The curate sat on a roughly-made but comfortable garden sofa, and was knitting on a strong stocking in sweet composure. A gay-coloured parallelogram stared out from the gra.s.s beside him; for there, covered with a patchwork quilt, lay, in a great basket, the baby, the little girl, the pride of the household, fast asleep. So the curate could not be said to be exactly idle, though he was taking a delicious morning rest. His wife meanwhile--a large-hearted, practical woman--was making all things comfortable in the house, with the help of her efficient _aide-de-camp_, an orphan girl s.n.a.t.c.hed from the influences of the poorhouse. Where a specially strong arm was required, the curate himself was at all times to be relied upon. He was not only a hewer of wood, but often a bearer of wood as well as of water. He was, too, an embodied guild of all mechanical trades, and might have been warranted to use skilfully at a pinch any tools whatever.

The curate gave a start as the click of the front gate was heard, and almost impatiently wondered who could be coming.

A tall young woman walked rapidly along the rake-marked walk, and dotted it at regular intervals with the distinct portrait of the soles of her strong and well-made boots.

She went up the steps decidedly, and entered the house without knocking, as any ordinary visitor might have done. In a moment more she appeared in the garden, with the curate's wife at her side. He stood up and bowed awkwardly, and then looked inquiringly at the new-comer. He recognized at once in her the stranger who had sat near the chancel the day before, though her dress was somewhat different from her Sunday attire. She wore a black sailor hat, from which she had that morning removed the uplifted wings that threatened to take the whole head-gear upward, and had left only the broad, bright band that wound round it. She wore a short, dark travelling dress that well displayed her new boots. The visitor did not wait for the curate to speak, but said quickly, "I will only detain you a moment. Can you tell me where widow Marget Erikson lives, the old woman who sat in front, on the side benches, in the church yesterday?"

"Marget Erikson? Her I know very well, but it is not so easy to tell where she lives," answered the curate, with at the same time an inquiring glance at the stranger. A look of intelligence came into his face, and he said: "It is not--it cannot be! no," and he turned to the group of small boys, now all standing, some of them weeds in hand, wonderingly regarding the stranger. "Here, Kael," said the father, singling out a fair-haired, intelligent-looking little fellow, "you can show the young lady the way to widow Marget Erikson's." Again there was a scrutinizing, questioning look on the part of the pastor.

A slight flush tinged the cheek of the stranger. She was turning away with her guide, when the boy said hastily, "Where's the basket, mamma?"

"There'll be no basket to-day," she answered, almost with a smile. "You can take Marget this instead from me," and she picked from her favourite bush a large, half-open rosebud, with a long stem and rich, shining leaves.

The boy could hardly understand the love-prompted courtesy that would not send to the widow what might to a stranger seem like alms, but which really was but the sharing of what one poor Christian had with a poorer.

The guide trotted off with his bare feet across the meadow, where a little path showed that he was not the first to find a direct way from the parsonage to the widow's cottage.

"Well, wife? well, Anna?" said the pastor, and looked inquiringly into the face of his best-beloved, as he generally did when he was in doubt or difficulty. It was a face that any one might have been pleased to look upon. It had in it the bright cheeriness of a child, and at the same time dignity and a wisdom in this world's matters, as well as "the wisdom that cometh from above." He received no answer, and so said himself: "She was in church yesterday when you were at little Fia's death-bed. I could hardly help thinking of you and the child when I was in the midst of my sermon. The miller told me afterwards that 'miss' and the little girl were with Possessionaten something, a traveller who had stopped at the inn by the cross-road."

There was a sudden end put to the conversation by a loud cry from the baby, which swept all other expressions from the face of the pastor's wife, where at once mother love was triumphant.

CHAPTER III.

A STRANGE MEETING.

Across meadows, over ditches, and at last up rather a steep ascent wound the way to Widow Erikson's cottage. The path had grown rough and narrow, but the barefooted boy went over it as lightly and as unharmed as if he had been a happy bird. The boots, however, of his companion seemed a tight fit for climbing, and at last a straggling bramble that crossed the way turned up two little black points, like doors, to show the way to the untanned leather behind the bright polish. The traveller stopped, and smoothed them down in vain with her finger; the mischief was done.

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

"Maybe," said the boy; "but summer and winter Widow Erikson comes down here all alone. I don't believe she'd miss the service if you'd give her a bucket of red apples." The boy had evidently named his ultimatum in the way of temptation. "There's the cottage," he added, pointing to a small, reddish-brown building far up the ascent.

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

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

Thanks! Thank your mother too. Here!" and she laid in the boy's hand a bit of silver that made his face shine. He bowed in his best style, which did not disturb his backbone, but brought his chin down till it touched his breast. He had taken off his cap for the performance, and his white hair fluttered in the breeze as he watched his late companion making her way up to the cottage alone. All was right, he was sure, and down he ran as fast as his feet could carry him. The precious silver was stored in the depths of his pocket, and with it he bought in imagination all sorts of treasures before he reached home to tell the success of his errand.

The traveller moved slowly as the path grew more steep, and finally walked doubtfully on as she approached the cottage. There were three or four low steps leading to the door, and there some kind of an animal seemed making a vain attempt to go up. As the stranger drew nearer she saw that a small woman with a short, dark skirt was bowed over, evidently washing the steps, with her back towards the path and her unexpected guest. A noise near her made the figure stand upright and turn its face towards the new-comer. One sight of the visitor prompted a series of bobbing courtesies, a wondering look in the old sun-browned face, and a folding back into a triangular form of the wet sackcloth ap.r.o.n, which was truly not in a presentable condition. The old woman was the first to speak. "Good-day, miss--good-day!" and then there was a look of astonished inquiry.

"The pastor's wife sent you this," said the girl, holding out the beautiful rosebud she had taken from the boy.

"So like her!" said the old woman, lovingly. "She's just like that herself! G.o.d bless her! Thank her for me, please--thank her for me!" and the thin, work-distorted, wrinkled hand was hastily wiped on the ap.r.o.n, and then stretched out to take that of the stranger for the usual expression of grat.i.tude. "Thank _you_, miss, for bringing it," continued the old woman, with another questioning look at her guest. "Do you know her--do you know the curate's wife? It's likely you don't live hereabouts." The cut of the stranger's clothes was not in vogue at Kulleby.

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

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

"Don't you know me, mother?" was the question that followed, while the fair face flushed with the effort those words had cost the speaker.

"It can't be my Karin!" was the exclamation. There was another period of courtesying, and a long look of almost unbelieving surprise. There was no move to take this changed daughter by the hand, nor was there any such action on the part of the girl.

"I was stopping at the inn with Possessionaten Bilberg and his little daughter, the one I have taken care of so long. I found out you were in this neighbourhood, and so I got some one to show me the way to where you were living." She did not say that she had seen her mother at church, nor would she have liked to own, even to herself, that she was now repulsed by the appearance and manners of one to whom she was bound by the strongest of ties.

"Come in," said the old woman, courtesying as to a stranger. "It's a poor place, but you are welcome."

A poor place it was indeed, and Karin with her belongings looked there like a transplanted flower from a far country. They who had once been so near to each other seemed now to have almost no common ground on which to meet.

"I did not know how you had it, mother," said Karin at last. She had been silenced by her first view of the poor room.

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

Your brother Erik came home, and was wild-like, as he always was. He pulled himself down, and was sick a long while, and then he died. There was the funeral, and the doctor, and all that; and there was not much left, for of course I couldn't do a turn of work while I was nursing him."

"Just like him, to take all you had!" said the daughter, indignant.

The old woman did not seem to notice the angry exclamation. A sudden light made beautiful the old face as she said: "He came round at the last, and almost like an angel. It did me good to hear him talk. I didn't mind anything when he had come round. I am sure he went to heaven when he died. He was my only boy, and I loved him!" she continued, as if she were speaking to a stranger; and then suddenly remembering who her visitor was, she added: "You would not have known him for the same.

'Tell Karin,' he said to me--'tell her she must forgive me. Tell her to remember she'll need to have her sins forgiven some time. There's only one way.' He said so!" and there was another courtesy of apology that she was talking so to that strange young lady who said she was her daughter.

"Oh dear!" said Karin, looking at her watch, "I must go now.

Possessionaten and his little girl were out for a drive, and I did not leave any word at the inn where I was going. I will come soon again.

Don't feel hard to me about Erik or anything. Remember I did not know how you had it. They wrote me there was a cottage somewhere you could live in free, and I thought you were getting on pretty well."

"Yes, I have the cottage free. The curate's wife comes from the north.

He married up there, and they came to visit her folks. She heard about me, for she was there when Erik died. She knew about this cottage, and nothing would do but I must come down with them; and so I did. You can't think how kind they have been to me. I've done a power of knitting since I have been here. She sees that somebody buys my stockings. But you must go. Come again," said the old woman, in strange confusion between her daughter that was ten years ago and this strange young lady who had condescended to look in upon her.

They parted without even a shake of the hand. The old woman stood at the door and watched the tall girl hurrying down the path, and felt almost as if she had been in a troubled dream.

CHAPTER IV.

TOO LATE.

Possessionaten Bilberg was subject to transient indispositions on Sunday morning. The symptoms that had prevented his being at the church service the day before seemed to have disappeared entirely on Monday. He came home from his drive with his daughter in unusually good spirits; and as for little Elsa, she was quite delighted. She had had a nice play with some charming children, and there was a baby in the house, which she had really been allowed to carry in her own willing arms. Karin's overshadowed countenance pa.s.sed unnoticed in the general stir that followed the return of the father and daughter. They had been invited to spend several days at the hospitable country home where they had been so warmly welcomed. It had been urged that while Elsa was happy with playmates of her own age, Possessionaten could see many things in the neighbourhood that might be suggestive to him, interested as he was in agriculture and manufactures. Planning and packing took all the afternoon, and towards evening the carriage was at the door, and Elsa and her father were to take their departure.

"I was afraid you would be lonely, Karin, and sorry we are going away; but you don't seem to mind it at all," said the little girl, in an injured tone.

"So you want me to be sorrowful," answered Karin, trying to be playful.

"No, no! but I thought you would miss me, and I was glad when papa said you could keep on sleeping in my nice room, and be as comfortable as anybody."

There was a little condescension in the tone, though it was affectionate; but Karin did not notice it, for she was accustomed to Elsa's airs and graces. Karin really drew a sigh of relief when the carriage drove away and she was left to herself. It was not a pleasant evening that she spent, filled with the thronging reminiscences of the past and a full realization of her own shortcomings. To-morrow she would make another visit to her mother, and try to be more frank and affectionate.

The morning came, and Karin was busy clearing all traces of a traveller's comfort from the capacious bag that Elsa had been allowed to give her for the journey. It really would hold a great deal, and filled it was to the uttermost at the country shop to which Karin easily found her way; tea, sugar, and tempting articles of diet, which she hoped her mother would enjoy. It was heavy, but Karin rather liked to feel the pain in her arm, from bearing her unusual burden. She easily found her way along the upward path, and exhilarated by the exercise and the pleasure she was about to give, she entered the cottage in a very cheerful frame of mind. All was silent within.

In the box sofa-bed of the single room there was some one lying, pale and still. "She is dead!" was the first wild thought of distress; but a sweet, broken voice murmured something about Erik and heaven. It was plain that the old woman was wandering in mind, and lost in visions of the past.