit me to give you a little advice?" said Mr. Fabian.

"Why not, Fabian, you are my husband, and as such you have the right to do so."

"Then I would say, drop the subject where it stands."

"Are you not fearful! Do you not shudder at the possibility of an unpleasant event?"

"O, my dearest Ulgenie, can I for a moment doubt your strength of soul, your virtue?"

"It is true I am thus strongly armed, and I thank you, my dear Fabian, for confiding in my faithfulness."—As was usual a few cheering sun-beams followed the cooling shower.—"Forgive me, my dear husband, for harrowing your feelings; but there are times when even the strongest minded are weak."

"You are an exception, my love."

These confident words had nearly renewed the vexation within Mistress Ulrica's bosom; but suddenly she was struck with an idea that caused her to assume a still more affectionate expression of countenance.

"We will trouble ourselves no more concerning that deeply to be pitied young man. I have something else which I wish to confide to you."

"Another lover?" inquired Mr. Fabian, widening his eyes.

"I refer to a youth, for whose welfare I am deeply concerned."

"Explain yourself, my dear."

"Fabian, you must not hate him, for the young man does not understand himself, this I will answer for with my life, and perhaps he only indulges a platonic affection for one who realizes the romantic ideas which his youthful imagination had formerly brought forth."

"You do not mean Gottlieb, do you?" inquired Fabian, unsuccessfully endeavoring to conceal a laugh.

"Fabian, why do you speak so sardonically? If in spite of your watchfulness, his has, unobserved by you, paid a tribute to your wife's beauty, you must remember that he did not know he was sinning. It was merely an accident that made me acquainted with the secret of his heart."

"Will you permit me to inquire what that accident was?"

"With pleasure. I had—I tell you this in confidence—I had chosen one of the pastor's daughters as his wife; I invited her to Almvik to-day, but he avoided her presence. He retired to that solitude which he seeks every evening either before or after we go out on our drive. A certain instinctive sentiment causes him to leave the house when you are absent, and more than all, when I reproached him for his faults, and pointed to the advantageous match I had in view for him, he had the boldness to say that he would retain to himself the right of disposing of his own heart."

"And do you believe, my dear, that you are the first cause of this trouble?"

"I have felt grieved at the thought that it might be so, nothing further."

"Well, well, dear Ulgenie, I will release you from this burden on your conscience."

Mr. Fabian, who always found it a difficult matter to converse long upon a serious matter, spoke the above words in a tone of voice especially lively, for his heart was rejoiced at the thought that now he had an opportunity of ridding himself of an unwelcome guest, without giving cause for any one to believe that it was his own desire to do so.

"What are you babbling about?" inquired Mistress Ulrica, sharply, "what do you know about my nephew's affairs?"

"Nothing further than that he has had a little love affair of his own, which occupies his attention during those solitary walks you referred to a moment ago."

"He! Gottlieb! Has he dared to fall in love!"

"Certainly."

"Impossible!"

"But I assure you that it is true, and if you will ask him why he so frequently visits the valley, he certainly will not deny that he goes there for the purpose of meeting handsome Nanna, the daughter of old Mr. Lonner. He reads poetry to her, and under the pretence of teaching her the guitar, he finds an opportunity of pressing her pretty little white hands."

"If that is true. If he, while he remains under my roof, enters into such a miserable intrigue, I will—for I consider it my duty as occupying the place of his mother—I will to-morrow morning mar his plans. But how did you learn this?"

This was a question which Mr. Fabian could not truthfully answer, for if he should do so, he would have been obliged to state that he, after his disagreeable parting with Magde, had taken a roundabout path towards Almvik, which conducted him so near the valley that he discovered two persons sitting beneath the tree near the fountain, and that from that day forward he had closely watched Gottlieb's movements, so that he might be enabled to hold a weapon over the one who might perhaps be a spy upon his own actions.

It was therefore an accident which opened Mr. Fabian's eyes to Gottlieb's crime; but he had not wished to play the part of an accuser, O, no, for such love affairs were common to all young men, at least he thus assured his wife.

"Make no excuse for him, sir," interrupted Mistress Ulrica sharply, "this indeed is excellent, and will become still richer if not prevented in time. The reproaches of a mother on the one hand, and the curses of a father on the other; a seduced girl, perhaps something worse; a criminal investigation, and a scandal in which our house, and possibly ourselves, will figure largely; all this we must expect. As true as my name is Ulrique Eugenie, this matter shall have an end, and a speedy end, too."

"But how will you accomplish that?" inquired Fabian.

"That I shall attend to myself. Gottlieb has said that he should like to travel over the mountains into Norway. Now then he can go to Amal, and from thence he may commence his journey. He shall have money, but must obey me."

* * * * *

The following morning, after Mistress Ulrica had convinced herself by her own eyes of the truth of her husband's report, for she followed Gottlieb to the meadow that morning instead of taking her usual ride, Gottlieb was summoned to her apartment, and underwent an examination that nearly exhausted his entire stock of patience. The interview resulted in his determination to accept his aunt's proposal, that he should take a journey into Norway. He did not inform Nanna, however, of the cause of his sudden departure, for he feared that it would grieve her.

Their last interview was cheered by bright anticipations of the day when Gottlieb should return and observe the improvement which Nanna should make, both in her performance on the guitar, and in her education; for when his aunt had made a contract of peace with him, Gottlieb had insisted that Nanna should have the guitar, to which clause the old lady consented.

The young couple parted in the hope of a joyful meeting, and Gottlieb's farewell kiss did not assist Nanna to forget him.

The next day after Gottlieb had taken his departure, Jon Jonson's sloop arrived in the bay opposite the little cottage in the valley.



CHAPTER XII.

GRIEF.

Nearly two months had elapsed since those remarkable days on which Nanna had received her first kiss, and Magde had heard from her husband by the arrival of Jon Jonson's sloop.

Great had been her joy when Ragnar's gifts arrived in safety.—She then thought that everything had come to a good conclusion. But greatly was she deceived! There was a man to whom Magde had invariably conducted herself with cool indifference, and who, after having been defeated by her in the manner which we have before described bestowed upon her a parting glance which had caused her to shudder as if she had trodden upon a serpent. And he was indeed a serpent in human guise, for soon she felt the delayed sting of the venomous reptile.

Until Ragnar had received his appointment as mate, old Mr. Lonner had invariably purchased his supplies of the merchants at Goteborg; but as Ragnar thought that foreign goods could be obtained much cheaper by procuring them himself, and sending them home without paying the duty, he soon persuaded the old man to adopt his opinion on the subject.

Until now no unpleasant consequence had resulted from Ragnar's occasionally smuggling a few articles for the use of the family; but the old adage says "a pitcher which goes oft to the fountain is soon broken," and in Ragnar's case this proverb was verified.

Yet, for this accident, the custom house officers were not so much to blame, for not one in that service would have thought for a moment of searching the cottage in the valley, unless positive information was received, nay more, unless that information was accompanied with threats of exposure, for dereliction of duty. Unfortunately, the custom house stamp was wanting upon the handkerchiefs, shawls, and other goods sent by Ragnar, and the family not only were deprived of them, but were menaced with fines and penalties, which to pay, was entirely out of their power. To add to their misfortune their protector, Ragnar, who would have soon put an end to their troubles, had started a few days before the catastrophe, upon a voyage to Brazil.

Magde and Nanna wept only when they were alone, or at least when they were with each other. They concealed their tears from the old man, his life should not be further embittered; it was bitter enough already. The little fortune on which they had hoped to subsist for many months was entirely swept away. Old Mr. Lonner, however, observed the secret grief of his daughters, and said to himself:

"Poor children, you do not know what is yet to come."

The smuggled goods were marked with old Mr. Lonner's name only, and he well knew that a heavy penalty was yet to follow.

"We have enjoyed so much happiness, and peace, since Ragnar and Magde were married," said he encouragingly to his daughter, "that we should bravely endure a little misfortune. It is not allotted to man that he should enjoy a constant season of prosperity."

But Nanna and Magde smiled sorrowfully as he thus spoke. The inmates of the cottage now exerted themselves to the utmost to better their sad condition. Our friend Carl exerted himself beyond all the others. He who had neglected the affairs of his own relations for those of his neighbors, now scarcely had leisure to step beyond the boundary line of his father's estate. He was everything, and did everything so willingly and skilfully, that it was not necessary for the family to hire any servant to assist them as they had formerly done, and although latterly he had been somewhat feeble in health, he cared not for himself, but worked manfully in wet as well as dry weather. His troubles and toil were all forgotten, when Magde would reward him for his efforts with a friendly nod of her head.

And when she would say, "You will work yourself to death, my Carl," he would laugh pleasantly, and immediately renew his efforts ten fold. He now determined that after his duties at home were performed, to go among the neighbors; not to be a nurse for their children, as before, but to work for wages, and after this when he returned and placed the money on Magde's weaving loom, a bright object might have been discovered glistening upon the crumpled bank-note. It was a tear of joy which Carl had shed.

Magde after the first occurrence of this incident, dared to praise Carl no further. She already perceived the consequence of so doing, but after the lilacs and lilies had faded, the tulips, roses and lavender bushes, bloomed, and however weary Magde might find herself after a day of toil, she would each evening place elegant boquets in Carl's flower vases.

At length, and too soon, the decision in regard to the smuggled goods arrived, and as Mr. Lonner was unable to pay the penalty imposed upon him, he was doomed to imprisonment. In this their day of trouble, Mr. Lonner alone retained his courage.

He well knew in truth to whom they were indebted for their distress, but he feared nothing. He trusted in the belief that Magde would do all that was in her power to raise the sum of money necessary to pay the fine. It was unfortunate, however, that Magde, without the old man's knowledge, had expended their small stock of money to pay a few debts that they had contracted the previous spring.

We will not attempt to depict the misery of the moment when old Mr. Lonner stepped into the boat which was to conduct him to the prison at Harad which was located on the opposite side of the lake, and where he was to be confined for the time being. Both of his daughters wished to accompany him to the opposite shore; but he forbade them so seriously that they dared not press their desires further.

It was touching to observe these sorrow stricken females, amidst their terror search high and low in the cottage for various articles of comfort for their beloved father. At length, with a slight degree of sorrowful impatience old Mr. Lonner ordered the boatmen to push off from the shore, and then it was piteous in the extreme to behold both Magde and Nanna, as they clung to the gunwale, to whisper their tearful adieu's, and to promise that they would pay him a visit in his prison in a few days.

Finally the bitter moment was over; the boat rapidly proceeded from the land; but so long as they could discern the old man's white locks fluttering in the breeze and even until the boat appeared a speck in the distance, Nanna and Magde remained on the shore gazing out upon the water.

In the meantime Carl without the knowledge of the family had proceeded to the opposite shore of the lake, and when the boat which contained his father touched the shore, Carl greeted him tenderly and presented him with a ten dollar bank note. This was a treasure indeed, and Carl had obtained it by selling the only article of value which he possessed. It was a silver watch, which his mother had given him before she died.

On his return home that evening he remarked:—"Father need not fear. He can live in his prison rolling in riches; a gentleman met him on the other shore and loaned him ten dollars."

How Magde and Nanna blessed the kind hearted gentleman; but their joy was but momentary. What should they do now? How should they provide for themselves in this unexpected trouble. Their poor neighbors like themselves, were moneyless, and their wealthy neighbors would undoubtedly require some security before they would loan them money.

Nanna often looked towards the spot in the meadow, so full of pleasant memories. If her kind friend would only return. He certainly, would be able to advise them how to act in their present strait.

Three days elapsed after the old man's departure, and many were the plans formed by Magde, but the only apparently feasible one, was that which she would most unwillingly undertake to carry into effect. She was perfectly convinced that the proprietor of Almvik would willingly assist her; but he would do it too willingly, for afterwards he would cause her to feel that she was in his debt.

"But," thought she in a maze of doubt and fear, "what shall I do? Is it better to remain as we are and allow the poor old man to languish in prison, or to go to Almvik, and thus receive the only boon our father wishes, liberty? But what would Ragnar advise me to do. He loves his father as he does the apple of his eye; but his wife he loves as he does his own heart—And then if he should imagine that Mr. Fabian H—— —Oh! my God! what trouble would then arise!—but again I shall not be able to assist the old man—no, no, that will not do, I can hold out no longer."

Magde had no person with whom to consult, for what advice could poor Carl give? Nanna was a mere child, and Magde felt that she could not consult her upon such an intricate question.

She had conversed with the parson concerning her trouble, yet although he was not backward in giving her good advice, he nevertheless refused to assist her with his purse, for he was as miserly as he was wealthy.

The time had now arrived when Magde could no longer postpone the promised visit to her father, and all the members of the family wished to go upon this little pilgrimage. Great were the preparations that were made to supply themselves with a sufficient quantity of provisions which they were to take to the old man. Magde baked pan-cakes, and Nanna made pies, and if a smile did appear on Magde's lips it was when they spoke of the pleasant surprise they were preparing for their father.

At length the moment for their departure arrived. Even little Christine and the favorite dog Carlo, were to form a portion of the company, that they might be able to see their old friend. The children leaped with joy.

They thought only of the pleasant trip over the swelling billows of the lake. Magde finished lading the skiff; but her heart was overflowing with grief, for she had no glad tidings with which to gladden the heart of the old man.

Nanna who during the busy activity of the morning had successfully endeavored to suppress her sorrow, was so much overcome as she was about stepping into the boat that she nearly fainted. She saw in her imagination the pale and suffering countenance of her father; who was however smiling patiently as he stood ready to greet his children, that were to leave him again in his dreary and lonely prison.

The poor child in anticipation suffered all the pangs of a second farewell with her imprisoned parent.

"It will not do for you to accompany us," said Magde in a firm and motherly tone, "you are ill, and therefore had better return."

"I am afraid," replied Nanna trembling violently, "that I shall be obliged to do so. Give my love to him, and tell him—" and now her long suppressed tears burst forth in torrents—"tell him if I do not come, it is not because I do not love him."

"Silence, silence my poor sister, I know myself what I have to say—Go and may God be with you—here is the key—Lock the door—Carl take the oars."



CHAPTER XIII.

THE BANISHMENT—THE RE-UNION.

When Magde's boat passed the mansion at Almvik, two persons were walking on the verge of the shore near the lake. The one was Mistress Ulrica, and her companion was Gottlieb, who had returned a few days before, from his trip through Norway.

As the boat shot round a rocky point of land, Gottlieb exclaimed, as he recognized its occupants, and bowed friendly to them: "Where are they all going! They look so sorrowful and dejected!"

"Sorrowful!" repeated Mrs. Ulrica, "you may thank God that it is not necessary for you to participate in the sorrows of the lower classes."

"If they are in trouble, I do not see why I should not sympathise with them."

Aunt Ulrica shook her head with a dissatisfied expression of countenance.

"You may certainly boast of your firmness of mind, and your knowledge of human nature; I have shown you the danger of associating with such persons. I sent you away—I—"

"I beg your pardon," interrupted Gottlieb, hastily, "I was not sent away. I took a journey which I had decided on myself, and returned as I departed, with a heart ever ready to sympathise with the afflicted."

"Then go, and participate in the sorrows of your beggar friends. I suppose, from your liberal words, that you are well supplied with money."

"What has happened to them?"

"The old man, in connection with his son, has been detected in smuggling foreign goods, and of course his property was confiscated. The old gentleman in whose name the business was transacted, was sent to prison because he had no money to pay the penalty, and there he will remain until you go to his release."

"And he shall not wait long," replied Gottlieb. "I have accomplished greater undertakings than that in my time."

"Ah, ha," sneered Mrs. Ulrica, "you speak boldly, boy. I am astonished."

"If any one should be astonished, I am the person."

"Indeed!"

"I come to relatives who at first welcomed me cordially. My affections attached themselves to my kind friends, for it is a necessary quality for me to be grateful; but suddenly everything is changed, and I am treated like a school boy, whom you must curb, or else fear that he might commit some folly. To this description of guardianship I have not been accustomed, and as it is not my desire to submit to your control, I must beg you, Aunt Ulrica, not to attempt to govern me in this manner, for I assure you that your efforts will always be fruitless."

"Foolish boy! You forget that I could be useful to you; could smooth your path by my wealth and influence."

"I do not forget it, and I should have been very happy to have been able to retain your good will; but at the price of my liberty of thought and action, I do not desire your favor."

"Then you will return to the valley, to Miss Nanna."

"Undoubtedly. She requires my presence, and I long to see her."

"Then you still love the young girl?" inquired Mrs. Ulrica.

"I do not know whether I loved her when I departed from Almvik; but this much I do know, that her image has been with me constantly during my absence; and that I shall see her again to-day."

"To tell her of this folly?"

"O, no, that would be unjust, as I can tell her nothing more."

"Thank Heaven for that! You, yourself, see that it would be impossible to—"

"What?" inquired Gottlieb, as his aunt paused.

"To marry her."

"I do not at all consider it impossible; but as it is uncertain whether I ought to wed Nanna when the time arrives for me to marry, it is better for both of us that we should rest satisfied with friendship alone."

"Listen to me, Gottlieb. Sometimes you speak so wisely that I am not certain but that it would repay me to make a proposal to you."

"Well, I am all attention."

"If I am not much mistaken, pity is the only sentiment that you feel for that girl, Nanna. If I was to take it upon myself to pay the old man's fine; if I should further promise you to provide for Nanna's future maintenance—you know I would not break my word—will you bind yourself not to see her again?"

"No, I will never do that. She would be oppressed with sorrow throughout her whole life, if I should be capable of making such an unworthy promise."

"Obstinate youth! you force me to perform my duty to your mother my sister, and command you to visit Almvik no longer. I will not burden my conscience by abetting you in your misconduct."

"I will remain a few days longer," replied Gottlieb without evincing the slightest emotion, "to rest myself after my journey, and then I shall be ready to obey your command."

"Right," muttered Mrs. Ulrica hotly, as she hastily left the young man, "you shall repent this."

Without wasting time by thinking upon this conversation with his aunt, Gottlieb hastened on the road towards the little cottage. He had observed Nanna was not in the boat, and after proceeding to the spring, and fruitlessly searching for her, he hurried to the cottage, his heart beating with such rapidity as he stood before the door, that he was astonished at his great emotion.

"Illness could not have prevented her from going with them," thought he, "certainly not, or they would have remained with her."

Thus thinking he knocked at the door; but he was obliged to repeat the summons several times before he heard the sound of slow footsteps approaching.

"Who is there?" inquired a soft voice from within.

"'Tis I, Nanna!"

An exclamation of joyful surprise was the only reply. The bolt was quickly thrown back; the door opened, and Nanna appeared upon the threshold, pale and careworn. She was clothed in her only holiday dress, a black merino frock which fitted closely around her neck, thereby disclosing her graceful bust to its best advantage.

Without speaking, but overwhelmed with her joyful emotions, she cast herself in Gottlieb's arms, and never was there a purer embrace given or returned than on this occasion. With tender gentleness Gottlieb imprinted his second kiss upon her lips, and then said softly:—

"Poor Nanna, poor child, you have at least one friend in your adversity."

"Then Gottlieb is acquainted with—" She blushingly withdrew herself from his embrace. She had not thought that her greeting had been contrary to customary usage.

"Yes, I know your sorrow; and you may rest assured that I will give myself no rest, during the few days that I remain here, until I see your father at liberty and safely in his own house again."

"O, if that were but possible!" she clasped her hands and lifted her eyes, confidingly, to the face of her youthful friend.

"It shall be possible, Nanna. You have my word for it. If I had been here it would not have happened."

"I thought so. An inner voice told me that if he would only come to us all would be well again."

"I am grateful for your confidence and shall always remember it with pleasure."

"Remember it!" exclaimed Nanna, "are you going to leave us again?"

Nanna again clasped her hands, and this action and the mournful expression of her countenance spoke more than words could have expressed.

"Will you miss me, Nanna?"

"Always."

"And perhaps wish we had never met?" inquired Gottlieb earnestly.

"Ah, no," replied Nanna warmly, "the remembrance of you will perhaps work a happier future for me than I would have had without it."

"But tell me," said Gottlieb changing the subject to one less dangerous, "why did not your sister apply to the proprietor of Almvik."

"O, she would never apply to him. She would rather allow things to take their own course."

"Why so?"

"I know not whether I dare tell you. Papa and Magde, consider me a mere child, yet I can understand that Mr. H—— has sought her with wrong motives, and if I can believe my brother, Carl—"

"What then?" interrupted Gottlieb eagerly.

"Then I can believe that all of our troubles have originated in the fact that Magde refused to give that gentleman a kiss when he requested it."

"What, did he wish to purchase a kiss?"

"Yes, for Carl's pardon," and now Nanna related every circumstance connected with the theft of the game, in nearly the same words in which she had heard it from Carl.

After a short season of reflection, during which he compared the different circumstances, Gottlieb arrived at the same conclusion that Carl had expressed to his sister; and at the same time he also fancied that he had discovered a method for old Mr. Lonner's release, which could not fail of success. In the meantime he merely inquired whether Mr. Fabian H—— had visited the cottage since his discomfiture.

"I have several times observed him prowling about the premises," replied Nanna; "he probably hoped to have an opportunity of seeing Magde alone, which however he has never had, for even should he offer his assistance, she would not have dared to accept it, for if she did, Ragnar would be very angry."

When Gottlieb returned to Almvik, he learned that his worthy uncle, whom as he before knew had left the house early that morning, was not expected to return until late in the evening. In consequence of this unfortunate circumstance, Gottlieb saw nothing before him except a vexatious delay in his intended operations; but it soon entered his mind that Mr. Fabian's absence might be connected in some degree with his wayward love. The day on which he had visited Magde, in order to take advantage of Carl's theft, he had also departed from Almvik in the morning, for during the evening hours his wife was invariably on the watch.

The more Gottlieb considered this circumstance the more he was convinced that if his uncle had sown the seed it was done for his own benefit, and undoubtedly the time was now at hand when he should reap the harvest.

"Ah!" thought Gottlieb, "if I should only be so fortunate as to obtain a power over my uncle, my suspicions and conjectures would exert a powerful influence upon his yielding disposition, especially, if I should place his wife in the back-ground. But to surprise him, with my own eyes in forbidden grounds, would be as good as to have old Mr. Lonner safe back in his cottage again."



CHAPTER XIV.

THE PRISONER.

While the incidents last narrated were transpiring on the one side of the lake, Magde's boat had reached the other, and the occupants of the boat were about landing, yes, Carl had even secured the boat to the stake, when one of the little ones in attempting to reach the landing, fell overboard with a loud cry.

The young and always self-possessed mother, answered the boy's cry, not by crying out herself, but by springing into the water after him, and when Carl turned to learn the cause of the confusion, she had already reached her little boy, and was holding him up at arm's length out of the water. It was all done in a moment, without the least unnecessary confusion.

"Carl," said she quietly, "take the boy."

But Carl had lost his self-possession entirely. After he had literally thrown the boy on the landing, he inquired with a trembling voice:—

"Could you not wait for me? The boy would not have sunk immediately."

"You must not scold me, Carl, I am only a little wet."

She then quietly drew herself to the shore.

"How will you dry yourself now?" inquired Carl in a tone of uneasiness and vexation.

"O, easily, I will call on Mother Larsson and borrow a dress to wear while we visit our father, and my clothing will be dry by the time we return."

Carl was silent. He was displeased because Magde had not called him to her assistance. Meanwhile he proceeded with the children to the prison, that he might prepare the old man for the visit. Magde did not tarry long at Mother Larsson's. As soon as she had obtained the necessary garments, she hurried on, clothed in a neat peasant's frock which fitted her fine form gracefully.

The prison at Harad was located in the ruins of an old castle. Its outward appearance presented a dark and forbidding aspect. The heart of the beholder would contract within him as he gazed upon those ruins of fallen greatness, as they reposed before him, dark and deserted, like an evil omen in his path.

But the interior of the prison, with its tottering weather beaten projections, apparently ready to fall from their resting places, presented an appearance still more gloomy and forbidding. Dampness, and mould of a hundred years growth had obliterated all traces of the fresco paintings that had formerly ornamented the ceiling, on which the moisture had gathered and fell at regular intervals with a hollow patter upon the stone pavement below.

The places once occupied by glittering chandeliers were now shrouded with immense spider webs, in which a whole colony of spiders lived subsisting on the noisome vapors of this gloomy charnel like abode.

Aside from these poisonous insects, an occasional rat, and a few unfortunate prisoners, there were no other inhabitants in this dark prison. A flock of jackdaws had built their nest beneath the eaves of the old castle, and as they received good treatment from the prisoners they would pay them a passing visit at their grated windows to look in upon them or to receive a few crumbs of bread. Old Mr. Lonner had already made their acquaintance and derived much pleasure from attending to their little wants, while he anxiously awaited the arrival of his children.

When Magde arrived she found Carl had prepared the way for her so that she, without hindrance, proceeded directly to the old man's cell. Mr. Lonner was deeply moved by the visit of his children; but he appeared perfectly resigned. Magde's two children were seated upon his knees, while Carl was standing before him relating all that had transpired during his imprisonment. The cloud which had rested upon the old man's brow changed instantly to an expression of joy when he beheld Magde the wife of his beloved son, enter the room. His arms trembled as he embraced her, and his heart throbbed painfully when she described her sorrows and troubles, and told him that Nanna had nearly fainted as they were about entering the boat, at the mere thought of the second parting.

"It was right to leave her behind," said Mr. Lonner, "and if we can only find some means whereby I may be released before the autumn, that the cold may not increase my feebleness, then—"

"Means must be found, father, I think, of immediately going to the city, to take our cow and the two sheep with me, aside from those I will also take the piece of linen which I have made for Ragnar's shirts. By adding all these together I—"

"But, dear daughter, if you sell the cow, how will these little ones prosper?" He clasped his hands upon the two little white heads of the children who were sitting in his lap.

"O, I can borrow some milk of our neighbors, and we can repay them in the fall, after Ragnar returns, for then we shall have another cow."

"That will never do, my child. We must discover some other method."

"I had an idea, also," said Carl, advancing from a corner into which he had withdrawn when Magde entered.

"What is it, my good boy?" inquired his father.

"I was thinking about that which Ragnar has so often told us, about the people in England who procured money by pawning themselves—what was it he called it?" continued he, scratching his head to arouse his memory.

"Life Insurance, was it not?" replied his father.

"That's it, father, and Ragnar also told me that even here in Sweden, gold might be obtained from England on such terms. Now, if we could find some one who understood this matter, and would undertake to draw up the proper writings, I would willingly give my life as security, and then you see, father, I should be just the same as so much ready money."

"My good son, your words are well intended; but it is not as you think in relation to Life Insurance."

"O, that is too bad, father, or you might have received a large sum of money when I am dead."

"My life, I hope, will be finished before yours," said his father, "I am old, and you are young."

"True, I am young in years; but lately, yes, last Friday, while I passed through the church yard, I heard a voice, and that voice I believed."

"What ideas you invent!" exclaimed Magde, frightened for the first time, as she observed Carl's hollow cheeks and sunken eye, "but what did the voice say?"

"'Carl, Carl, Carl,' it said, calling my name three times, 'you will not live long.'"

"Your brain is weak, my boy, because you have worked too hard. When your body has received rest, and rest it must have, you will feel much better. But tell me, Carl, what you thought when you imagined you heard the voice."

"I did not think, but merely replied, 'indeed.'"

"But, Carl, with this superstition you will make your father sorrowful."

"Sorrowful? I do not think so. Should he be sorrowful because our Saviour in his grace is willing to call me to his fold? Instead of being sorrowful, the day of my departure should be a festive day. How many troubles do we escape after we are placed in the earth!"

"But if you think in that manner, you will become mournful yourself, you will not be able to laugh any more."

"Not laugh," replied Carl, and without an effort he commenced laughing merrily. His face glowed with mirthfulness, and his melancholy humor seemed to have vanished as if by magic. It appeared so strange to him that Magde should desire him to laugh, that he forgot all about the life insurance or the warning voice, and once thus engaged, he took no farther part in the consultation.

An hour elapsed, and Magde, after having emptied the basket of its contents, experienced a return from the hope that had sustained her during the interview, to her former despondency, as the moment of parting approached. Carl proceeded in advance to prepare the boat.

"In four days, at the furtherest, I shall return," said Magde, pausing upon the threshold of her father's cell, "and then, as I hope for Ragnar's continued love, I shall bring you good tidings."

"Thank you, my dear Magde. Ragnar shall learn all that you have done for his old father. Kiss Nanna, poor little innocent, for me, and tell her that she must not come here, for it will only make her heart more heavy and sad."

A moment later, and the creaking doors resounded throughout the ruins, the prisoner was again alone.

But once more did he hear a dear voice, for when Magde arrived at the outside, she remembered with a feeling of uneasiness, that her youngest child had not been blessed by its grandfather. In the haste of departure, the little one had been entirely forgotten; but as it was impossible for her to leave the prison with the dear child unblessed, she stood beneath the grated window, and exclaimed:

"Father, dear father, please look through the window, and I will hold up the baby for you, that you may give it your blessing."

Immediately the old man's white head appeared at the window, and Magde held the child aloft in her hands towards him.

And now everything was performed rightly; the last farewell glances were exchanged, and then Magde and her children disappeared from the old man's sight.



CHAPTER XV.

GOTTLIEB ON THE WATCH.

The heat of the day had been followed by the pleasant coolness of an August evening. The hands of the clock pointed to the hour of ten, and Gottlieb, who had been walking during the entire evening in the neighborhood of the little red cottage, began to think that his uncle Fabian had in all comfort reached his home by another road.

"It is so quiet in the cottage," thought he, "that I think they have all retired."

He glanced stealthily over the lilac hedge towards Magde's window. The entire valley was bathed in moonlight, and the moonbeams glanced directly through the window panes of Magde's apartment, with such vivid brightness that Gottlieb was undecided how to act.

Soon, however, he resolved to convince himself of the true state of affairs, that he might be prepared if his uncle should arrive.

He gradually made an opening in the hedge and having found his way clear before him he advanced to the window which, as the weather was warm, was secured only by a small cord. He glanced through the window, and a beautiful picture met his gaze. In this chamber, the husband and wife's little temple, the moonlight was brilliantly reflected from Ragnar's brightly polished hunting and fishing implements which, neatly arranged, were hung against the walls.

At the opposite side of the room, a much worn sailor's hat, commonly called a tarpaulin, was balanced upon the point of a fishing rod, and beneath this trophy was placed a small side board, the open doors of which disclosed a number of shelves laden with gilt edged drinking vessels of white and blue china; a set of rose colored tea-cups, and several polished silver plated mugs. A few uncommonly excellent specimens of carving in wood, decorated one of the shelves, and another shelf contained several articles of jewelry which Magde had received both before and after she was married. All these little valuables Magde had gathered together, after she had put the children to bed, in the hope that she might find some few articles among them that would save her from disposing of the cow.

But her search, undoubtedly, had proved fruitless, for Magde's ornaments were made almost entirely of bronze.

Seated in a chair with her hand resting upon the cradle, Magde was now sleeping soundly.

She had been called, probably, while she was engaged in assorting her little treasures, to attend to the wants of her infant, and overcome by fatigue had unwillingly submitted to the power of that consoler of human grief, sleep. Her face was turned towards the window, and the moonlight illumined her entire figure, which was rendered more prominent by the fact that the cradle stood in the centre of the room. She was still attired in the garments she had borrowed, and her brown hair, fell in two long braids over her loose white sleeves, from whence they dropped upon the face of the sleeping child, while Magde's elbow was resting upon the little pillow.

"What a picture for a painter!" thought Gottlieb. "Young Lonner is not the most miserable of men, by my faith; but I know one who at some future time will look much prettier in that position!"

The dull sound of a horse's hoofs, aroused him from his reveries.

"Ah, ha," thought he as a smile of triumph played upon his lips, "I was right. We shall now see what is to happen."

Gottlieb returned to his hiding place in the hedge with noiseless rapidity. He had not remained long in his somewhat tiresome position, when the sound of the horse's hoofs ceased, and from the noise which proceeded from the other side of the hedge he concluded that the owner of the horse had dismounted and was securing his animal to a tree.

He soon heard the sound of light footsteps proceeding over the grass, and then he discovered the familiar form of Mr. Fabian approaching the cottage. After the new comer had assured himself that the door was fastened he advanced to the window near which Gottlieb had been standing a moment before. Instead of spending time in useless watchfulness he immediately tapped upon the window; but Magde slept so soundly that the noise did not disturb her.

Mr. Fabian flatted his nose against the window pane and suddenly discovered the picture that Gottlieb had so much admired. Yet it was not an expression of love which passed his lips as he gazed upon her.

"Confound that woman!" he exclaimed, "she drives me mad, and I believe she would look on, if I was parching with thirst in the torments of hell, and not give me a single drop of water."

He again tapped upon the pane so loudly, that a person less fatigued than Magde would have awakened. At this moment Mr. Fabian was struck with fear at his own temerity.

"Only think," thought he, "suppose I should awaken some one else! What if an account of this should come to my wife's ear!"—the thought was terrible, and the guilty husband's knees trembled violently. So much did he respect his "dear Ulgenie," that he felt it even at his present distance from her, and perhaps he would have relinquished all his plans in relation to his beautiful Magde, had he not discovered that the window was fastened only with a small cord.

To break off a small twig from a neighboring bush, and to thrust it through the crevice of the window and remove the cord from the hook, was the work of an instant, and before Gottlieb could fully understand the nature of his uncle's movements he saw him suddenly disappear through the window.

Of course Magde was now awakened by the noise of Mr. Fabian's abrupt entrance, and she quickly sprang from the chair. When she recognized the intruder she was seized with a deathly fear; which was however but of momentary continuance. With flashing eyes, and haughtily curling lips she advanced towards him with a bearing so threatening that Mr. H—— retreated in fear.

"Why do you visit me at this hour?" she inquired.

"I was unable to come earlier. I have been to see the justice and made such arrangements that I think Mr. Lonner can be released as early as to-morrow."

"And to speak these words—undoubtedly well intended—you have crawled through my window."

"Upon my honor it was not my fault. I knocked several times, and not wishing to go home without telling you this good news, which I thought would cause you to sleep better—and observing you had not retired—I seized the only opportunity remaining."

"Well," replied she, "I do not think harm will result from your friendly visit, but as it is out of the order of things that you should remain here, I must request you to leave the room in the manner you entered, and then I can converse with you through the window."

"Cruel Magde!" exclaimed Mr. Fabian entreatingly, and even dared to extend his hand towards her. But Magde repulsed him with a look of scorn and anger.

"Travel no further upon this crooked path, and call me Magde no longer, I bear the name of my husband, and wish to be called by that title alone."

Gottlieb who could observe and overhear all that occurred, or was said in Magde's chamber, could scarcely refrain from laughter as he saw his good uncle retreating before the virtuous woman until he arrived at the window from which he somewhat clumsily descended. Gottlieb was on the point of rushing forward to receive his loved relative in his arms and thus preventing him from injuring his precious limbs, when the sound of Magde's voice prevented him from rendering this important service to his uncle.

"There, that will do," said she, "we can now converse without inconvenience to either of us. I hope Mr. H—— has not hurt himself."

"O, never mind me," replied he, "your heart is too hard to be moved at my sufferings."

"I wish to say a word to you, Mr. H——. Your labor is entirely thrown away upon me. I can pity the folly of a man if his folly is not evil; but—"

"Am I evil? Try me," interrupted Mr. Fabian hastily.

"I will," replied Magde. "If you will bind yourself to release my father I shall ever be grateful for the service."

"And nothing further?"

"Nothing."

"Then, at least give me your hand that I may with it wipe away the tears that scald my eyes. I am a weak, a tender hearted man, and must weep when I am scoffed at. But never mind, give me your hand, a moment."

"It is impossible."

"Give me but your little finger."

In lieu of a reply, Magde endeavored to close the window; but her admirer prevented her from doing so.

"Ah!" exclaimed he furious at his defeat. "You wish to enjoy a boon, and not reward the donor. Then listen, the old man shall remain where he is. If I do not interest myself for him no one else will."

"That remains to be seen. Mr. Gottlieb has returned—"

"Ah! then, he has returned. Well, what can he do?"

"Not much, my dear uncle," exclaimed Gottlieb advancing towards Mr. Fabian, "except to give my dear aunt Ulrica, a full account of the interesting conversation I have accidentally overheard."

"Without replying Mr. Fabian stared a moment in bewildered surprise, at the intruder, and then rushing wildly to his horse, he mounted and urged the animal to a furious speed.

"Well, well," exclaimed Magde, "we can well compare Mr. H—— to a hare. But Mr. Gottlieb, whatever chance brought you here, do not bring sorrow upon him, by speaking to his wife of this adventure."

"Fear not, Mrs. Lonner, I have not been on the watch here to become an informer; but as I heard certain things from Nanna to-day, and as I from the first have suspected my uncle, and as I wished to have him in my power—"

"I understand you Mr. Gottlieb. You are an honest and faithful friend, and we shall never forget—"

"And I, Mrs. Lonner," interrupted Gottlieb, "I shall not forget this valley I assure you, and now good night; in a short time everything will be as it was before."

"Thank you, a thousand times! When Ragnar returns, through God's assistance we will repay you."

* * * * *

Gottlieb's heart bounded with joy, as he proceeded on his road towards Almvik, but the heart of another traveller in the same direction was oppressed with gloomy forebodings. It is almost unnecessary to say that the latter traveller was Mr. Fabian H——. On his arrival at Almvik he entered his wife's chamber trembling with anxiety, lest Gottlieb had been there before him.

"What is the matter with you?" inquired his wife, who had already retired to her bed; "has the horse been balky, or have you met with an accident?"

"Nothing, nothing, darling Ulgenie; but my head has been heavy all the afternoon."

"That is caused by your excessive sleeping," said Mrs. Ulrica.

"Perhaps it is. Hereafter I shall sleep less, and after this, my dear wife, I will follow your advice in everything."

"Then, my dear, you will be a good husband. If I should always find you so, I would not have so many causes for complaint."

"Have you any complaint to make now?" inquired Mr. Fabian, anxiously.

Mr. Fabian was in a state of fearful suspense. The air to him appeared populated with evil spirits.

"I did not speak thus for the purpose of troubling you, dear Fabian, it would not be just for me to choose this moment, when you feel so repentant, to remind you of other moments when you do not seem impressed with the worth of your wife."

"Yes, yes, that would indeed be cruel, for it is true, really true, that—that—"

"What, Fabian, good Fabian?"

"That I never before have so much esteemed and adored you, my dear, dear—" He was unable to proceed.

"Ah! Fabian, that is the true spirit. You at last understand how happy you are."

"Yes, as happy as the condemned sinner," sighed Fabian; but in such a manner that his wife heard the first word only.



CHAPTER XVI.

THE FESTIVAL.

The next morning, when Gottlieb awoke, he discovered that he had a visitor even at that early hour of the day. His uncle Fabian was pacing backward and forward at the side of his nephew's bed, with a countenance so wretched and woe begone, that Gottlieb could not but pity him.

"Good morning, uncle," said Gottlieb, cheerfully, "how is your health?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Your voice sounds just as if I was a robber demanding your purse or your life. What is the matter?"

"That which you told me yesterday makes your comparison very apt."

"You are mistaken. It is not my intention to play the part of the famous Rinaldo Rinaldini. I am the most peaceable person in the world, and if you wish to remain at peace at home—which is very natural, you know—I have no desire to prevent you from doing so."

"But, perhaps, you intend to demand from me three times the sum of money necessary to fee a lawyer, to bribe you to secrecy."

"Shame upon you. I have not demanded anything. I only expect—"

"What?" inquired his uncle.

"That you will of your own free will and accord loan me the money necessary to pay old Mr. Lonner's fine. In a few months, when Ragnar Lonner returns and repays me, I will settle with you. If he does not repay me, why it is but a small sum to lose."

"And what will you require for yourself?" inquired Mr. Fabian.

"Shall I peddle out my secret like a Jew? I swear by my honor that I will not divulge to my aunt one word of all that has passed."

Mr. Fabian thrust his hand into his capacious pocket, and withdrawing his purse, with a sigh counted the money into Gottlieb's hand.

"I shall not give you my note for this, for if I am not repaid I do not expect to repay you."

His uncle did not immediately reply, but after opening and closing his purse several times, he addressed his nephew in a tone which displayed deep and true emotion.

"Gottlieb," said he, "I am not miserly. You have spared me when you might have prepared a place of torment for me. I am grateful. Have you any debts? Your father is not rich."

"That is spoken like a man of honor and a true relation," said Gottlieb, warmly, "but fortunately I have always been obliged to live economically, and therefore have escaped from falling into the foolish habit of contracting debts."

"Well, then, if you have no debts, you at least have a future to prepare for. You must not therefore refuse my offer."

"I do not wish to make use of it at present. Yet I do not wish you to consider it refused entirely. At this moment I do not require anything, unless indeed you wish to spare my feet and my boots, by giving me a little money to pay my travelling expenses. When the time comes, and I find myself fully engaged in my father's office, I will consider your proposal with the greatest pleasure."

"Do so, and I will have a good memory, I assure you."

"One word more, uncle. You must promise me to trouble the worthy Mrs. Lonner no longer. She will never submit to your desires."

As he thus spoke, an ashy paleness o'erspread Mr. Fabian's countenance, and with a shudder he glanced fearfully around the room.

"O, the walls have no ears," said Gottlieb; "but uncle you will promise me this, will you not."

"Most assuredly," replied his uncle. "That woman has driven me almost mad; but I think that last night's fright has entirely cured me. I shall not go there again under any circumstances."

* * * * *

The songs of the birds of the valley were more melodious than ever before, the perfume of the roses and lilacs were sweeter than formerly, at least so thought the occupants of the little cottage when Gottlieb visited them that afternoon. Certainly, however, the feast which was given on that day had never been equalled before, except perhaps on the day of the arrival of Ragnar after a long absence from his wife and home.

It was a splendid dinner—roasted spare ribs, and fish, and cakes. The old man occupied the seat at the head of the table. Gottlieb, who had provided this repast from the money he had received from his uncle for travelling expenses, was seated beside Nanna. The children ate so rapidly and heartily that it appeared as though they intended to swallow a sufficient supply to last them for a year to come. Carl, wearing his Sunday vest, a vest that Magde had made, and with a rose in his jacket button-hole, a rose that Magde had plucked, was seated in his usual place at the table, cheerful and contented. Magde attended almost solely to the old man's wants, filling his plate, and replenishing his cup. And lastly, little Christine, who trotted from place to place, taking care of the cow, dog, sheep, goats, and the ancient cat, was as happy and cheerful as the others. Altogether the scene was beautiful and harmonious.

"And for all this happiness," said the old man, looking tearfully upon the youth, "for all this happiness, Mr. Gottlieb, next to God, we are indebted to you. Happy must be the parents of such a son!"

"Father Lonner," said Gottlieb glancing around the table, with a friendly smile, "you have no reason to be envious."

"That is true," replied the old man nodding his head pleasantly to the circle of beloved ones.

In the afternoon, after the old man had retired to his comfortable bed, now doubly comfortable to him, to rest himself awhile, and Magde was seated by his bedside pleasantly chatting with him, while Carl was busy making little boats for the children, Nanna and Gottlieb were seated near the spring beneath the tree, in the meadow.

It could easily be believed that the young couple were not very talkative, for Nanna was busily engaged in searching in the grass for a four leaved clover, and Gottlieb was amusing himself, according to his childish custom, by blowing shrill blasts upon a thick blade of grass.

It was sunset. The glowing reflection of the sun fell upon Nanna's pale neck and face, illumining them with a golden blush.

"I am sorry," said Gottlieb, at length, throwing aside the blade of grass, and assuming a serious cast of countenance, "I am sorry that our lessons must have an end; but all is for the best, for, my child, you know enough already."

"More than enough," replied Nanna, softly.

"Especially for a school teacher," said Gottlieb.

"Yes, especially for a school teacher," repeated Nanna.

"But you speak so abstractedly. You are not so lively as usual."

"I did not know it; but if Gottlieb says so, it must be true. When one has been so glad as I have been to-day, and then as sorrowful, it takes much courage to meet the change indifferently."

"But, dear Nanna, you were aware that I should be forced to go away soon."

"I did not know that you were going so soon as to-morrow morning."

"Neither did I, myself, when I saw you yesterday; but when I determined to go by the steamboat, you perceive that—"

"Yes, yes."

"And then again what difference will a day or two more or less make, when we part—"

"Never again to meet," interrupted Nanna.

"You will do right in the meantime not to hope too much."

Nanna glanced inquiringly towards Gottlieb.

"Do you not think it strange, Nanna, that we who have been acquainted but so short a season, should think so much of each other?"

"It is perfectly natural that we should. Persons in fashionable society cannot become so well acquainted with each other as we could in one hour. At first we met each other every evening, then every morning and evening, and at length—"

"And at length morning, noon and night!" interrupted Gottlieb, with a smile. "In truth, Nanna, you are right, for if our every meeting was so divided that we should be together but once each week, our acquaintance would have been prolonged for an entire year."

"O, much longer than that even," said Nanna, joining in Gottlieb's laugh.

"And as we have remained by our agreement not to fall in love with each other, we part as friends, and not in despair, and what is still better, not with reproaches, which, had the case been different, we would have been obliged to make and listen to."

"Yes, it is fortunate, very fortunate, that—that—" stammered Nanna, unable to finish the sentence.

"We need not conceal from ourselves that in making that arrangement we ran a great risk. For my part, I am not too proud to say that it has been very difficult for me to keep it."

"But Gottlieb," replied Nanna, "as you have kept it, it is better as it is."

"Certainly; but then it is not so good as I wish to have it."

"How do you wish it to be then?" inquired Nanna innocently.

"Upon my honor I can hardly say; but if I was placed in better circumstances—" Nanna dropped her eyelids over their soft tell-tale orbits; but not so quickly but that Gottlieb detected a ray of hope gleaming from their deep wells.

"Will you advise me what course to take, when I have obtained a competency?" continued Gottlieb.

"No, that would be of no use; but Mr. Gottlieb, when I hear that you have wedded the rich wife of whom you have spoken, I will rejoice at your good fortune."

"And does not the thought of that rich wife cost you even half a sigh?"

"Not if that wife will render you happy."

"Nanna, you speak as though you did not love me at all!" exclaimed Gottlieb hastily, forgetting entirely the part he had determined to play during this interview.

"And should I love you?" inquired Nanna blushing deeply. "I think I am not such a foolish girl as that."

"But I believe that you love me," replied Gottlieb. "Can you deny that your heart is mine?"

"I do not deny it; but I shall not allow it to be so," said Nanna with a glance that immediately cooled Gottlieb's sudden ardor. "My heart is my own, and should not be an object of trouble to you; and I assure you Mr. Gottlieb that I shall not allow any weakness on my part to cause you to break the judicious contract we have made."