Fairy Circles / Tales and Legends of Giants, Dwarfs, Fairies, Water-Sprites, and Hobgoblins

by Villamaria

PART II.

The Friends in the Rock

A SUNNY terrace of the castle hill became the last resting-place of the Countess Matilda. It had been her favourite spot both in her days of health and of sickness. Here she had spent part of every day with her Kuno, and with him looked down on the fruitful plains of Thuringia; and here she had taken a sad farewell of the blooming life around. She did not wish to rest in the dark and gloomy vault, but here on the lonely height, with flowers around her and sunshine above her head.

It was an autumn afternoon. There were no longer any flowers in field or garden, but around the grave of the Countess was a freshness and fragrance as of spring, and the sun in which she had so delighted let no day pass without looking kindly down on the lonely grave, if only for a few minutes.

The wind was shaking the lofty trees of the castle garden, and playfully driving the yellow leaves along the paths, when a little figure with a pale sad face came up the broad gravel walk, climbed the rock, and threw himself on the grave. It was Kuno, Countess Matilda's only child.

How one year had changed everything!—his dear mother dead, his father gone to distant scenes of war along with many noble knights, and he left alone with heartless and ill-natured strangers! A distant relation, the Lady Von Allenstein, had been asked by the Earl to preside over his household, and to act the part of a mother to the little Kuno. She was a woman as heartless as she was clever, and so successfully did she ingratiate herself into the favour of the unsuspicious Earl, that before he left he gave her full control over his vassals and his estate. Her son Eckbert, a lad of about fifteen years of age, had the reputation of being well brought up, because in the presence of strangers he could assume fine courtly manners; but he had a mischievous and malicious disposition, and was both feared and hated by the castle servants.

That Kuno, this child, this dreamer, who in Eckbert's opinion possessed no knightly qualities whatsoever, should be some day lord and possessor of so many noble castles and estates with their numerous dependants, while to his lot had fallen nothing but one small and half-ruined castle, to which not even a single village was attached—this vexed him, and in his heart burned envious hatred towards the orphan child. Hitherto Kuno had borne all Eckbert's malice with the gentleness which he had inherited from his mother; but when the news came that the Earl had been dangerously wounded, and when the messenger spoke of his master's death as probable, Eckbert counted himself freed from restraint, and tormented the little Earl with greater spitefulness than ever.

To-day he had cut him to the heart. Kuno's little horse, which had borne him when he was scarcely more than a baby, and which had never felt either whip or spur, had been mounted to-day by the cruel Eckbert. For the first time Kuno ventured a decided protest, and Eckbert, seeing by this unusual courage how dear the animal was to its young master, struck the spurs with all his might into the horse's sides, so that it reared suddenly and then dashed with bleeding flanks out by the castle gate. When Kuno, after Eckbert's return, ran to the stable to see how his favourite had borne the dreadful ride, the horse did not turn his head as usual to greet him with a joyous neigh; he lay panting on the straw, covered with foam and blood, his feet stretched out, his head drooping, and his breast heaving with a loud rattling sound. Kuno threw himself down beside him, put his arms round his neck, and called him by the tenderest names. Then the creature opened his eyes, fixed his last look on his young master, and with a feeble attempt at a neigh, that sounded like a death-sigh, he died.

Kuno's tears were dried; he remained speechless before his dead favourite, and gazed with tearless eyes upon the body. Thus Margaret, the castellan's wife, Kuno's old nurse, found him. She had seen Eckbert mount the horse, and heard Kuno's words. When she saw the dead animal and the child's grief, her anger at Eckbert's malice knew no bounds. She went at once to Lady Von Allenstein, and said what she thought of Eckbert's shameful deed with vehemence such as the proud lady had never before witnessed in an inferior.

"Do you know," said the lady, with flashing eyes, "what you deserve?—a place in the dungeon among frogs and toads. But I will be merciful. In one hour you and your family leave this castle; that will serve as a warning to your fellow-servants, and will make Master Kuno more submissive to me and my son, as he will no longer have you to encourage him in his obstinacy."

So they left. In one short hour the last true friends of the poor orphan left the castle, although he clung to Margaret and besought her with passionate weeping not to leave him quite alone. He watched them as long as he could, and then crept back through the garden to his mother's grave.

Here dreams of bygone days passed before his mind. He thought of the happy hours which he had spent here on the solitary height with his beloved mother; when he had looked down with her over the blooming country, and listened to her tales of the wonders of foreign lands, of our lost Paradise, and of the heavenly home which she soon hoped to reach. Then when, at the thought of the coming parting, his little heart shrank, his mother would take him in her arms and try to comfort him by telling him about the friendly feelings that the good dwarfs cherish towards poor defenceless children, and about the splendour and beauty of the enchanted realm below the ground.

And now? He knelt down beside the grave, laid his head on the grass, and sobbed, till at last, tired out with grief and weeping, he fell asleep. The sun set, but he did not know it; the stars rose, and the child slept on, with his head pillowed on his mother's grave. A gentle touch on his shoulder woke him. He started up in surprise. Before him stood a tiny little man of insignificant appearance, and with a lantern in his hand. It was the same dwarf that had once led the boy's mother to King Goldemar's dying Queen.

"Who are you?" asked the child in astonishment, as he rubbed his sleepy eyes.

"One of your mother's friends," answered the little man kindly; "dost thou not remember what she told thee about us? Wilt thou come with me?"

Kuno rose at once, took the dwarf's hand, and walked away by his side. They soon reached the clump of ferns that covered the secret entrance, and stepped into the vaulted corridor. The first door opened, and the child found himself suddenly in the enchanted realm of his mother's stories. Yes, this was the crystal hall with the emerald lizards and the sky-blue snakes. The place still glimmered and shone as when the Countess trod its floor; the snakes looked down kindly on the boy with their diamond eyes, and the transparent lizards bowed their crowned heads in friendly greeting.

"I know what the other hall is like," said Kuno in delight to his little guide. "Do not flowers made of precious stones gleam along the silver walls; and in the third hall is there not the Queen's ruby bed swinging from the golden ceiling, and the eagle flapping his golden wings?"

The dwarf smiled. "See for yourself," he said. Then he led him through the halls. Yes, it was all as Kuno's mother had described it; everything was wonderful, and yet he knew it all so well. Last of all, he was led into the throne-room.

The walls and ceiling were of blue crystal, so that it looked like the vault of heaven, and in the high dome shone stars cut out of rubies. There were no lamps in the hall, but from without a hidden artificial light streamed through the crimson stars, and filled the whole room with rosy radiance. At the far end of the room stood a throne made of large and costly pearls, which glowed in the light like rosebuds, and on it sat in her brilliant beauty the Queen of this enchanted palace, with her golden hair flowing to the pearl-built steps of the throne. Beside her sat King Goldemar in a purple mantle, his noble brow adorned once more with the diamond crown.

With a low obeisance the dwarf introduced the boy to the royal pair.

The lovely Queen was much smaller than Kuno, and yet she looked so dignified that the child knelt and reverently kissed the little hand which she graciously extended to him.

"Thy noble mother was my friend," she said with a gentle voice, "and thou art dear to us as one of our own. Every night, if thou wilt, thou mayest come to us to forget thy little troubles in our hall. Look thou around; all are ready to love thee and give thee pleasure."

As she spoke she raised her white hand and pointed to the lovely children at the foot of the throne, and to the troops of little dwarfs that were assembled in the hall. Then the royal children came up to greet him, and after them the little dwarfs with their grave wise countenances; they gave him their hands, and met his wondering gaze with friendly looks. And the poor friendless boy, who hitherto had felt himself alone and forsaken, felt happy, now that he found such unexpected kindness and love such as he had never felt since his mother's death. All his troubles vanished from his memory in this enchanted kingdom. Hour after hour flew by, and to the child they seemed but minutes. Then the dwarf who had brought him took his hand and drew him away. Kuno was sorry to go, but he followed his little guide.

"Do not weep," said the latter kindly. "Thou mayest come back every night; but take care that thou tell no one of thy visits, or some great calamity may be the consequence."

When they reached the garden the stars had already grown pale, and the first streaks of dawn were showing in the east.

"Let us make haste," said the dwarf anxiously, "for we dwellers below ground can only live under the light of the stars—the sun's rays kill us."

Soon they arrived at the winding staircase at the foot of the tower. The gate was locked, but the dwarf brought out a strangely-formed key, put it into the lock, and immediately the heavy iron-barred door turned noiselessly on its hinges. It was the same with all the other doors as soon as the wonderful key touched them, and softly the wanderers slipped through the rooms and passed the sleeping servants. Kuno reached unseen the room that he shared with Eckbert, and then the dwarf hastened home.

Eckbert had tried to keep awake to receive Kuno with scolding and reproaches, for the child had been missed at supper and sought for, of course in vain. But he had fallen asleep over his generous plan.

Kuno was still slumbering sweetly when Eckbert woke, sprang out of bed, and shook the boy roughly.

"Where were you yesterday? Speak!" he shouted; but Kuno, mindful of the dwarf's warning, kept silence. But when Eckbert raised his arm to strike the child, an invisible hand gave him such a powerful blow on the ear that he staggered half unconscious against the wall. He felt uncomfortable at the thought of the unseen avenger, and he left Kuno in peace, but told the whole story to his mother, wickedly distorting it as he went on. At breakfast she ordered the boy to tell where he had been; but though his heart beat fast with terror, he closed his lips tightly and remained silent.

"I will conquer your obstinacy," said the lady angrily; "you shall sleep in the room in the tower, and go earlier to bed."

In the evening she took him herself to the lonely chamber, from which the winding stair led to the garden; for she thought that fear of the uninhabited and lonely room would force the boy to tell his secret. But when he went without a word, and lay down uncomplainingly on his bed, anger rose high in the proud lady's heart. "Eckbert is right," she thought; "his obstinacy must be conquered."

With a prayer to God, and a fervent wish that his little friends would not forget him, Kuno fell asleep. And they did not forget him. About midnight the little dwarf stood once more at his side, wakened him, and led him into the enchanted palace.

The little folk greeted him joyfully, the royal pair reached him their hands, and amid splendour and pleasure the hours flew by. His friends showed him the rooms that he had not seen the day before—the crystal chambers full of golden ornaments, which every family possessed, and which far outshone the most splendid palaces of earthly kings. They showed him wonderful things which they knew how to make—birds made of precious stones, from whose transparent throats sweet songs poured forth; fruits and flowers, shaped out of jewels, whose beauty and fragrance was like that of the flowers of Eden. Kuno's astonishment and delight knew no bounds; the hours went by too quickly, and when the stars began to pale the dwarf led him back to his room in the tower. And every night at midnight the same dwarf brought him back to the enchanted kingdom. There he forgot all the trials of the day—all Eckbert's spiteful tricks, and Lady Von Allenstein's injustice. But it was not alone to please and amuse him that the little people brought the boy to visit them—they cared also for his mind and heart.

In this magic kingdom lived an aged dwarf with long snow-white hair and beard; a supernatural light shone in his eyes. All the dwarfs, even the King and Queen, treated him with the greatest reverence, for he was the oldest man of their nation, and also the wisest. He could look back through thousands of years; he knew everything in the whole earth—all plants and stones; he knew about their origin, and had watched their growth. Often, when the King and Queen were sitting on the throne, the wise man would come into the hall and seat himself on the pearl steps; then the lovely royal children, Kuno in their midst, would gather round and listen as he told with beaming eyes about the wonders of creation, and the mysterious forces of nature. Words of kindness and wisdom flowed from his lips, and it seemed to the boy as if he were sitting in church or at the feet of his dead mother.

KUNO LISTENS TO THE WISE MAN'S TALK.

But even happier hours than these he spent playing with the children in the crystal hall, letting the beautiful lizards dart down on his outstretched hand, or the sky-blue snakes glide down and wind playfully round his feet. Once, when he was preparing to go home after one of his visits, King Goldemar held the hand that he had extended in farewell, and spoke to him in a low and confidential tone. Kuno nodded with a happy smile. Next morning joy shone from his soft eyes and betrayed itself in his cheerful mood, which made so strange a contrast to the silent gravity of his usual demeanour. The change did not escape the quick eye of the Countess; but she took care not to ask the reason, for she thought she could guess it already.

Earlier than usual Kuno said "Good night," and went to his room, but not to bed. He worked about, fastening wax candles, which he had got beforehand from the steward, on the walls, and trying to give the room a festive appearance; then he put on his best clothes, sat down on his bed, and waited.

At last the castle clock struck twelve, and immediately soft music sounded in the distance; it came nearer and nearer, and soon floated up the winding stair. In a few moments the door opened of itself, and in came Kuno's dwarf friends, marching two and two, and all arrayed in festive garments. They held their invisible caps in their hands, swinging them in measured time, so that the silver bells that ornamented them rang in magic melody. Then followed, escorted by Goldemar and the Queen, a bridal pair, whose wedding feast was to be held in a human dwelling for the blessing and well-being of its occupant. Kuno advanced to meet his guests, and greeted them joyfully; then to the sound of wondrous music the dance began. This was led by the King and his lovely consort, their crowns flashing lightning at every quick graceful movement; then followed the bridal pair in garments gleaming with gold. Kuno had taken the hand of a pretty dwarf-maiden, and now mingled merrily in the splendid throng. All was mirth and gaiety.

Suddenly the music stopped, the dancers stood still, and all eyes turned in indignation towards an opening in the ceiling where the face of Lady Von Allenstein was visible.

Goldemar's eyes flashed angrily.

"Blow out the lights!" he cried to one of his train; and in a twinkling the little fellow had climbed up the wall, and before the lady had time to suspect that this command had anything to do with her, the dwarf reached the opening, and blew into her face.

A fearful scream followed; then the King turned to Kuno and said—

"Accept our thanks, my dear child, for thy hospitality; it is not thy fault that we cannot stay longer. Farewell!"

Then the little people turned quickly towards the door, and soon the boy was alone.

Faint moans were now heard from above, and a sound as of suppressed weeping.

Kuno also had seen the face of the lady, and knew that these doleful sounds were uttered by her. Deep compassion filled his heart; he forgot all the unhappiness that this woman had caused him, and, filled only with the thought of helping her, he took a candle in his hand and hastened to clamber up to her.

He found her crouching on the ground, her hands pressed before her eyes.

"What is wrong, gracious lady?" asked Kuno timidly.

"Oh, I am blind! I am blind!" she groaned piteously. "The dwarf blew into my eyes, and my sight left me."

Kuno, full of pity, seized her hand and led her tenderly step by step down the winding stair, and on to her own apartment.

After calling a maid to her assistance, he returned to say good-night to the poor lady. What he had never done in her days of health he did now—he drew her hand to his lips and kissed it fervently. The lady felt a hot tear drop on her hand; silently, but with scarce-concealed emotion, she drew it away. This tear burned like unquenchable fire, not only on her hand, but on her soul.

She spent a long and sleepless night; this unexpected calamity had crushed her hard heart. But though the light was taken from her eyes, a new day dawned within her. Her dislike of Kuno, her hardness and injustice towards the orphan child, all passed through her mind in fiery procession; and when she thought of Kuno's noble conduct, a flood of penitent tears streamed from her sightless eyes.

Eckbert, on hearing of his mother's misfortune, showed himself as heartless as ever. He railed at the dwarf and at Kuno as the real cause of it. But he had not any idea of sitting through the long tedious hours with his poor blind mother—that was Kuno's business, he thought, for he had been the cause of it all. On the contrary, freed from all restraint, Eckbert amused himself more than ever with the chase and with drinking bouts, and tyrannised worse than before over all around him.

Kuno behaved towards the unhappy lady like a loving son. He sat with her and cared for her wants as if she had been his own beloved mother. When the summer came he led her out every day into the garden or to the rock where his mother lay, and tried to amuse her with his childish talk.

Lady Von Allenstein was often deeply moved when she felt Kuno's tenderness and thought of her own heartlessness. Once her emotion overcame her, and she drew Kuno to her side, and said with tears—"You are so good to me, who was so unkind to you; can you forgive me for all the wrong I have done you? Oh! if I could only get back my sight, I would take every opportunity of making up to you for my injustice."

Kuno was still on the most friendly terms with the dwarf nation, and regarded the enchanted palace as his second home.

Exactly a year had passed since that wedding in the tower-chamber, when King Goldemar again expressed a wish to hold a similar feast in the same room.

Kuno's heart beat high with joy at these words; perhaps—but he would cherish no presumptuous hopes.

Again the room was festively decorated; but no one in the castle got the least hint of what was to take place in the isolated room. The little guests appeared, and this time the merriment went on undisturbed.

But dawn, the time of separation, was drawing near, and Goldemar held out his hand to his protégé to say good-bye. Then Kuno held it fast, and looked entreatingly into the good King's face.

"What dost thou want, Kuno?" asked Goldemar.

"I have one petition, the fulfilment of which will make me happy," answered the boy.

"Name it," said the King graciously; "it is granted."

Then Kuno led the King to the bed and drew back the curtains. There sat a pale lady in deep mourning, her dark sightless eyes fixed vacantly before her.

"Give her back her sight," begged Kuno, pointing to Lady Von Allenstein.

Goldemar's eyes shone as he looked approvingly on the boy; then he bent towards the lady and said, "I light the lamps again!" at the same time breathing into her eyes, so that the sight came back immediately.

The newly-opened eyes shone with joy and gratitude, and in a burst of weeping she sank into Kuno's arms, while the royal pair and their train looked on in deep emotion.

"Farewell then, Kuno," said King Goldemar. "Thou hast found what was needed to make thee happy—a mother's heart. We have kept our word. Shouldst thou ever in thy life again need our help, thou wilt find us ready."

With a loving look the King held out his hand, and the Queen and the other dwarfs likewise took an affectionate leave of the boy before returning to their kingdom under ground. Just as they were going through the castle garden towards the entrance in the side of the rock, Eckbert returned from a drinking bout.

"I have come upon these dull fellows unexpectedly," he said, grinding his teeth, when he noticed the procession of dwarfs. "Now they shall suffer for that box on the ear, and for my mother's blindness. I will cut off the last clown's head and throw it in at that stupid Kuno's window."

He slipped softly behind the procession. When they reached the door in the rock, Eckbert waited till the last had put his foot on the threshold, then he sprang forward and raised his sword. The same instant the heavy rock door, which so artfully closed the opening, shut to and crushed Eckbert's head to atoms. Without uttering a sound he fell back, and his blood stained the snow.

The next morning offered a sad spectacle to Lady Von Allenstein's newly-restored sight. It is true, Eckbert had been an undutiful son, but still it was her child, her own flesh and blood, that now lay before her a mangled corpse. The place where he had been found with his sword unsheathed made Kuno suspect whose hand had caused his death; but he was silent on this as on all that concerned his dwarf friends.

Eckbert was buried with great pomp, but no eyes shed tears at the ceremony save those of his mother and of the good forgiving Kuno. From this time Lady Von Allenstein turned the whole affection of her ennobled heart towards Kuno, who repaid her love with the most heartfelt gratitude; and no one who did not know their relationship would have thought, to see them together, that they were anything but mother and son.

Winter and spring were past, and the warm summer weather had come.

On a bright summer evening the horn of the watchman on the tower announced a troop of horsemen, and as they drew near with the sound of trumpets Kuno's sharp eye recognised in their floating banner his father's colours.

He had long since recovered, but instead of returning to his castle he had once more offered his strong arm and brave heart in service to his imperial lord. The war was now ended, and the Earl, whom they had long counted dead, had returned, covered with scars and with honours, to clasp his beloved son in his arms.

Lady Von Allenstein still lived in the castle, and presided over it as before, but she was served now from love and not from fear. When she died in a good old age, Kuno knelt at her side; her cold hand rested on his head, and her dying lips spoke words of love and blessing over her adopted son.

---

[The Flower of Iceland.]

A SUBSTANTIAL farm-house stood many, many years ago on the slope of a hill in bleak and frozen Iceland. The owner, who had spent his youth as a sailor in distant climes, had at last obeyed his dying father's summons, and exchanged the palms and orange groves of southern lands for the feeble sunlight and cold lava-fields of his native island. But as a living souvenir of those happy regions he brought home a young and beautiful wife, whose dark and eloquent eyes still shone in the memory of all who had beheld them, long after they had been closed in the last sleep.

"Marietta," her husband had said before the priest had joined their hands in marriage, "have you considered well what you are renouncing when you promise to follow me as my wife? Here in your country an eternal spring reigns, sweet with the fragrance of flowers and musical with the warbling of birds, while the Italian sky shines in never-fading blue. On my island you will find none of these things. A pale sun, a grey sky overhead, and all around barren heaths and ice—ice and snow wherever you look; none but the Icelander can think this island beautiful."

"But you will be there," answered Marietta; "and could I wish for any home but yours?"

So she had gone with him to the far north.

They had one child, a lovely little girl, who bore the name of Helga; she must be a true daughter of Iceland, and to this even her name must witness. But her foreign descent was not to be hid; true, she had the fair skin and beautiful flaxen hair of a northern girl, but her eyes were as dark and mysterious as her mother's.

The Icelanders have no flowers; they know of their beauty only by the tales of their countrymen who have seen them on their travels; but every one who looked into little Helga's beautiful face thought that flowers must look like that, and thus she was called "the Flower of Iceland."

Fair Helga loved her grave father, but she loved still more her beautiful and gentle mother, by whose side she spent most of her time.

Every spring the father set out for the coast with a few servants to get fish for the year's household provisions; for though he dearly loved Marietta and his home, the sea still exercised the old spell on his heart. In summer and autumn he was accustomed to go to the distant trading places along the coast, there to exchange the wool of his large and well-conditioned flocks for the valuable products of foreign lands, with which he loved to please and adorn his dear ones.

At such times Helga would sit at her mother's feet, listening as she told in the soft, sweet sounds of her native tongue about the blue sky and the warm golden sunlight of Italy, of the beautiful flowers and evergreen woods, and of the fine mild nights when the young girls would dance in the moonlight to the sound of the mandoline, and pleasure and melody reigned over land and sea.

Ah! how beautiful that country must be; and here everything was so different. No dance, no song, either from human lips or from the throat of a bird. Helga had never even heard the sheep give a cheerful bleat; everything was stupid and grave; the silence of death was Nature's language here.

Then Helga's dark eye would wander away over Iceland's wide and desert heaths, over the lava-fields that stretched for miles, and which had buried the freshness of nature under their stiff mantle of mourning. She gazed on those giant ice-mountains, untrod by human foot, which rise like monuments of death, with thick mist-veils about their brow. Even when a sunbeam happens to pierce the cloudy covering, the colossal piles of ice shine in the pale light like sarcophagi in a vault. Then Helga would shudder and think with ardent longing on her dear mother's native land.

And she? Ah, her husband had been right. In spite of her love for him, she pined for the sunny valleys of her childhood, all the more as she never told her husband of the grief that gnawed at her heart, for he placed his Iceland before all the paradises of the world. Ten years had scarcely gone by till Marietta's warm heart lay still beneath the sod.

Helga thought her heart would break when they carried her loved mother out towards the hill, whence she had so often looked longingly out over the sea, watching the blue waves as they hastened towards the beautiful but distant south.

"When you bury me," said the dying woman to her husband, "lay me so that my face may look towards Italy." And they did as she wished.

Helga often sat now on the grave, herself the only flower that brightened it; and along with her dear mother's image those distant countries came vividly before her mind, as she had heard them described as long as she could remember.

A distant relation now came to take charge of the housekeeping. She had willingly left her home, bringing with her her only son, in compliance with her rich cousin's request. The stern old woman had no sympathy with Helga's longings, and counted her descriptions of distant lands as fairy tales; nothing, she thought, could be more beautiful than Iceland. But Olaffson, her boy, who was only a few years older than the little orphan, became Helga's eager listener. With equal delight he looked on her beautiful face and listened to her stories; the grave blue eyes, which were usually as cold as the glaciers of his native island, would kindle as she went on, and when Helga stopped he would say, "I will be a sailor, and travel to those countries to see if they are really so beautiful!"

"But you will take me with you?"

"Oh yes, of course."

Thus the years went by, and the time drew quickly on when the tree, the seed of which had been sown by Helga's hand, bore fruit. Olaffson was no longer a boy, and he decided on going to sea. The head of the house willingly gave his consent, and the time of parting came.

Fair Helga's cheek was pale. Olaffson fancied that it was the separation that troubled her so deeply, and that thought sweetened the bitter hour to him. But ah! it was only her grief at having to stay at home on the cold and barren island, and at not being allowed to see the countries to which, as she thought, she had a much better right than Olaffson.

---

Another year had gone. Olaffson had come home and given an account of all that he had seen. The hour of parting again drew near. Early next morning he was to set out on a second and longer journey, and in spite of Helga's tears and entreaties to be allowed to go, her father and Olaffson had only shaken their heads and laughed at her childishness.

It was evening. She went with Olaffson to the grave on the hill, there to hear once more about the wonders of foreign lands. Hour after hour flew by; she could not tire of the delightful theme.

"Well, Helga," Olaffson at last concluded, "it is indeed as beautiful in those countries as your mother used to tell you; almost more beautiful—yes, much more beautiful; still, it is not Iceland. There is no place so beautiful as our native land—no place."

Helga looked at him incredulously.

"You may believe me, Helga," he said. "Look; it is now midnight. In those countries there has been night, deep night for hours; the sun has long ago forsaken them, but it loves our island better, for it lingers longer with us. Just look over yonder. It has just sunk into the sea, and on the rosy western sky it paints in silvery outline the beautiful leafy forests which are denied to our soil. Only look how they nod their gleaming heads; does it not seem as if you could hear a mysterious rustling among their branches? And are not the white clouds above like eagles circling over their summits? And now look at the clear light around you! The nights there are as dark as the consciences of criminals; our nights are like the heart of a pious child—light, clear, and still."

"But it is so cold here—so cold that my very heart freezes within me," said Helga complainingly.

"But the cold is bracing," said Olaffson. "There, I found men weak, cowardly, and effeminate. I could tell you many a sad story to show this. Now look at your own land, Flower of Iceland, for you belong to us; we are honest, brave, and strong as our fathers were, and our sons will be after us, and that we owe to Iceland and its glaciers, its cold but strengthening climate. I tell you, fair Helga, there is but one Iceland, as there is but one flower in it."

Early next morning Olaffson was to set out. Helga's father said he would go down to the coast also with his servants, for it was the time of the yearly fishing, so that they might as well travel together so far.

The farewell was short and silent. Helga struggled to keep back her tears when she saw how merrily they all sprang into the saddle, and when she thought of Olaffson's words about Iceland's brave people; for she must show herself worthy of her race. But her dark eyes rested so longingly on her father's face that he knew what was passing in her heart.

"Come, Helga," said he, stooping down from his horse, "you may go with us as far as the hill where the lava-fields begin." Then he took her up before him on the saddle, and soon the horses were off at a canter. Soon they reached the hill at the foot of which the lava-fields began, whose dark lines stretched for miles along the horizon.

Helga could no longer restrain her tears. She threw her arms sobbing round her father's neck and said, "Don't stay long away, dear father; it is so dreary at home when you are both away."

"I will come back in a few weeks, my Helga," said her father, soothingly; "meantime be a good girl, and help your cousin with the housekeeping."

He kissed her snow-white brow silently, but tenderly, lifted her down from the horse, and after one more pressure of the hand the little band set out again.

Helga watched them till a sinking of the road hid them from view; then she went back towards the hill, leant against the side of a rock, and looked into the distance, shading her eyes with her hand. Then they came into sight again, but so far away that Helga's farewell could not reach their ear. A fleeting sunbeam rested on them a moment, making horses and riders shine out clearly from the desert plain over which they were moving. Then a mist, such as only Iceland's mountains could send forth, fell around them, and Helga saw them no more.

She leaned her head sobbing against the rock, closed her eyes, and wept hot tears of grief and loneliness. Then a voice of wondrous sweetness sounded suddenly in her ear, "Why does fair Helga weep?"

Helga opened her eyes in astonishment. No one was there; she could see nothing but the mist in the distance and the bare lava-fields at her feet. She closed her eyes again.

"Helga, fair Helga, why are you so sad?" said the voice again; it seemed as if it came from the sky.

A slight shudder passed through Helga's frame; she did not venture to stir, but she timidly opened her eyes and looked up. But what did she see? Was the azure Italian sky, of which she had so often dreamt, coming here to meet her? Right before her, on the summit of the hill, stood a form of majestic beauty, which must surely belong to some happier clime. Eyes of deep and mysterious blue shone down on Helga from the kingly countenance, and hair lovelier than her own, golden as the stars of the summer night, flowed down over the robe of purple velvet in which the stranger was clad.

"Why does fair Helga weep?" he asked tenderly.

Helga tried to regain her composure. "How do you know me, O stranger?" she asked shyly.

"Who does not know the Flower of Iceland?" answered he with a smile. "Shall I tell you some things about yourself that will prove to you how long I have known you, and how well I am acquainted with your history? Shall I tell you how often I have seen you sitting on your mother's grave, and what images there passed before your mind? Shall I say what longing a moment ago stirred your soul—how you wished to be permitted to travel with Olaffson, that you might see those rich and wondrously beautiful lands? But no such journey is necessary to the fulfilment of your wish. Your mother's paradise is here—here close beside you."

Helga's eyes shone, half in doubt, half in delight.

"Here, here?" she asked, incredulously. "How can that be?"

"Just come a few steps with me to the other side of the hill, and then you will see that I speak the truth."

Helga took his proffered hand. The stranger who had known her so long and so well was no longer a stranger to her, and he could not be an enemy who was about to fulfil her heart's dearest wish. So she went fearlessly with him to the other side of the hill.

The stranger placed his hand against the rock, which immediately opened, and allowed Helga and her guide to enter. She stood spell-bound with astonishment. Then she passed her hand over her brow, and tried to think if this could be a dream. But no, it was reality. There lay before her a wondrous region, more beautiful than her mother's native land or than all her childish dreams.

Through the crystal dome that stretched above this paradise the sun sent beams bright and warm such as the children of Iceland never see or feel. Their golden light trembled among the green foliage of the majestic trees, played with the flashing fountain jet, and flamed in the cups of the transparent flowers.

In the distance the ocean rolled its deep blue waves round wooded islands, and amid the fragrance of the flowers and the brilliant colours of the lovely scene hovered sweet and magic music, which floated to the shore of the sea, whose waves bore it in soft echo to the happy isles.

Helga looked round with delight such as she had never felt before. Had earth really such beauties, and was she permitted to gaze on them?

She stooped to examine the wonderful flowers, gently stroked the velvet of their leaves with her white hand, and pressed her lips into their fragrant cups. Then her delighted eye watched the fountain, as its waters rose in a line of light almost to the crystal dome, then fell in a graceful curve far beyond its basin, so that the shrubs and flowers bent beneath its shining dew.

Then she turned towards the lofty trees, pressed her face gently against their smooth stems, and looked up at their shining foliage, which rustled softly in the breeze. Snow-white birds hopped from branch to branch, and threw friendly glances at Helga as at an old acquaintance. Was it these feathered songsters that made the sweet music which floated with the sunbeams and the soft spring air all through this lovely place? Or did the tall trees or the distant sea give forth the sweet sounds that soothed with soft caress Helga's heart and mind, bearing away on their melodious waves the past and its memories?

Hours had flown by in this fairy kingdom, and to Helga they seemed but as one moment. At last she turned to the stranger, who had followed her every movement with loving eyes, and had noticed her delight.

"Oh, how shall I thank you," she said, grasping his hand, "for bringing me here and satisfying the longing of years? But tell me where I am; for Iceland's cold hills hide no such paradise."

"You are in my kingdom, fair Helga," answered the stranger in a gentle voice; "and I am the fairy king of Iceland."

Helga looked at him in astonishment. No lips save her mother's had ever told her of such things, and she knew nothing of Iceland's spirit kingdom. Therefore Helga felt neither terror nor anxiety.

"Ah! if I could only stay here always," she cried earnestly.

"I wish for nothing better," said the king; "and why should you not?"

"Ah! my dear, good father—he has no one but me," said Helga, thinking for a moment of her home.

"But he is now far away," said the fairy king persuasively; "and you can stay at least till he comes back."

"So I can," cried Helga in delight. So she stayed with the fairy king.

One day in this paradise was just like the next, as it will perhaps be in heaven, where there is nothing to remind the blessed of the flight of time, where it is all one gloriously happy present, because they have no past to look back on with sad memory, and the future has nothing more beautiful to excite their longings.

Helga moved with happy heart by the side of the fairy king through this paradise. The white birds flitted around her, now and then settling on her hand or shoulder. The sea with the blue waves gave a sound of pleasant greeting when Helga and the fairy king drew near its shores. Then when he seized her hand and they stepped together on one of the little waves, this fairy boat carried them gently and swiftly over to the happy islands.

At midnight, when Iceland's sun spread its crimson mantle along the horizon, its reflection streamed through the crystal dome, glowed like roses in the fountain and on the birds' white feathers, while the sea rolled to the shore in violet waves.

Then Helga knew that she must close her eyes, in order to strengthen herself for a new day of happiness. She lay down on the soft moss, while the fairy king sat near her and took his harp. From its strings streamed forth magic music which banished memory from Helga's soul. The sweet sounds lulled her to sleep, and carefully guarded the gates of her heart, permitting no dream to knock there which could remind her of the past and its claims. But, once, the chord which nature has placed between the hearts of parent and child, and which never breaks even though seas lie between, sounded with a startling thrill.

Helga's father had come home, and his grief and lamentation at the loss of his beloved child were so violent that Helga's slumbering heart awoke.

"My father!" she said suddenly one day as she stood beside the sea, and drew back the foot which she was just on the point of placing on the wave that stood bowing its blue head before her. "My father! I think I hear you lamenting my loss. Is it not my duty to leave all these beautiful things here and return to him?"

A shadow fell on the fairy king's face. He silently seized his harp and drew from it strains more beautiful, more heart-enthralling than Helga had ever heard before. They floated away over the sea till the waves sank into silence, unwilling to disturb the sweet melodies. And in Helga's heart memory ceased to thrill, and the visions of the past faded from her mind.

Then the fairy king told her how he had chosen her years ago as the queen of this kingdom, and had watched over her since her childhood; that he had prepared all these beautiful things only for her, with the hope that she would some day be his wife, and thus gain for him that for which his soul had yearned during long centuries—an immortal soul, a boon which is denied to the poor fairies in every land.

HELGA IN THE FAIRY KING'S PALACE.
F. C., p. 154.

"Will you be my wife now, fair Helga?" he asked in conclusion. "I will love you with a faithful love such as you would seek in vain among your degenerate race. You shall never regret having given to the poor fairy king the desire of his heart."

"I will, I will!" said she, seizing his hands with childish frankness. "I will always stay with you."

The king's eyes shone with joy.

"But, fair Helga, the laws of our kingdom are strict; we hold the vows of faithfulness more sacred than you do, although we look for no eternal reward. If you become my wife, and by uniting your soul to mine impart to me your immortality, then you belong henceforth to me, and to me alone. Your father and your home have no longer any claim on you, and if you ever return to them, then I must hold you guilty of robbing me of my soul, and our kingdom will demand your life as the penalty. Canst thou keep such faith as this with me, O Flower of Iceland?"

Fair Helga leaned forward. "Look into my eyes," she said; "do you think me so ungrateful? I will be your wife, and you shall gain through me a never-dying soul. Do you think I could disappoint your hopes of immortality?"

So fair Helga, the Flower of Iceland, was married to the fairy king.

A year had gone by. The sun shone once more through the crystal dome, and fair Helga's fairy kingdom still bloomed in unfaded beauty; but the Flower of Iceland was pale and sorrowful, and a tear trembled on her lowered eyelashes.

Was the fairy king's wife not happy? Oh yes, she was happy, almost too happy. Beauty and love surrounded her on every side; but undisturbed blessedness never lasts long on earth.

Her husband was far away. The laws of the fairy kingdom compelled him to go every year across the sea to give account of his government to the supreme lord of the fairy race, whose throne stood in the rocky mountains of Norway. He had promised to return in a week, and now three weeks had gone by, and he had not come home. This thought gnawed at fair Helga's heart, and made her blind to all the beauty around her. In vain did the white birds flit around her head, stroking her cheeks with their soft wings. Helga's soul was sunk in sorrow, and the magic music with its soothing power lay asleep in the harp. At last she rose.

"Ah! I must be disobedient, my husband; forgive me, forgive me! But anxiety will kill me, if I do not go out to look if I can see you in the distance."

She sprang up and went to the door in the rock. The birds fluttered anxiously around her, but she frightened them away with her hand, and touched the wall through which she had entered a year ago. The rock, not daring to refuse obedience to its mistress, opened, and fair Helga stepped out on the barren soil of Iceland. But after being so long accustomed to the warm summer air, she shuddered as she felt the icy breath of her old home, and with hurried steps she went to the point of the rock. Here she stopped, turned her beautiful face, and looked over her left shoulder towards the south-east.

Before the power of this magic glance the veil of the distance vanished. Her look pierced through Iceland's fogs, flew over the eastern mountains, and swam on the Atlantic waves to the steep rock-bound coast of Norway. She saw the mysterious inhabitants of the mountains, and the mighty fairy king seated on his diamond throne, over which thousands of years had passed, leaving it still unshaken. Around him stood his people in their unfading youth and beauty, bowing in lowly reverence. But her husband's noble form was not among them; she could not meet the glance of his deep blue eye, though she anxiously examined every countenance. At last she looked sadly away, and turned to go back to her lonely kingdom.

But when she went round the corner of the rock she saw a tall, manly form standing in the very place whence she had once watched her father and Olaffson as they rode away over the lava-fields. With a cry of joy she ran to the spot. Could it be that her husband had been so near, while she believed him far away? But the man, hearing her light footstep, turned his head, and she looked not on her husband's youthful beauty, but on the careworn face of her long-forgotten father.

"Helga, Helga!" The words fell on her ear with a strange thrill. "My child, you are still alive, you are still on earth?" and he stretched out his arms towards her, and pressed her to his breast, while the hot tears fell on her brow.

The long-silenced chords now sounded loudly in Helga's heart, memory awoke, and the fairy king's harp was not near to lull it to sleep again.

"My dear, good father," she said, thinking now of none but him, "weep not. Your Helga lives and is happy; but how old you have grown, and how white your hair is!"

"Yes, Helga, I had lost you, my only child; but now that I have found you my youthful vigour will return. Come home quickly, my daughter. How glad Olaffson will be."

At these words Helga's heart trembled. "My dear, dear father," she said, gently stroking the furrowed cheeks, "I cannot go with you; I belong now to another world." Then she told her astonished father all that had happened to her since the hour when she said good-bye to him at the edge of the lava-field.

"I have given my word," she concluded, "and, hard as it seems not to go with you, I dare not, I dare not."

"Alas, my child, my poor unhappy child!" said the father sorrowfully; "into what hands have you fallen?"

"Into the best and tenderest, my father," said Helga, soothingly. "Would that my husband were at home, that you might see him; but I will show you my kingdom, that your mind may be set at rest."

She took her father's hand and led him towards the side of the rock which concealed the entrance into the fairy land. She touched it, but the door remained closed; again and again she passed her hand over the hard stone, but there was no movement.

Helga's heart throbbed as though it would break, and she sank down on the hard ground, begging with bitter tears for admission to her kingdom; but all was still, dead, and motionless.

Poor Helga! Without knowing it, she had transgressed the laws of the fairies by speaking to a mortal of the mysteries of the spirit-world, and now its gates were barred against her. With bitter regret she now remembered her husband's parting command—not to return to the outer world, to which she had no longer any right. Soon, she thought, will the other awful threat be fulfilled, and she sank unconscious into her father's arms.

He was rejoiced to see the fairy kingdom closed against his daughter, and with a lightened heart he bore the precious burden back to her childhood's home.

---

After long hours and days of darkness, Helga's youthful strength triumphed, and she opened her eyes in full consciousness. Her first glance fell on her father, who sat at her bedside.

"You here, my dear father? Then my meeting with you was not a dream? But now let me get up and go to my husband; he must have come home long before this, and he will believe me when I tell him that I did not intend to leave him."

"My child, look round you," said the father, soothingly. "Let those feverish fancies die. See, you are where you have always been, at home with your old father. All through your long illness you have raved about a fairy king and his paradise, of your marriage and your promises. But these were only fancies, my Helga, such as fever often causes."

Helga looked at him in trembling astonishment.

"That is impossible," she said at last in a faltering voice. "Bring out my clothes, and see whether Iceland has such splendid garments as those."

"Splendid garments?" repeated her father as if in surprise. Then he rose and brought Helga's dress, a garment such as she had always been accustomed to wear.

Helga examined it doubtfully, then she passed her hand over her brow, looked up at her father, and said in a low voice, "I cannot understand it. Can one then dream such things as those?"

"Certainly, my child; it is always so in fever. When I went to the coast a few weeks ago, taking you with me as far as the lava-field, you must have climbed the rock to watch us and fallen asleep there. Then the cold mountain mist crept round you, and almost prevented you from ever awaking. When your cousin thought you were staying too long, she set out with the servants to look for you; there they found you lying on the rock in a state of unconsciousness, and brought you home. A messenger was sent after us, and we returned as quickly as possible. I left my fishing, and Olaffson gave up thoughts of his voyage, that we might be near at hand to watch and care for you."

Helga sighed. Her father had never told her an untruth, so she felt compelled to believe him, though her heart rebelled against his words with bitter grief.

Ah! she little suspected that her father, in the hope of keeping his dear child beside him and hindering her return to fairyland, had invented this story, and carefully taught it to every one about the house.

Helga's bodily strength increased day by day, but over her spirit rested a cloud of melancholy, and she pined in secret for the paradise of her "feverish dreams."

She was at last almost convinced that such they had indeed been, for when she spoke to any of the servants about her lost fairy kingdom, they always smiled and said, "Those were mere fancies; we were about you all the time and heard you rave about them."

As for the voyage round the world which Olaffson had completed since she went away, of that she heard nothing, nor was she aware that the world's history had advanced a year while she tarried in fairyland. The farm-houses in Iceland are separated from each other by long distances, so that it was but seldom that Helga came in contact with any of the neighbours; and if a chance stranger came to claim the rights of hospitality, the father or Olaffson took care to warn him beforehand not to disturb Helga's delusion.

But the precaution was almost unnecessary; for the Flower of Iceland, once so cheerful and talkative, who used to greet the arrival of a stranger as a joyous event, and was never tired of asking questions about the wonders of foreign lands, the same Helga sat silent and listless, and left the room as soon as the conversation turned on beautiful scenery. For the visions of her lost paradise came back to her mind, and it needed a conflict of hours to still her restless heart. "Ah! it was only a dream."

Olaffson had given up his seafaring life, and now busied himself about the farm. Helga's father loved him as a son, and intended making him the heir of his valuable property. But he had hopes of giving him something better still. He was only waiting till Helga should be once more the joyous Helga, till the Flower of Iceland should raise its drooping head. But this time seemed far distant.

"Perhaps she will be better when she is married," said the father to himself, as he looked anxiously at Helga. She was leaning against the grassy ditch that enclosed the farm, and gazing into the glow of the evening sky. He stepped softly up to her.

"What is my Helga thinking of?" he asked tenderly.

"Of the evening rays that are now falling through the crystal dome, of the little waves crowned with the roses of the sunset sky, and of the sweet music of the harp," she answered dreamily.

"Helga," said the old man reproachfully, "will you never shake off these delusions. You have heard from every tongue that they were fever fancies; but you want to vex my heart."

"Oh, no, no, dear father. Do not think so ill of your Helga," she said quickly, as she turned and stroked his cheeks caressingly. "I know very well that they were only dreams, but you cannot believe how deeply they are burnt into my heart. It seems like faithlessness to tear them away."

"That is a remnant of the fever," said the old man. "Ah, Helga, how happy should I be if you were yourself again!"

"And I too, dear father," said Helga, with a gentle sigh.

"I know one way of curing you, and if you love me you will try it."

"That I will, father."

"Do you promise it, my Helga?"

"Yes, dear father," she answered unhesitatingly.

"Then listen: Olaffson is good and brave, is he not?" Helga nodded. "He loves you dearly, and my most cherished wish is that you should become his wife, and that you should live under my roof, brightening my old age with the sight of your happiness."

Helga grew deadly pale.

"Ah, father, dear father, I cannot."

"Why not, Helga? Have you anything against him? Is he not young, handsome, and strong? Is he not brave and good? Could you find me a better son, or yourself a more loving husband? Tell me, are you influenced in this matter by those foolish dreams, the wild images of your brain? Tell the truth, Helga."

She looked at him in trembling entreaty.

"Ah, my father, forgive me."

"If you want to make your old father happy, say Yes, and become Olaffson's wife; if you wish to poison my last days with sorrow, then leave my wish unfulfilled."

With these words the old man turned away in anxious grief, and moved towards the house.

Helga hastened after him.

"Do not be angry, my father," she begged; "I will fulfil your wish, come what will."

"I thank you, my good child; but what do you fear? What could come of it but a father's blessing, with its fruits of happiness and peace?"

So Helga became Olaffson's wife.

Did the Flower of Iceland now regain its freshness and bloom? Alas! no. In spite of her father's tenderness and her husband's love, she still remained sorrowful and pale; deeper, if anything, was the shadow that oppressed her soul. To longing was now added remorse, the bitterest feeling that can disturb a human heart, for it is the only one for which time has no balm.

"How could I ever rob you of your claim to immortality?" she had once said to the poor fairy king; and even though the words had been only spoken in a dream, yet they burned into her soul, and when she consented to be Olaffson's wife, it seemed to her as if she had really shut out that poor spirit from the heavenly paradise.

The short summer passed, and Helga shuddered more than ever under the icy breath of the northern winter; but it too went by, and spring came at last across the ocean to Iceland's snowy plains. The roads were once more passable, and the first sacrament of the year was to be solemnised in the church of the parish to which the farm held by Helga's father belonged. Olaffson asked his wife to partake with him of the sacred symbols, and she gladly consented. Perhaps she thought this feast of reconciliation might bring back her long-lost peace.

She went about her work with more energy than she had shown for many months, so anxious was she to have everything in readiness for the morrow, for they would have to set out early in order to reach the distant church in time for the service. She was just laying the table for supper when she saw her husband passing the window, and by his side a stranger of tall and manly form.

"See, Helga," said Olaffson as they entered, "I bring an honoured guest; set out your best provisions, for he has travelled far, and is in need of refreshment."

Helga looked at the stranger. His face was handsome, but over his youthful features sorrow had passed with heavy hand. But when he raised his deep blue eyes to Helga, and asked in soft and melodious tones—"Will the Flower of Iceland permit a stranger to rest beneath her roof?" a shudder passed through her frame, and the old conflict began in her soul more wildly and perplexingly than ever.

These eyes, this voice, could they have spoken to her only in a feverish dream? And if she had been deceived—what then? The thought threatened to rob her of reason; but Olaffson stepped up to her and said—

"Our guest must be tired and hungry, my Helga; will you not grant him the welcome which the stranger has always met beneath this roof?"

Helga recovered herself by a great effort, and went out to prepare a room for the mysterious guest, while the latter sat down at table with the others. Then she slipped softly back, took a seat in a dark corner, and gazed with mingled anxiety and longing on the stranger's face.

"Look here, sir," said Helga's father, pointing to the sky, "do you ever see anything like that in your native land? Do you not acknowledge Iceland to be the most beautiful country in the world?"

"Yes," said the stranger, "your land is indeed beautiful; but your home and mine are not so very far distant from one another."

He glanced at Helga—of whose presence the others were not aware—then he described the land in which he lived, the same land that Helga was said to have seen only in the delirium of fever.

She listened with breathless attention. It seemed to her as if the splendour of fairyland once more surrounded her. She saw the blue waves rolling at her feet, and felt herself, as in days gone by, rocking on their gleaming crests. She ran merrily to the side of the fountain and caught at the water, that she might sprinkle it in sport on the birds; and she saw the transparent flowers bending their fragrant cups in friendly greeting. Every moment she expected to see the stranger throw aside his disguise, and, standing before her in royal purple, touch the long-disused strings of his golden harp.

Alas! her father had then deceived her that he might keep her at home; her heart had told her the truth, and she, instead of listening to its entreaties, had weakly yielded to persuasion, and broken her sacred promise. And now? Too late, too late—all was over. Full of grief and despair, she hastened out of the house to pour out her heart in bitter weeping amid the stillness of the night.

Next morning, when all was ready for the journey, when the horses were stamping impatiently before the door, the family all assembled to conform to an old Icelandic custom. In that island, before any family partake of the sacrament, each member asks forgiveness of all the rest for wrongs consciously or unconsciously committed. Helga took her father's hand and her husband's. "Forgive me for all the anxiety I have caused you," she begged in a low voice; then she added the mysterious words, "and also for the sorrow that I am about to bring upon you."

"You must also ask forgiveness of our guest, Helga, in case you have offended him," said Olaffson. "You were not to be found yesterday when he wanted to bid you good-night."

She shuddered, cast a farewell glance on her father's face, and moved towards the stranger's room.

Yes, it was as she felt and knew. The dark garment of yesterday had disappeared; before her stood the fairy king in radiant beauty, with his golden hair flowing down over his purple robe.

She clasped her hands in silent entreaty, and her beautiful eyes looked up with love and humility to the face of her beloved but deeply-wronged husband.

"Helga, Helga," said he gravely, "is this how you have been faithful to your love and your promise?"

"Oh, do not be angry with me," begged Helga; "to your spirit-eye nothing has been hidden; you know how it all came about—how my anxiety for you drove me to seek you—how my father found me, and how I was going to show him our kingdom in order to set his mind at rest. You know that the gates were closed against me, and that I was borne back unconscious to my old home—that they kept me there by cleverly-invented stories, and that at last my father's entreaties forced me to the last and hardest step. But you know also that I have loved only you, that my heart is yours alone."

"Be judged by thine own words, O Flower of Iceland!" replied the fairy king quietly. "Why didst thou not listen to the voice of thy heart? We fairies know nothing of human weakness, therefore we cannot forgive it. Dost thou know the fate that now awaits thee, Helga?"

"I know it well," answered Helga firmly, "and if my mouth has been unfaithful, my heart has been true. I welcome death, for it will reunite me to you!"

Then a happy smile passed over the fairy king's noble countenance; he stretched out his arms, and pressed Helga dying to his heart.

Finding that his wife did not come back, Olaffson hastened with his father-in-law to the stranger's room. They found fair Helga in the fairy king's arms. Both were cold and dead; in the same moment both hearts had broken. Olaffson tried to take Helga away from the stranger's arms, but in vain. What life had robbed him of, he held in death with a grasp that could not be loosed.

"Leave them, my son," said the old grief-stricken father; "she is his by right. What has all our prudence done for us? Worse than nothing! The fairy king has reclaimed his own in spite of us."

They laid them in the same coffin, and next morning the soil of Iceland was to receive them into its cold lap. But in the night that followed this eventful day, sleep fell more heavily than usual on the eyes of the mourners. They did not hear the whispering of gentle voices or the hasty tread of many feet. They did not see the multitude of fairies who had assembled from all parts of the island to show the last honour to their beloved king. Noiselessly the spirits lifted the coffin, carried it out of the house, and away to the rock where fair Helga had begged in vain for admission.

To-day it was not denied her. The magic gates sprang open as the coffin approached. With drooping wings the white birds hovered round, and mourned the royal pair in notes of soft lamentation.

At the shore of the beautiful blue sea the faithful spirits lowered their burden. There Helga and her fairy husband rest beneath the flowers of this paradise, and beside the gentle murmur of the waves. On the branches of the cypress that grows on their grave hangs the fairy king's harp. The hand is cold that once touched its chords; but when the morning breeze sweeps through them, they sound as of old in magic melody. The sweet notes float on the sunbeams through the evergreen paradise, pierce the hard rock, and hover as beautiful and undying legends over Iceland's heaths and snow-clad hills.

---

[THE SEA-FAIRY.]

THE evening sun was sinking in a glow of colour on the waters of the North Atlantic and on the rocky coast of Norway as a youth wandered alone by the edge of one of its numerous fiords.

He was alone in the world; father and mother, brothers and sisters, were all dead, and he strove to still the longings of his heart by the wonders of foreign lands.

He had seen the midnight sun from the cliffs of the North Cape, and his eye now rested in astonished admiration on the firmament and the ocean, which shone in a splendour unknown to other zones. He stepped close up to the edge of the sea, and looked down at the waves, which here broke in gold-sparkling foam. But from yon rock but a few yards distant he would be better able to enjoy the ever-changing play of the waves; so he went up to it, and laid his hand on one of its jagged projections to aid him in climbing. Then he saw something white and golden gleaming at his feet, and when he leant forward to observe it more closely he saw that it was the form of a young woman who was sitting in solitude on this uninhabited strand. Over her garment, white as spring blossoms, down to the purple hem, fell hair golden as the waves at her feet, and her tender hands lay clasped upon her knee, while she, dreamy and motionless, looked out upon the sea.

The young man scarcely ventured to breathe lest he should frighten her; but a stone loosened beneath his hand and rolled rattling to the ground. She looked up and turned her head, and now his glance met a face of unimagined beauty.

"Who art thou?" she asked, in gentle astonishment; "and what seekest thou here on this world-forsaken shore?"

"I wished to see the beauties of Norway," he gathered courage to answer, "and I found them greater than I expected. But who art thou, wondrous being, who venturest to stay alone in this solitude, with none save the ocean and yon stern rocks to bear thee company?"

"I am the sea-fairy," she answered gravely. "The golden evening sunshine, which streamed down into my castle, enticed me to the strand, as it has done many a time before. But thou art the first mortal that I have seen here for thousands of years."

He did not answer, but gazed dreamily on her lovely form. In his soul the fairy tales of childhood shone dimly forth—tales of the crystal castle under the sea, and of the fascinating beauty of the sea-fairy; and now, could these have been no fables, but reality—sweet tangible reality?

For a moment he covered his eyes with his hand, and looked again. No, she had not vanished. The rosy light of the evening sun lay now on her white garment, and her beautiful form seemed still more lovely in this radiance. She rose slowly, and apparently with the intention of going away to the waves, when such burning pain came in the young man's soul that he took his hand from the point of the rock and stepped respectfully, but with firm tread, up to the beautiful lady.

"No, do not go," he begged, raising his hand in earnest entreaty; "do not go, thou vision of my childhood. But if thou canst not tarry longer here, then take me down into thy ocean kingdom. There is no one on earth to miss me; and now that I know that thou really dwellest beneath these waves, I shall feel an unappeasable longing after thee, as in the days of my childhood, when I lay for hours on the shore of my native land hoping to catch a glimpse of the pinnacles of thy castle."

The fairy stood still, and her eye, blue and fathomless as the ocean at the horizon, looked in the young man's face as if to read his soul.

"Knowest thou what thou askest?" she said earnestly. "If I grant thy petition and take thee with me, it is for no short amusement, which thou canst leave when tired, and wander further at thy will. No; if thou go with me it is to stay in my kingdom, and only with thy life wilt thou be permitted to release thyself from thy vow. Consider it well. In thy veins flows the blood of a faithless race; but we are of a different nature. Ingratitude and faithlessness we punish severely, and our heart knows no weak pity for those who incur our wrath."

"Try me, lady," said the youth, with firm determination. "Take me with thee, and let me serve thee and surround thee with love and obedience; and if thou find me faithless, spare not thine anger."

"Come then," said the sea-fairy, "and forget not that it is thine own choice." And Antonio, for that was the young man's name, walked joyfully beside the wondrous woman towards the waves. She loosed the star-set girdle from her dress, and gave it to the youth. "Put it on," she said, "that those beneath the waves may recognise thee as one of mine;" and he did as she bade him. Then she gave him her hand, and stepped out upon the sea, which grew smooth beneath her foot as a path of crystal. Antonio followed joyfully; the magic girdle prevented him from sinking, and when the shore lay a few steps behind them, the glittering plain opened and disclosed a glassy stair that led down into the depths of the ocean kingdom. Did he step down on them, or did they, rising upwards, offer themselves to his foot? He could not make out how it was, for, now that he was led by the fairy's hand and girt with her girdle, earthly laws had no longer power over him. He only knew that they were descending into the water with marvellous swiftness, and that the waves of the Gulf Stream, which flows with the warmth of spring around these coasts, played softly round his head and shoulders, while he breathed among them as freely as on the air above. And when he looked upwards he saw the crystal steps break and form again into waves as soon as the foot left them, and above his head the sea heaved as was its wont, the great waves following one after the other with a glorious play of ever-changing colours.

Soon he stood at the bottom of the sea; and here there was nothing dark or gloomy, as we are apt to think, but all around the reflection of the evening sky lit the clear depths with golden light.

"Now thou art in my kingdom," said the sea-fairy; "forget not that it is the home of thine own choice."

His eyes shone as he gave a joyful assent. "His home!" And he would never long for another; of that he was quite sure.

They walked together over the soft, shining, golden sand. Not far off purple trees rose on their slender stems, and sent their wide branches out on every side.

"That is my coral park," said the sea-fairy; "it stands in wide circles round the ocean castle, and keeps the wild waves far from this retreat."

Soon they stood at the gate of the magic hedge, and the fairy laid her hand upon the rock. Suddenly an electric current seemed to stir the whole line of trees. Thousands of little slumbering creatures awoke, and stretched their tiny heads out of the openings between the branches to greet their lady. She, meantime, walked with Antonio through the intricate paths of the coral grove, till they reached the shining plain where the castle of the sea-fairy stood. Its lofty walls were crowned by a glittering roof, over which the waves glided to and fro with softest music.

Antonio gazed in happy astonishment on the radiant edifice, which excelled in beauty all the childish dreams of which it reminded him.

"And may I stay here? and shall I never be obliged to leave this splendour?" he asked in a gentle whisper; but before the fairy could answer there was a trembling in the waves around. Over the transparent roof, and out of the shadows of the coral grove, came myriads of little star-fishes of violet and rosy hues, and played round the head of Antonio and among the sea-fairy's locks like butterflies on a summer day. Then they fluttered away again, and lost themselves in the trembling dance of the waves.

The beautiful lady, still carefully keeping hold of Antonio's hand, walked now over the watery meadow which surrounded the castle with its gentle waves; and when she reached the high-arched portal the transparent gates opened of themselves, and the empress of the ocean entered her enchanted palace.

Antonio's eye was dazzled by the splendour all around. Hall after hall followed in brilliant succession, and over all stretched the high arches of the crystal roof, through which the evening sky shed its undiminished splendour. Warm and soft as the breath of spring, the little waves glided through these enchanted rooms and fell back with gentle splashing from the crystal walls—now shining like a flood of crimson, now azure blue, and now like liquid amber; thus they mirrored the changing play of colours in the fleeting clouds overhead.

The sea-fairy looked into Antonio's joyous face. "Thinkest thou that thou canst forget thine earthly home here in my kingdom?" she asked graciously.

"Forget it?" he replied. "If home is the fairest spot on earth, then I have only found mine now. Henceforth all other places lie eternally forgotten. But what is that yonder?" he asked, pointing to tall green pillars whose tops reached nearly to the crystal roof.

"See for thyself," said the sea-fairy, and he moved by her side towards the last hall in which the graceful columns stood. And now he glides between their slender shafts, and utters a joyous cry as he looks up at the transparent dome, beneath which leafy tree-crowns waved, while little star-fishes gleamed brightly as they glided among the leaves.

"Palm trees!" cried Antonio, breathless with astonishment—"palm trees, such as I have heard rustling by the banks of the Ganges! This must be some delusion, some golden dream, out of which I must sooner or later wake. No, no, there are the tender lianas winding round the kingly stems, and there in the shadow lurks my lotos flower, the most beautiful of all the gorgeous blossoms of India!"

ANTONIO IN THE CRYSTAL CASTLE.
F. C., p. 178.

He dropped the fairy's hand, hastened forward, and looked into the shining cup, whose purple streamers trembled in the waves.

"Yes, indeed, it is the lotos, gleaming in snowy purity like its sisters in the holy stream, in whose cup the goddess slumbers. But oh! how camest thou hither, beloved flower? But what do I ask? The holy river of thy favoured home has caught thy falling seed and borne it onwards to the sea, and there on its protecting wave thou hast been rolled on and on, further and further, towards the south-west, till the warm Gulf Stream received thee. Carried northwards by this current of blessing which careful Nature sends to these icy realms, thou camest with broken palm branches and liana sprays into this northern fairyland, where the hand of the beauteous sea-fairy gave thee a second home—one beautiful enough to make thee forget even the sunny plains of India."

Did the lotos flower think so? Its trembling cup gave no reply, but Antonio thought it did. Henceforth the kingdom of the sea-fairy should be his home, and she herself be dear to him as his father and mother used to be in the old half-forgotten days. His happiness seemed full as he moved by her side through the wide watery realm from one wonder to another, while her grave but beautiful mouth explained to him with easy eloquence the mysteries of the deep, problems in the solution of which curious men spend their lives in vain. Round them played the gay star-fishes; beside them, on the gleaming sand, thorny ray-fishes rolled like silver balls; behind them followed, in many-coloured throng, the fishes large and small, their fins and scales sparkling in the sunlight like silver and precious stones. They glided fearlessly around Antonio, let him catch and stroke them, and looked up at him with intelligent eyes when he spoke to them in human words. They did not indeed comprehend what he said, but they all understood the star pattern on the girdle, which still surrounded his waist with its radiant circle, and made him known as the friend of their beloved mistress.

Yes, it was pleasant to glide through the waves, with beauty, peace, and harmony all around; but Antonio thought it more delightful still to wander with the majestic fairy through the halls of the crystal castle, to be lifted by gentle waves up to the lofty dome, and to look up through its clear vault to the bright sky far overhead.

But Antonio's happiest moments were spent in the hall of palms, as he rested in the shady corner where the lotos bloomed. The flower would bend its white cup over his dreamy eyes, and the waves moved the purple stamens over his brow as gently as his mother's hand. The water flowed about him soft and warm, high overhead the palm trees waved their leafy tufts, and the sea-fairy glided through the brilliant halls, singing to her golden harp songs sweeter and more enthralling than anything Antonio had ever heard on earth. Is it any wonder then that he forgot his bleak, unmusical home—that he never gave it one longing thought?

The summer sun had often sent its golden light, unbroken by night's darkness, into the sea-fairy's kingdom; the stars of the winter sky had often twinkled through the crystal roof of the ocean palace; but Antonio had taken no heed to the flight of time. The years passed over him in pleasant but monotonous repose; the little waves rippled and sang with unchanging cheerfulness; and Antonio hastened from pleasure to pleasure, without remembrance, without longing, feeling only the present delight.

The sunlight of a new summer was making its way into the ocean realm when Antonio came out of the palace and walked through the gleaming water-meadows. The fairy had been called to a distance by some business in a remote part of her extensive kingdom, and Antonio had thus been left alone in the castle. But the splendid halls seemed to him only half as beautiful without their lovely queen, and he determined to seek the society of the merry fishes without. They came swimming to meet him, slipped through his fingers, splashed the water merrily with their fins and tails, and formed themselves into a wide and brilliant procession behind him as he walked.

Soon the oddly-jagged branches of the coral grove arched above his head. He intended to-day to explore every corner of this lovely park, of which he had hitherto seen but one spot. He went further and further into the maze of trees, and the fishes followed him at every step and glided like silver stars through the deep red branches.

Antonio looked back; the bright sunny plain and the gleaming palace had disappeared, hidden by the dense grove of coral; but to the side at the outer edge of the forest he heard a sullen, ceaseless roaring, for the ocean billows rolled high and dark beyond the magic circle.

He went further; everything became strange and awful. There was not a glimpse of the bright familiar regions he knew so well. Purple twilight lay around him, and to the side the darkly rolling ocean; but there before him was a faint glimmering of light which became gradually brighter. Could it be the crystal castle which he thought he had left far behind?

At last he reached the light, and looked down on the scene at his feet. Before him lay an open space, over which the sunlight streamed, unhindered, in golden radiance, and under this flood of sunshine rested rows of pale, silent sleepers, heart to heart and arm in arm, as the rage of the ocean or the anger of the sea-fairy had torn them away from their full, warm, joyous life. They had sailed fearlessly in their trusty ships over the sea, perhaps even rejoicing in their nearness to the haven, and in the prospect of happy meetings, when they were suddenly shattered by a hidden reef, or dragged downward by the treacherous whirlpool.

Antonio walked with loudly-beating heart among the sleepers. Here lay an old man with long and silvery hair, and his withered hand rested tenderly on the head of a beautiful boy; beside him lay a man, whose youthful wife, even in the death-struggle, had not loosed her hold on her tender infant; there slept two stalwart youths, their hands clasped as in strong affection—they were brothers, as the likeness of the features showed. And there—and there—and there, wherever Antonio's glance fell, lay forms once beautiful in their youthful strength, now cold and stiff in death. And yet they only seemed to be asleep, for, however long they might have rested there, time had made no ravages among them. Their features were unchanged, save for a deeper peace; and when the coral branches overhead rocked in the waves, sending their purple shadows over the lonely ocean graveyard, there fell on the faces of the dead something like the reflection of their former life.

Antonio bent over them, as if to read the last sad thought of the pale lips—to learn the last unspoken wish, that he might take it with him as a solemn vow, and fulfil it as soon as he could reach the upper world. For the spell of the ocean kingdom was broken at the sight of these white faces, and he longed now for his home, bleak and unmusical though it was. With a deep sigh he took his eyes from this sad scene, and advanced to the outer edge of the coral grove, where the lofty branches bent and formed a low network, which divided the resting-place of the dead from the raging ocean. He leant with folded arms against the fence, and looked out on the billowy sea. The huge waves rose black as thunder-clouds, hurled their white froth toward heaven, and sank with sullen roar back into the deep. It was a scene of fascinating horror, and Antonio could not tear his eyes away.

Then suddenly northwards through the surging waves came something strange, dreadful, horrible. Its long outstretched serpent neck was of changing green, and its wide gaping throat was full of sharp destructive teeth; its gigantic body wound dark through the flood—now drawn together, now stretched out in its immeasurable length, so that even the lifeless waves shrank back, and Antonio's heart almost ceased to beat with dread amazement. Thus the monster of the deep rose in slow but ceaseless movements, and its threatening head was raised above the foaming heaps of water beside the coral fence just as Antonio caught the first glimpse of its poisonous tail.

"It is the sea serpent," he faltered at last, as soon as he recovered his power of speech—"the monster of which the fairy told me that death and destruction follow in its wake. The poor sailors up above on the surface of the water, who have perhaps laughed and mocked at it as an exploded fable, will now see and feel it in the last terror of the death-struggle." And he clasped his hands tightly as he gazed upwards in an agony of fear.

Suddenly a wide shadow darkened the waters, covering with its gloomy wing the purple fence and the golden waves that flowed above the dead. Antonio sought for the cause of this phenomenon, and saw far above in the surging sea a low rock which he had not noticed before. Whether the wild waves had torn it from the coast and driven it hither, or whether the storm had forced it up from the bed of the ocean, he knew not; but there it stood, dark and immovable, with the waves dashing over it, and the sea serpent gliding round it in foaming coils.

Now he knew for what end the ocean was preparing all its horrors. There, from the south, came a ship with well-filled sails, of firm, substantial build, and guided by a skilful hand; it seemed to mock at the terrors of the deep, for the deadly rock and the lurking serpent were hidden beneath the water; the huge waves surged above both, and covered them with their foam.

The captain of the stately vessel saw the heaving waves, but he knew the powers of his noble ship. With flashing eye he stood on the deck, calming the passengers with cheerful words, and shouting his orders to the nimble sailors. He steered his ship confidently right over the familiar track, in the midst of which the treacherous rock lay waiting his approach.

Antonio watched the ship's advance. His terror-sharpened eye distinguished every mast, every plank. It seemed to him as if he saw smiling, happy, unsuspecting faces bending over the side and nodding friendly greetings to him in his calm, safe depths below. He wrung his hands in despair, and cried in his loudest voice, "Steer to the left; oh! steer to the left, for to the right lurks double death." But the next wave drowned the cry, and granted him not even the faintest echo.

Now, now must the end come—unavoidable and dread. Antonio covered his eyes in trembling anguish. A sudden crash, one single piercing scream, which with awful clearness rose above the roar of the ocean and the hissing of the serpent, trembled through the waves, and thrilled through Antonio's loudly-beating heart. His hands fell from his blanched face, and he looked up through the sea.

The waves still rolled, the rock still stood in dreadful gloom, the serpent still wound its frightful coils, but the scattered planks of the broken vessel were driven round and round by the mad whirlpool, and those who a moment before had smiled in the fulness of life and happiness now wrestled with the waves. Strong men among them, who would not part from life without a struggle, grasped after floating planks, raised themselves above the waves, and looked round for their dear ones. But the sea serpent came darting over the white-crested billows, struck with its tail the floating timbers, and sent their trembling burden down to the hungry depths.

Happy were those who, already choked by the water, had sunk down unconscious to the bed of the ocean, there to slumber undisturbed. The survivors were the prey of the monster. With its tail curled in horrid rage, its green eyes flashing, and its vast jaws gaping wide, it darted on every man whose powerful arm and stout heart would not give up the struggle with the waves, and in a moment his death-cry was lost in the sea serpent's horrid throat. With insatiable rage it glided from one to another till all had perished, and not one was left to carry home the dreadful tale. None would ever know the fate of the goodly vessel and its precious freight.

Antonio had sunk on his knees, and his eyes had followed every motion of the sea serpent till the dreadful work was done.

When all was over, the sea serpent rocked itself in horrid satisfaction on the waves, and let them drive it at their will. But the dark rock retained the power of motion, and sank slowly down into the deep, making the waves foam and toss as they parted right and left to let it pass. Then Antonio perceived that what at a distance he had taken for a rock was a gigantic kraken, one of those sea monsters which often lie quietly for years at the bottom of the ocean, then rise to the surface and lurk with deadly purpose in the path of unsuspecting men. He saw the supple, far-reaching polypus-arms, which, grasping at the masts, had cracked them like reeds, and torn the planks asunder with swifter and more complete destruction than the mere force of the waves could have accomplished. The snaky limbs were feeling aimlessly about the flood, groping down towards the soft sea-bed where the monster would now fasten itself for a long period of repose.

Antonio involuntarily shrank back, although the ocean, with its billows and its still more dreadful monsters, could not break through the coral fence or disturb the sparkling waters of the Gulf Stream. He watched the kraken reach the bottom, settle down in its soft bed, and draw in its long arms as for sleep. Then all became peaceful as before.

The wild waves sank to rest, and the ocean flowed still and clear; a deep blue sky arched overhead, the sun shot golden glances through the billows, piercing to the lowest depths, and dyeing with amber light the waves that flowed above the kraken, which lay like a long dark hill not far from the coral fence, and parted from it by a narrow current.

Antonio stepped back hesitatingly to the fence, and looked through. On the sea-monster's back waved a forest of tall grass wrack, which had taken root there during its long years of inaction. Through the waving blades little fishes and sea-urchins glided fearlessly, and lazy turtles crept along in the shade. But in the midst, as in a nest of brown moss, lay something like a swan of dazzling whiteness, with lifeless outstretched wings. Antonio was gazing fixedly on this object, when a gleaming wave swept through the grass wrack, and raised the dead swan's limbs. The next loosed it from its dreadful resting-place, and bore it into the current which flowed towards the place of the dead.

Nearer and nearer floated the bird, till it struck against the coral network, and Antonio stretched out his arms to grasp it. Then he saw that it was no swan, but a lovely maiden in a wide flowing garment, whom the waves had hurled down from the ship to the sea monster's back, and who had thus been borne to her grave. With a sorrowful heart he caught her in his arms, lifted her through the coral fence, and carried her to where the dead lay in their peaceful resting-place. There he laid her by the old man's side, knelt beside the dead maiden, and arranged the long fair hair, tossed by the waves, around the pale but lovely face, and folded her marble hands as if in prayer.

The last duty was fulfilled, and he would now have been free to return to the crystal castle, there to revel in new joy and splendour, but he still knelt beside the maiden's corpse, looking dreamily into the still, white face as one looks into a dim, far distance. He knew that from her sleep there was no awaking; for in these deep waters no living thing could breathe save one that wore, like him, the sea-fairy's girdle; she was dead, and must slumber on till the resurrection morn. The eyes remained closed, and the mouth could never smile again, yet Antonio gazed at it as if it were about to tell him some dear familiar tale—perhaps the story of his own life. Antonio knew the sweet, innocent, tender face, but the flood of fear and horror which had raged for hours in his soul had confused his memories, and he only felt that the eyes and mouth now so firmly closed in death had once smiled at him in love and friendship.

ANTONIO LAYS THE DEAD MAIDEN IN HER LAST RESTING-PLACE.

At last he rose, cast a last look on the lines of sleepers, stepped back into the coral grove, and made his way through the shadowy paths back to the sea-fairy's castle.

His ocean vision had lost its charm, the paradise of his childish dreams was laid in ruins; the sunny waves, which so short a time before had played around him with the soft warmth of summer breezes, felt now so cold that he shuddered, and his breathing became laboured and painful.

Again he rested in the hall of palms, and the stamens of the lotos-blossom floated caressingly over his temples, in which the blood now flowed more quickly, for the death-cry of the sinking crew still rang in his ears, and before his eyes hovered the pale, beautiful image of the dead maiden.

Where, ah! where had he seen those features? He looked up into the waving summits of the palms. Could it have been on the banks of the Ganges that such a mouth had smiled at him, from the band of Hindu girls who passed him every evening with pitchers on their heads on their way to fetch water from the sacred stream? No, no, it was not there, nor in any of the favoured countries of the new world, that he had seen that face, for there the maidens' hair was of a darker hue. No; no foreign land had ever shown him those sweet features, and his thoughts turned to his old, half-forgotten home.

The palm-trees beneath the crystal dome changed as he gazed into the old wide-spreading lime-tree in his father's garden, and the song of the waves in the fairy halls sounded in his ear like the tones of the little organ which his father played at evening when the day's work was done.

Antonio closed his eyes. Was it to call up more easily the old long-forgotten scenes, or to hide the hot tears which started to his eyes? It seemed to him as if he lay once more on the round bench below the lime-tree, with his head on his tender mother's lap, and her soft hand upon his brow; above him rustled the lime leaves, and through the open windows floated the soft notes of his father's evening song. Antonio lay there listening in silence. His mother sat with a happy smile on her loved face, and by her side Antonio's old teacher, on whose lips he and his wild companions hung in rapt attention, as he told them of the strange lands which he had visited in his youth.

Oh, what a flood of memories rushed over Antonio's heart!—music and fragrance, his mother's gentle hand, and the old man's wonderful descriptions; and in the midst of all a tender, fairy-like child, in a soft white dress and golden hair, who flitted like a sunbeam through the garden paths! When she had gathered enough flowers, she came softly up, sat down at her father's feet, and wove a garland; Antonio kept his eyes closed, not to sleep, but to listen undisturbed. The little one, thinking him asleep, rose softly and placed the garland on his brow. Then he caught her hands, and playfully held her fast; but she bent over him till her fair locks touched his cheeks and whispered, "Be quiet, Tony; thy father is telling a story, and does not like to be interrupted;" and she looked down at him and smiled.

The riddle was solved at last. It was she. It was the sweet child to whom his wild boyish heart had gone out in tender love, and whose image had gone with him into distant lands till it faded before the brilliant, ever-changing scenes through which he passed. But now it stood before him in its old beauty, and he loved her as though they had parted yesterday—now, when she lay cold and stiff among the dead.

He rose, clasped his hands in anguish, and looked up at the crystal roof, through which the evening sky sent all the bright hues of a northern sunset. But all that he had loved to look on here had no beauty for him now. Within was melody and song and unearthly splendour; without, death, horror, and unutterable grief. He sprang up, ran as if hunted through the glittering halls, and out to the plain before the castle; but the floods which were wont to send fragrance and song and radiance to hail his coming seemed to him now filled with deadly darkness, and the sound of their waves was like suppressed sobbing.

He turned away shuddering, and, for the first time since he came to the fairy's kingdom, he directed his steps to the coral gate which parted the Gulf Stream from the darker billows of the ocean. He passed out, and walked in gloomy silence over the sand, which to-day seemed to have lost its golden glitter. Soon he stood at the spot where the crystal steps ended, and he looked up longingly through the heaving flood.

"Oh that I could return just once to the free fresh air," he sighed—"to my old forsaken home!" And his wish was fulfilled, for he still wore the starry girdle which made the elements obedient to his will. The waves parted like the petals of a lily, and formed themselves into glassy steps. With a shout of joy Antonio placed his foot on the lowest one, and he scarcely knew whether he moved himself or whether the water lifted him from step to step. He saw the blue waters become clearer and clearer, until he stood on the last step, his head rose above the waves, and he drew deep breaths of his native air.

With flashing eye and heaving breast Antonio looked westwards, where the sun's radiant ball rested on a bed of purple clouds, while the reflection fell in roseate and amber shadows over the whole heaven, and the distant billows flowed like a mantle of royal purple.

But the waves which bore Antonio to the strand dashed up golden spray just as on that summer evening when he descended to the fairy-land below the sea. There lay also the red rock at which he had first seen the fairy, and with a sigh he bent his steps in that direction. Was there not some one sitting there now? Antonio shaded his eyes with his hand, for he was still dazzled by the unaccustomed light. It was no illusion. There, where the fairy once sat, was to-day a bent and aged figure, and instead of the golden locks flowed silvery hair about the temples.

"A human being!" was Antonio's first ecstatic thought as he ran across the strand.

"Good evening, sir," he cried joyfully.

The old man raised his weary head, and his sad eyes rested with indifference upon the youth. But the last few hours had changed Antonio. The veil had fallen from his eyes and heart, and he saw now with the keen true eye of childhood. The hair on the old man's head had indeed grown whiter since he saw it last, and sorrow had graven its deep lines on the high forehead; but it was the same clear-cut mouth to whose words Antonio had once listened with burning eagerness, and in the dark eyes still flashed something of the old fire. It was his aged teacher, the father of the pale, beautiful maiden among the dead in the ocean depths.

"Do you not know me, revered sir?" asked Antonio, with faltering voice, as he bowed in courteous greeting.

The old man looked at him again.

"No," he said slowly, "I did not notice you among the crew; but though you are a stranger, I am glad that you are saved. I thought I was the only survivor from the shipwreck."

"Look at me once more, sir," said Antonio, trying to steady his faltering voice, "and turn back a few pages in your life's history. Think of a little garden, and of an old lime-tree beneath whose leafy roof you often sat, while the sweet tones of an organ thrilled through the summer air."

The old man's eyes shone more brightly, and his lips trembled.

"Antonio!" he stammered out, "Antonio!" and his white head sank on the shoulder of his favourite pupil, who knelt before him with his arm wound in filial tenderness round the childless man.

"Oh, Antonio! I have lost my child to-day, only to-day. She would not let me go alone to the distant north, to which some luckless impulse drove me in my old age, and so she came with me on my toilsome journey. Today we struck on a hidden reef, and the same wave which dashed her against the dark rock drove me, despite my struggling, on this barren strand, though I would fain lie with my darling child below the waves."

The old man covered his face with his hands, and Antonio did not venture on any words of consolation.

"If I could even find her corpse," said the poor old man at last, "I could bury her at home; but even the sad consolation of visiting her grave is denied me."

"She has found a better resting-place than you could give her," said Antonio—"she sleeps on a golden bed; a coral grove surrounds the spot; corruption has no power over her fair features, and no worm can touch her. Amid noble companions she slumbers, while the sunbeams kiss her snowy eyelids, and the warm waters of the Gulf Stream flow gently over her."

"How do you know all this, Antonio?" asked the old man in astonishment.

And Antonio told him about that evening when he met the beautiful sea-fairy at this very rock, and descended with her into her ocean kingdom, there to live in forgetfulness of home and friends, until, awakened by what he had seen and felt to-day, the old memories acquired new power over him, and throbbed more strongly than ever in his soul.

"What will you do now, my son?" asked the old man.

"I will go home with you," Antonio answered promptly. "I will be to you a devoted and obedient son, if you will but let me."

The old man gazed at him with beaming eyes.

"Then let us go," he said, rising, "for I long to leave this place of horror. In a few hours we shall reach the little harbour in which we cast anchor yesterday evening, and there we can embark in a homeward-bound ship."

"Let it be as you will, my father," replied Antonio. "But one duty remains yet unfulfilled. If the sea-fairy had led me by deceit or violence into her kingdom, flight would be but right; but I went of my own free will, bound myself to obedience and unchanging fidelity, and enjoyed her kindness and hospitality. It seems to me cowardly and ungrateful to go away secretly, without a word of thanks or of farewell, and the thought of this would destroy my happiness at home. To-day she is to return. I will go to meet her, tell her what broke the spell of her kingdom, and beg her to let me go in peace, and with her blessing. Wait for me here. The air of this zone is soft, and its night skies clear. Before the bright night changes to the brighter day, I will come back to leave you no more."

He kissed the old man's hand, and went towards the sea. Meantime the fairy had returned. The open coral gate and the empty halls of her palace told her that Antonio was gone. Her soul was filled with grief and rage. He was one, indeed, of that faithless race whom she already knew and hated; but his eye and heart had still that divine image which she sought in vain among the cold, dumb creatures of the ocean, and in comparison with which the beauty and harmony of her fairy realm seemed poor and unsatisfying. He had become very dear to her. She had begun to believe in his fidelity only to find herself once more deceived. But, as she had told him, the weak pity of mortals found no room in her heart. She did not complain, and no word of anger escaped her firm-set lips. She would go up to punish the faithless one, if he was still within her reach, according to her former threatenings.

She passed through the coral gate to the place where the heaving steps led to the world above. She beckoned, and the rocking staircase grew firm beneath her tread. Just as she set her foot on the first step, Antonio began to descend. They met half-way in the midst of the sea. Antonio trembled, as she stood before him in the full splendour of her magic beauty and her overwhelming majesty and might, and his soul shrank from her, and turned with ardent longing to his own loved home.

"Whence comest thou?" she asked sternly, although her keen ear heard the story of the last few hours in the louder beating of his heart. "Whence comest thou?" Then he gathered courage to tell her all, and begged her to let him go in peace.

"Rememberest thou not that summer evening when thou insistedst on coming with me, notwithstanding my warning?" she asked in the same severe tone.

"Yes," Antonio faltered.

"And dost thou not remember my threat, and thy demand that I should punish thee if thou shouldst break thy faith?"

"I remember it all," Antonio said, with trembling lips.

"And in the face of all this dread and certain future dost thou still dream of leaving me?"

"I cannot do otherwise," he cried passionately; "the ocean kingdom has lost its charm since I have seen the gulf of irreconcilable enmity which divides it from my race—since it has robbed me of what was once my heart's dearest treasure. No, proud lady, let me go; I should be henceforth but a dismal guest."

Her eyes grew dark and fathomless as the deep sea beneath them.

"Go," she said slowly, "but first loose thy girdle."

He drew a deep breath of hope and delight, took the starry girdle from his waist, and gave it to the fairy. She took it, looked once more into his face, and glided down over the breaking steps.

Antonio turned to seek the upper world, but the stair above him had vanished, the step on which his foot rested melted from beneath him, and he found himself floating through the dark, deep waters. But the waves flowed no longer soft and free as spring breezes over his head and breast. With his girdle he had given up his power over them, and now he was but a weak mortal struggling with the raging elements. The waves roared round him, and tossed him hither and thither like a ball, while he strove in vain to breathe. He looked up to measure the distance, then he struggled with all the strength of despair against the waves. His young strong arm bore him upwards; once more he raised his head above the flood and breathed the air of heaven. His eye sought the red rock on which his old teacher sat, with his arms stretched out helplessly towards his adopted son, whose desperate struggles he had no power to help.

"I am coming, I am coming, my father," he cried confidently, but a giant billow swept over the youth and hurled him down into the boiling deep.

The evening hues were fading from the ocean, and the old man still stood beside the rock, his hands clasped, and his eyes gazing fixedly on the now tranquil deep. A dark object came floating from the west, and the waves left it on the beach almost at the old man's feet. He raised his dark eyes and looked at the motionless form, then he rose and walked with tottering footsteps to the spot. There lay Antonio, pale, cold, and dead. He had kept his word; before the bright night had passed into the brighter morning he had come back, but not as he had dreamed and hoped. The old man's trembling hands dug his grave at the foot of the red rock where Antonio had first seen the fairy. Then he turned his footsteps towards his distant, lonely home.

As soon as evening came again to visit earth and ocean, the sea-fairy rose through the waves, went up to the rock, and sat down beside the rock beneath which Antonio lay. There she sat, silent and motionless, her white hands lying idly in her lap, and her dreamy eyes looking out on the heaving billows; but down her beautiful face ran great tears, that shone in the light of the setting sun, and told the pain that throbbed in her proud and lonely heart.

Not till the hues of evening gave place to the rosy tints of dawn did the sea-fairy go back to her ocean kingdom, never to return to earth.

No mortal eye has since beheld her, and the old saga of the sea-fairy is no longer heard along the coast of Norway.

Antonio's resting-place is desolate, as of old. It is known only to the Norwegian sky, which looks down brightily and sunnily upon it, and the little waves sometimes dash over it, sparkling like the sea-fairy's tears.

---

[The Faithful Goblin.]

A CASTLE stood long years ago on a lofty hill in the old land of Hesse. Not a stone of its proud walls is now standing, and even its site is well-nigh forgotten by tradition; but in those days its high pinnacles were seen for miles over the country, and a haughty and noble race ruled in its halls.

The beams of the setting sun were falling through the little lead-framed window-panes into a round turret chamber, and rested on the fair hair of a lovely little girl. She was kneeling on an arm-chair beside the window, leaning her head on her little rounded arms, and weeping silent but bitter tears.

"Oh, Margaret, Margaret, why are you so long?" she cried at length, sobbing aloud, as she slipped down from her seat and ran to the door; but the massive door of the castle chamber was too high for the little hand to reach to open it, and the thick oaken panels kept any sound of her crying from reaching friendly ears.

Everybody was far away—everybody, even Margaret her nurse, who, forgetful of her duty, had left the child alone while she was watching what was going on at the splendid banquet which was being given to celebrate the betrothal of the eldest daughter of the noble house.

"Oh, Margaret, dear Margaret, come to your little Maude!" cried the child again, as she rose on tiptoe and tried to open the lofty door. But her efforts were in vain, her entreaties all unheard; and at last she went back to the window, for it was beginning to grow gradually dusk in the high-ceiled turret chamber. She climbed up again to the arm-chair, leaned her arm against the window-sill, and looked with silent weeping into the glowing red of the evening sky, where little white clouds were swimming like swans in a sea of crimson.

"Maude, Maude!" said a clear voice suddenly at the other side of the room.

The child turned her head in astonishment; at the fireplace there stood a little boy, not any bigger than herself, and with just the same lovely golden hair and rosy face. His coat was of red velvet, and his feet were encased in little buckskin boots, richly embroidered with costly pearls.

Maude's tears forgot to flow. Half terrified, half delighted, she kept her eyes fixed on the form of the beautiful little stranger, and at last she asked shyly, "Who are you, little boy, and how did you get in? The door is still shut!"

The little fellow laughed merrily, and came towards Maude's chair.

"Ah, Maude! you have known me this long time. Just think now; doesn't Margaret always threaten to call me when you won't go to sleep at once at night?"

"You don't mean to say you are Puck, our castle goblin, who has played so many tricks on people that everybody is afraid of him?" asked the little girl quite fearlessly; "but they always speak of him as old and wrinkled."

"Yes, I am he," nodded the little boy; "but I only tease wicked people who tease me, and I am old and ugly only in their eyes. But I will not tease you, but serve you whenever I can, and play with you when Margaret leaves you alone, so that you need not be afraid of me. Would you like that, Maude?"

"Indeed I should," said the child, with beaming eyes, "I am so often alone, now that dear mother is dead. Father is always out hunting. I am too little for my sisters, and Margaret so often goes to gossip with the other servants, and shuts me up here. She has been so long away now that I am hungry, and it is getting dark, and she is not coming with candles and supper."

"You shall have both immediately, Maude; just wait a minute!" cried the little boy eagerly, as he hastened back to the fire, swung himself up by the iron bars, and climbed nimbly and easily up the chimney.

Maude had got down from her chair, and was standing in astonishment looking up after him.

"Oh! you will spoil your lovely coat, dear Puck!" she cried anxiously; but the only answer was a merry laugh from the goblin. Then all was still, and the little fellow had vanished.

She stood with clasped hands, looking expectantly up the dark, strange road which little Puck had chosen. She felt that it was all so mysterious, and yet so delightful; it was just like waiting on Christmas Eve for the presents. Then there was a rustling and clattering away high up, and quick as a squirrel the little fellow clambered down the sooty wall, and in a twinkling he laid his burden down before the astonished child.

"Just wait a minute," he cried merrily, "and you will see how light it will be!"

As he spoke he climbed up the wall, and in a moment the silver sconces were radiant with lighted wax candles.

The little girl clapped her hands in delight.

"That is not all," said the goblin with an air of importance; "just look here."

He opened the basket which he had brought with him. With magic quickness, the table was covered and set with the daintiest dishes.

Maude needed no pressing to taste them.

"Oh you good Puck," she said gratefully, "how kind you are to me! Did Margaret give you all that?"

"Margaret, indeed!" answered the goblin, growling; "she has no time to think of you. She is too busy staring at what's going on, and tasting stolen bits."

"But who gave you all this—this delicious cake and this splendid pie? This must surely be the dish that Margaret says cook is so proud of!"

"Yes, that it is!" said the little fellow, nodding; "and the guests made such faces when it suddenly vanished from before their eyes that I nearly died with laughing at them—ha, ha, ha!"

"Vanished?" asked the child in astonishment.

"Yes, vanished!" laughed Puck; "do you think they would have given it of their own accord; I put on my cap, so that they did not see me, and then I packed up everything that I thought you would like."

Maude dropped the bit that she was just putting to her mouth, and gazed incredulously at her little friend.

"What do you mean?" she asked anxiously.

The little fellow laughed heartily.

"Look," said he, as soon as he was able to control himself; "do you see this little red cap? I have had it under my arm all the time I have been talking to you; now I am going to put it on!"

In a moment he had vanished from the child's sight—though she peered anxiously about the room, she could see nothing. Not a gleam of his red coat nor of his golden hair was to be seen at all, yet his clear laugh close beside her told her that he was there and as near as ever.

"Oh, Puck, dear Puck, don't play such tricks, please," she begged; "I am afraid when you do that."

That instant he stood again before her, handsome and merry, shaking his golden locks and smiling.

"You must not be frightened," he said soothingly; "I will always be visible for you, and my cap will only be used in your service. Now give me something to eat. No, not that cake! Break me some white bread into this dish, and pour some nice white milk over it; that's what I have been accustomed to for generations. In your great-grandfather's time the good maid used to leave me some every evening, and in return I used to help with all sorts of work about the house. Now, men are not so good-natured, and won't give me my dues, and so I don't care to be friendly with them."

"My good Puck," said the little girl, handing him his bowl, "you shall want for nothing now! I get white bread and milk every evening for supper, and I will always go shares with you."

Then the friends ate their supper with keen appetites, chatting all the while like old acquaintances. At last sleep overcame the tired child. Then Puck sat at the foot of her couch, and sang a strange, soft, sweet lullaby. As soon as Maude was asleep, the goblin busied himself in removing all the traces of their feast; and when Margaret returned late at night, with many misgivings about her neglected duty, she found the child in a quiet sleep, instead of being, as she feared, ready to receive her with bitter reproaches.

Margaret breathed more freely, and resolved to be more mindful of her charge in future. For a few days she kept her resolution faithfully, but she soon began to slip out in the twilight to chat with a friend, only for a few minutes, as she assured Maude. It was not long till the minutes became a half-hour, and in a week or two she had forgotten all her repentance and good resolutions, and poor little Maude would have had cause again for bitter tears if it had not been for her little friend.

Scarcely had the door closed after Margaret, when the goblin popped his fair head out of the chimney, and sprang into the room with a merry greeting. Then Maude would clap her hands with delight, for now began the pleasantest hour of the day. There was no end to the stories that Puck could tell for her entertainment. For hours together, while her nurse was away, the child sat motionless, with clasped hands, listening with bated breath to tales about days long gone by. For hundreds of years the little goblin had lived in the castle as an honoured member of the household, and his memory preserved more faithfully than the family chronicle the history of every individual of the long ancestral line. And before the astonished child the grave seemed opened, and the forefathers who had long since mingled with the dust all passed in the bloom of youth before her eyes. Then she would go to the ancestral hall, and standing before the pictures gaze at them, now in love, now in horror, for she knew the story connected with each one of the old portraits.

No one in the whole castle knew of the child's friendship with Puck. She was afraid that the servants might tease him if they knew of his presence, or perhaps drive him away, so she kept her secret carefully.

It was winter. The snow lay deep, the storm howled at night and whistled in the wide chimney, and the windows were covered with thick frost.

"Poor Puck," said Maude one evening, as the goblin came down the chimney, his teeth chattering with cold, "I cannot allow you to stay any longer up there. See, your hair is white with frost and snow, and you are trembling all over."

"Yes, yes," said the little fellow; "it is very cold."

"Look here, then," said the child, going to her dolls' corner, and drawing aside the curtain; "I have turned out the dollies. You shall have the big four-post bed, and in the day-time you can stay here too. I have set a little table and chair for you, so that you may have something like a little room till the summer comes."

So all winter long Puck crept at night into the warm, soft little bed, instead of springing back at Margaret's return up the cold dark chimney.

Spring came with its primroses and fleecy clouds, and then followed summer with its splendour of flowers in field and grove.

And now Maude and her nurse used to go out into the woods, to the child's intense delight. But one day Margaret found the sun too warm and the way too long for her lazy mood, and was easily persuaded to sit down and rest while Maude ran to gather wild strawberries.

Scarcely was she out of sight of her nurse when Puck, who had invisibly accompanied her, took off his cap, threw it into the air with a shout, and stood before his little friend laughing his own merry laugh. What delightful hours those were! What rich beds of strawberries Puck knew—what choice flowers he could find! Then, when the child was tired, she threw herself down on the moss, with Puck at her side, and they both gazed up into the green tree-tops.

The goblin understood the language of Nature. He heard what the trees whispered to each other about the trees of Paradise, with the golden stems and the flowers of precious stones; he understood the song of the nightingale as he sang to his mate about the beauty of the bird Phœnix and its undying youth; he saw the beetles gleaming in the grass, and heard even their soft sounds as they talked about their brothers in the distant Indies, whose wings gleam so like emeralds that the dark-eyed Hindoo women use them to deck their raven hair; and even the silent, lifeless stone had an intelligible language for Puck—it told him of the diamonds far away beyond the seas, which the poor slave seeks with eager eyes, trying to find one large enough to purchase his freedom. All this he understood, and told the child about it as she listened in silent rapture, and gazed up into the whispering trees.

Thus, in pleasant alternation, the seasons rolled by, and Maude blossomed into maidenly grace and loveliness. She had become her father's darling. Many an hour that he had formerly spent at the chase or at the wine-cup he now passed with his daughter, amused with her astonishing tales out of the family history. But she never would tell him how she got all her knowledge, for she shrank from bringing trouble on the faithful goblin, who still continued to be her friend, and the companion of her hours of solitude.

Maude's only unmarried sister, Gertrude, was about to be united to a brave young knight, whom she had chosen in preference to a powerful but universally dreaded Earl, whose castle stood at no great distance.

At the marriage, Maude appeared for the first time among the grown-up people, and, as befitted the occasion, she received as attendant page the son of a neighbouring nobleman, who, being an old friend of her father's, had allowed his son to come and learn knightly service in the household of Maude's father, preparatory to his filling an office in the Imperial Court. He was a handsome youth, a little older than his young mistress, with brown hair and dark, dreamy eyes, and Maude took an innocent pleasure in the beauty of her future attendant; but Puck looked not well pleased when she told him about her new page.

"I will send him away if I don't like him," said he angrily.

"Oh no, dear, dear Puck, you must not do that!" said Maude coaxingly. "If you love me, be kind to him; he is motherless, as I am."

But the little goblin was offended for the first time since the beginning of their friendship, and when Maude went to rest he refused the soft little doll's bed that had grown so dear to him, and sprang instead up the chimney to the top of the tower. There he sat looking gloomily up at the stars, and many were the sad thoughts that chased each other through his ancient breast.

Next morning, when Gero came to the turret chamber with a bouquet of flowers for his young mistress, he found Puck seated beside her in the window-sill watching her at her spinning. The goblin had put on his invisible cap at Gero's entrance, but it was of no avail, for the page had been born during the ember weeks, and could see the little fellow in spite of the charm.

"Why, Lady Maude," he cried in angry astonishment, "who is this that you have in your company? It cannot surely be one of the goblins who do so much mischief."

"Puck has been my friend and companion from my childhood up," said Maude, a little hotly; "and I have to thank him for many a pleasant hour."

"That may be," answered Gero, "but he must not take my place with my mistress. And now your palfrey is ready, and I will escort you on your ride."

Then the goblin's wrath broke loose. He called Gero a proud fool, and said he would not let him interfere with him. Then he followed Maude, who descended the winding turret stair, her mind full of distress at the discord between her companions. When she sprang to her saddle at the castle gate, Puck jumped up behind her, as was his wont, and went trotting merrily off with her down the mountain. But his pleasure was not to last long, for scarcely had they reached the broad, even road, when Gero rode up to the side of his lady's horse, caught little Puck suddenly, and set him before himself on his saddle.

The goblin would have been able easily to free himself from the hand of the youth, if it had not been that Gero had wisely taken possession of the invisible cap, and all the little fellow's efforts to release himself only increased his tormentor's mockery. At last, when Gero set him down again at the castle gate, Puck clenched his little fist, and growled, "I will pay you back for this."

"GERO CAUGHT PUCK SUDDENLY AND SET HIM BEFORE HIM ON HIS SADDLE."

From this time on the page had little peace. At night Puck would slip into his room, and disturb his sleep with all sorts of malicious tricks; and once he even lifted Gero from his bed, and laid him down close to the edge of the great well, hoping that, waking with a start, he might fall into the cold, deep water. Gero escaped the danger, but the adventure taught him to keep on terms of at least outward peace with his little foe.

Maude did her part towards preserving this show of harmony by allowing Gero alone to accompany her when she went to walk or ride, and by granting the little goblin the old cosy morning and twilight hours.

Puck accepted this arrangement with some grumbling. When the hour came for the ride, he would mount to the top of the tower, and look after the riders, as they trotted along so cheerfully, with a sad look in his eyes.

"But he can't tell her stories like mine," he said exultingly; "no, he can't take my place there."

No indeed; the young page had never listened to the language of Nature, but he had delightful things to tell about tournaments and noble deeds, and the soft voice of the forest trees began to die gradually from the girl's soul, overpowered by the noise and bustle of life.

Very pleasantly the maiden's days went by. The morning hours in the turret chamber grew more and more dear to her; the rides in the green wood and the tales of the unknown world had every day new charms; and in the warm evenings her wise goblin friend used to tell her wonderful things about the stars, as the two stood on the top of the old tower watching the far-off lights peep out one by one.

One night, as she lay dreaming sweet dreams, woven out of memories of the day's delights, she was awakened by Puck's sudden call.

"Quick, quick! do you not hear anything?" cried the little fellow anxiously; "rise and flee for your freedom and your life."

Maude started up in terror.

"What is wrong?" she cried.

"The powerful Earl, whom your sister refused, has heard that your father is absent, and has come to take a mean revenge by robbing your father of his wealth and of his child."

"What am I to do, good Puck?" cried Maude in bitter anguish, clasping her trembling hands.

"Dress quickly, and let us go."

"Through the midst of the enemy?" asked the maiden, trembling, for she heard the oaken stairs creaking with the tramp of many feet.

"Yes, right through the midst of the enemy," said Puck, "but not without my cap. Cover me with your cloak, and put this on your head. Now, no one can see us."

So they passed unseen through the midst of the rough soldiers. Once Maude nearly betrayed herself when she saw Gero fighting single-handed against a multitude of foes. The winding stair that led to his lady's turret chamber was narrow enough to be defended by one, and with the courage of a lion he guarded the way to the place where he believed his precious charge to be.

How hard it was for Maude to keep from telling him that his efforts were needless! But Puck laid his little hand against her lips, and forced her to silence.

"Puck, dear Puck, can you not save him?" cried the maiden, in distress, when they were once outside the castle walls.

"Not till your safety is beyond a doubt," said the little goblin resolutely; "not till you are away in the depth of the forest, where they will never be able to find you."

With trembling haste Maude ran towards the wood, but the way was long, and her eager feet tottered under her. Turning to look towards the castle, she saw flames bursting from door and window. Still more anxiously she pressed on till the tall forest trees hid the castle from her sight. Even then Puck refused to leave her.

"Would Gero, who has, I confess, done his duty by you—would he, since he seems to love you, wish me to go back to save him a little trouble, and leave you unsheltered?"

Further and further they went through the very scenes where Puck had spent so many pleasant hours with his child-friend. But now, the trees that used to whisper so softly looked down like grim giants, and the night-wind in the branches howled "Flee!"

Suddenly a gleam of light broke on their path with a mild silvery radiance. A gentle murmur of water fell on the wanderer's ear, and in a few minutes they stood by the side of a valley, which here, forgotten by the world, lay like a home of peace in the heart of the forest.

There, in the shelter of a mossy rock, stood the cosy cottage of the old forest-warden. The moonbeams flashed back from the single window, and trembled on the stone bench before the door. The cottage was uninhabited, for the good old man whose home it had once been had years since passed away, and his office had never been filled. Yet nothing bore traces of decay. There was even a bright fire on the hearth, and a boiling kettle hung upon the hook above it. For the old forest-warden had been a good friend to Puck, and the little fellow loved to keep the little cottage as neat and homelike as it used to be.

Maude smiled gratefully as she looked around. "Thanks, dear Puck," she said; "now hasten back to Gero. I will lie down on this nice bed of fragrant moss, and I will not be afraid, I promise you."

When Puck returned, he found that the maiden's weariness had overcome her anxiety, but he knew by the tears that trembled on her eyelashes that she was thinking, even in dreams, of her brave page, and he dreaded to tell her when she awoke that he had not been able to find any trace of the faithful Gero. A great portion of the turret stair had fallen in, and among the bodies that lay piled beneath its ruins it was impossible to distinguish any one.

When the maiden woke, she almost for a moment fancied herself in her own turret chamber, for there, at the open window, stood the richly-carved arm-chair, the one carefully-preserved souvenir of her sainted mother, where Maude had so often sat and chatted with her little friend, and there in the corner stood her harp and the silver spindle, with its snowy thread.

But alas! she soon remembered the terrors of the night, and when, in answer to her questioning look, Puck told her, with faltering voice, his fears for Gero, the maiden's grief found vent in bitter weeping.

But Puck would not allow her to dwell on these sad thoughts. Drawing aside a curtain that hung against the wall, he disclosed to her astonished eyes the portraits of her dear parents, which had hung just so in her own room at home. And while she stood gazing on the beloved faces, her hands clasped in silent emotion, the flame was crackling on the hearth beneath the bubbling kettle, and Puck was rummaging in cupboards and chests, rattling with plates and cups, and preparing a meal for himself and his dear charge.

Maude, with the happy buoyancy of youth, half forgot her trouble of the night, while her colour came back with the needed food, and her heart was cheered by Puck's pleasant chatter, so willing was she to believe his prophecies of better days.

"You must stay here, Maude," he said, "until your father returns, and till he has punished the wicked Earl for his malice. For you would not be as safe, even in your father's protection, as here in this forest retreat. So be patient, and I will give you back in time to your friends, even to Gero, if he still lives, though that will be the hardest thing of all. But I know now that he was worthy of you, or he could not have fought as he did last night. It was nobly done!"

And the little fellow rubbed his hands with delight, which he felt, in spite of himself, in thinking of that valiant defence.

"You would have been friends yet if he had lived," said Maude tearfully. "Two such dear, good people could not have been enemies all their lives."

Days and weeks passed by, and still Maude was kept in her place of concealment. From time to time Puck went out to see what was going on between the hostile noblemen. The report brought back was always the same—"The Earl is sending out spies—I see them lurking in all directions—to find out your retreat, for they seem to know that you escaped the fire, or to suspect it from not finding your body among the dead. He wants to take you now as a hostage against your father's vengeance." Then, when Maude's cheek would pale at the words, he would add, "But they cannot find you in the midst of this thicket."

So the maiden still stayed in the forest cottage, and if her grief about Gero and her longing for her beloved father had not gnawed at her heart, she could have been nearly as happy in the lovely valley as she was once in her old home.

Puck was at work every morning by break of day, as if he wanted to make up for a century of idleness, nor would he ever allow Maude to share his household toil. But she sat spinning on the stone bench at the door, while he bustled cheerily about the little cottage. Then, when all the work was done, they would go into the wood, and it seemed as if the old days had come back again. For they still lay on the soft moss gazing into the shady trees while Puck told his marvellous stories.

Autumn and winter came, and the leisure hours were spent now by the cheery fire that burned on the clean-swept hearth. Never was there such a servant or such a merry companion as the little faithful goblin.

At last spring came. And now Puck went away every day to see what was going on at the wicked Earl's castle, for Maude's father had laid siege to his enemy's stronghold, hoping to force him to give up the dear one whom he believed to be imprisoned within those walls. Puck never let the sorrowing father know of his child's safety, for he did not wish her to be removed from his protection till her powerful enemy had been reduced by war, or even slain.

As the wood grew greener, the hopes of the besiegers waxed daily brighter. The fall of the castle was sure, and its defence could last but a few days longer.

This was the news which Puck brought home one day as he came to the noonday meal, and when he again went out to get further information, or, if possible, lend, unseen, a helping hand to the besiegers, Maude sat on the stone bench before the cottage, and tried to busy her trembling fingers with her spinning. But Puck was longer absent than usual, and she asked herself anxiously should she regard it as a good sign or the contrary.

At last she could stand it no longer. She rose and went along the narrow path by which she had come to her place of refuge. She had never before ventured alone through those forest shades; but the birds sang sweetly as she passed along, and she thought their cheerful voices bid her hope.

Soon she came to the scenes familiar to her from her childhood. Here was the place where Margaret used to sit and rest, and there—what memories filled her soul with sad emotion!—there was the old oak-stump on which she had sat by Gero's side, as he told her of the great world of which she knew so little. And now the eloquent mouth was silent, and her faithful page had fallen in her defence, for Puck, in all his journeys to the castle, had never seen Gero among the besiegers.

She leant her head against a tree-stem, and wept long and bitterly. Then she raised her head to take one more look at the sacred spot. But were her tear-filled eyes deceiving her? There sat, as if lost in painful memories, a tall, manly form in gleaming armour, with a well-remembered sash of silver and blue across his breast.

Maude uttered a cry. The knight raised his head, and she looked into a familiar, but now pale and grief-marked face.

"Gero, Gero!" she cried, forgetting every other feeling in her wild delight, and rushing with outstretched arms to where he stood.

The young knight's brain swam. At first he thought the sweet apparition must be his dear one's spirit; but no, he clasped in his arms the trembling form of the lost maiden.

For one moment she lay sobbing on his breast; then, recollecting herself, she tore herself blushing from his arms.

"Forgive me, Gero, my surprise overcame me. So you are alive, and I had mourned for you as dead."

"Did you mourn for me, lady?" asked the young knight. "Thanks for the sweet assurance. I too sorrowed—oh! how deeply—for your loss; and to-day I rose from what I thought would be my death-bed, and came to visit the spot where we had spent so many happy hours together, here to indulge my grief undisturbed. The wicked Earl who caused our trouble fell to-day in the storming of his own castle, but great was our disappointment not to find you anywhere within its walls. And now you are here, and I am not deceived by a blessed dream!"

"No, it is no dream," said Maude joyfully; "but now let us hasten to relieve my father's grief."

As they went together through the wood, Maude told the knight how Puck had saved her, and how he had cared for her in the lonely valley.

"The brave little goblin!" cried Gero, as she finished. "Let bygones be bygones; we will be friends henceforth."

They had now reached the blackened ruins of Maude's former home, but, in the joy of dispelling the grief from the dear face of her father, who stood gazing, in deep sadness, on the scene of desolation, the maiden forgot to mourn at the wreck before her.

Ere the sun set, Gero and Maude were formally betrothed, and the work was at once begun of repairing the ruined castle. Meantime, Maude found a home with her future father-in-law, who was delighted to welcome as a daughter the child of his trusted friend; and Puck found no lack of employment among the busy builders, who wondered sometimes what made the work progress so quickly.

Before another spring the castle stood in more than its old strength and greatness, and no part had received such careful attention as the turret where Puck had made the lonely child his friend.

No guest at Gero's wedding received such marked deference and attention from the bridegroom as his former enemy, and the servants of the new household, catching their tone from their master, treated little Puck with kindness such as he had experienced at the hands of former generations.

The turret chamber was his home henceforth, and all through the long winter Maude's children loved to gather there at twilight, and coax the merry goblin to join them in their games, or tell them tales of the old days of the castle. But perhaps their mother's story was the one that they loved best—the story about the old enmity that changed to such firm friendship between the Lady Maude's page and her faithful goblin.

---

[THE FALLEN BELL.]

E RE the light of the Gospel had shone on the benighted land of Saxony, there stood on the green banks of the Saale a stately temple, within whose walls a throng of ignorant worshippers presented the offering of praise and of sacrifice to the gods who had been honoured, as they believed, by their remotest ancestors. Then came Charlemagne, who cast out the heathen gods of Saxony, threw down their altars, and introduced Christianity. Among the rest fell the temple on the banks of the Saale. The Christian priest with pious zeal seized the idol which had there been worshipped, and hurled it into the river. From that time on, the rejected god lived as a water-sprite down in the waters of the Saale, cherishing a deadly hatred against the new religion, which had robbed him of his old-established rights. On the site of his former shrine rose now a cloister, and the bell, whose deep rich voice reached even the dwelling of the water-elf, stirring up afresh his bitter wrath and jealousy, called the inhabitants of the surrounding district to the new God and His sanctuary.

But the old honoured faith did not so easily die out from the hearts of the Saxons, and though they were obliged to join in the newly-enforced worship, they clung long to their ancient divinities, and secretly brought them the usual sacrifices.

At last the power of the Gospel triumphed, and the innocent child who had yearly been offered to the water-spirit on St. John's day was now withheld.

Wild was the rage of the mortified elf. All day long he watched among the willows on the bank, whence he could look unseen far over the fields, to see if they had really forgotten him. No sacrifice was brought. He felt that the last vestige of his power was gone. In gloomy anger against the thankless race, he resolved to take by force the victim of which he had been cheated.

A lovely child approached the bank, heedless of danger, holding in its tiny hand a bunch of forget-me-nots. Close by the water's edge were more of the blue flowers, and he ran forward to pluck the tempting blossoms. Then the waters of the Saale suddenly rose, swept over the place where the child was standing, and carried him down in their cold embrace. From that time people were careful to avoid the river on St. John's day, fearing a similar fate.

As Christianity became more powerful, the cloister, formerly a centre of holy influence, became the seat of arrogance and idle luxury, and the water-elf, who knew that the God whom he hated was a righteous judge, who would punish evil, often sat on moonlight nights among the willows gazing at the cloister, from whose lighted windows came the noise of clinking glasses and wild revelry. Then he murmured between his teeth—

"I shall live to see you brought to shame! Your God cannot suffer such doings, and I shall have my revenge."

And he did live to see it.

One night, when, instead of pious hymns, drinking-songs were ascending from the cloister cells, a dark storm-cloud spread across the sky. Thunder growled and lightning flashed, making all nature tremble. Men fell on their knees; the monks alone heeded not the voice of the Almighty. At every peal of thunder they raised their voices in the vain attempt to drown with their wild chorus the tumult without.

Then came an awful flash, which gleamed like a coronet of fire on the summit of the tower, and darted through the roof to the refectory, where in one moment its deadly shaft sent all the profane and godless scoffers before the throne of the eternal. The flame next seized the furniture of the hall, and it was not long till the fire burst from the shattered windows, for every hand was still that might have been raised to check its progress.

The water-sprite sat on a stone at the river's edge, contentedly watching the awful spectacle.

Every moment the flames gained greater force. Their fiery tooth gnawed beam and pillar till they burst asunder with a crash, and at last the devouring element rose from the ruined pile below to the belfry tower. Then the bell, swayed by the heat, began to stir. Faster and faster came the strokes, like a cry of anguish or a mournful knell sounding in wild and awful tones through the uproar of the storm. The beams from which it hung gave way, and with a great swing it fell into the Saale, making the water foam and hiss as it felt the glowing metal. The tower fell in, and the stately building was changed into a mass of smoking ruins.

Gradually the rage of the elements was stilled, and nature sank again to peaceful repose. The clouds were parted, and from the once more azure sky the moon looked down on the heaps of rubbish with the same mild and gentle glance as it used formerly to cast on the proud cloister.

And what of the water-fairy. The downfall of his foes almost reconciled him with his lot. The hated chimes no longer reached his ear, reminding him of what he so wished to forget, his lost dominion. The bell had found a resting-place on a beautiful green meadow which lay at the bottom of the Saale. The sprite planted water-lilies all round it, just as human beings adorn graves with the fairest of flowers. Then he built a crystal castle right in front of it, and brought home as his bride a beautiful water-fairy from the neighbouring river, Elbe.

After a time children played in the shell-adorned halls of the crystal castle, two beautiful boys with bright eyes and little red caps, and their sister, a gentle little water-elf, as sweet and beautiful as her relations of the land, the fairies of mountains and trees.

The sons were like their father; they hated the human race, of whom the old fairy had told them nothing but evil, and they helped him every St. John's day to entice some heedless mortal down into the stream.

Their lovely little sister was of a very different stamp. A secret longing drew her heart towards the land and its inhabitants, and it was only by the sternest prohibition that her father could induce her to remain at home. But at night, when sleep reigned in the crystal castle, she would rise to the surface of the water, take her stand on the great white water-lilies, which willingly joined to do her service, and thus on this slender raft she would float up and down the stream. Her long fair hair flowed down till it touched the water; in her white arms she held a golden harp; and when she touched the strings and sang her sweet songs that told of her longing after the beautiful sunlight, after the blue sky and the unknown human race, the trees bowed their tall heads to the water's edge, the birds hushed their song, and even the night-wind held his breath while he listened to the music of the little water-sprite.

It was once more St. John's day, and the old water-elf was in one of his tempers.

The sun was shining on the river, and its rays flashed back in rainbow hues from the crystal pillars of the water-castle. The meadows in the cool bed of the Saale showed their freshest green, and the long grass waved to and fro among the water, while fishes and water-beetles darted between its stalks like golden stars.

The two boys sharpened their scythes and began to mow the grass, for it was haymaking time. Their sister stood among the lilies beside the great bell, holding one of the white flowers in her hand, and striking the metal with its slender stem, so that it answered her in strange and mellow tones. But she did it softly, very softly, for she knew how hateful the sound of the old bell was to her father, especially on this day. The sound was deep and musical, reminding the little fairy of the chimes which she sometimes heard on quiet nights, as she floated up and down the river on her raft of water-lilies.

Pleased with the dear, familiar tones, she forgot that her father was near, and she struck the bell so loudly that the sound, borne on the waves, thrilled through the castle, where the old fairy was leaning, lost in thought, against a pillar, passing his fingers through his grey-green beard, and dreamily watching his sons at their work.

When the hated sound struck on his ear, he started up with a cry of anger, and looked fiercely at his trembling daughter. But before he had time to give vent to his wrath a shadow fell over the palace and meadow, followed by a crash, as if something had been broken in the castle.

And such was indeed the case.

A boat was passing slowly through the waves above; the steersman had happened to let the rudder fall, and its iron point struck with such force against one of the crystal panes of the water-sprite's palace that it fell, shattered into a thousand pieces.

This was too much for the enraged fairy. He rose foaming through the water, and stood with flaming eyes before the boatman. "Insolent man," he growled, "what hast thou done? Repair the injury at once. If the pane is not replaced within half-an-hour, thou shalt pay for it with thy life."

The boatman laughed. "I don't understand glazier's work," said he, "and I shall hardly be able to find any one who could work down there in the water; so I cannot satisfy your demand. But as for your threats, my good fellow, the time of your authority is long gone by. There is not even a child now who fears you; and, besides, I have a cargo of steel bars, and you know, my dear waterman, that they would prevent you from coming into my boat to do me any harm."

At the mention of steel, a metal very hurtful to water-elves, the fairy unwillingly retired. He cast one more look of anger on the bold boatman, and on the little girl, who, on seeing the wrathful apparition, had clung terrified to her father's arm; then he slowly sank into the water. He sat down in his crystal hall, leaned his head on his hand, and tried to devise some plan by which he could entice the little girl from the boat into his kingdom, and, by choosing her as the victim of the day, avenge himself on the boatman.

"I have it!" he cried at length; "the trick with the green ribbon that I learned the other day from my cousin the water-prince in Bohemia will be of use to me now. To-day there is some great ceremony in the next village, and I am sure the father will send his child there to have her out of my way, and then I may find an opportunity of trying my skill."

So saying, he put on his hat of plaited rushes, drew on his green coat, and rose to the surface to place himself not far from the boat among the willows by the river's brink.

He had guessed rightly. Though the boatman had seemed courageous when speaking to the water-sprite, a secret uneasiness rankled in his heart. It was not for himself he feared, but for his only child; for he had seen the wicked glance that the waterman had cast on the girl as he disappeared beneath the stream. He consulted his wife about what they ought to do for their child's safety; for they knew well the dangers of St. John's day, which the mischance with the rudder had unhappily doubled.

In the next village lived a distant relation, and the fair gave an excellent excuse for paying her a visit. The little girl dressed herself in her best, said good-bye to her parents, and received injunctions to stay all night with her friends, and not return to the boat before morning. Joyfully she hastened along the high-road, which lay for some distance by the river-side, till she came to the place where the water-sprite sat so quietly in his summer clothes, that no one would have recognised in him the angry and revengeful spirit of the morning.

"Where are you going so briskly, fair maiden?" he asked pleasantly.

"To the village, to the dance!" answered the little one merrily; "don't you hear the music?"

"My dear child," said the water-sprite artfully, "the girls there are all so finely dressed that you in your plain clothes will look very shabby among them, and perhaps you will not even be able to get a partner. But look at this lovely ribbon, of which I have such a quantity. If you had that twined in among your golden hair, or wound as a sash round your slender waist, you would outshine all the girls at the fair."

The little one, who had thought until the old man spoke to her that she would never get soon enough to the dance, now stopped, and looked with a critical eye, first on herself, and then on the bright green ribbon, which the water-sprite was pulling in endless lengths from the river which flowed on the other side of the willows.

"Look how pretty it is!" said he, and she let him wind it, as if to try the effect, around her slender form.

But immediately she was in the old fairy's power. With a mocking laugh, he said—

"Now, my little one, thou art mine! We shall see whether thy father will say to-morrow that my authority is overthrown, and that I have no longer power to frighten a child. Come!"

As he spoke he seized the ribbon, and walked towards the river.

The terrified child began to scream, but father and mother were far away. She tried to escape, but the ribbon forced her to follow the water-sprite. Her feet would bear her in no other direction, no matter how she tried. Nearer and nearer to the rushing stream was she drawn by the dreadful ribbon. Soon the water touched her feet.

"Father, mother, farewell!" she cried in a voice of anguish. Then the old water-elf caught her in his arms, and, with a horrid laugh, plunged with her into the stream. The waters did their deadly work on the poor child's body, but the water-sprite kept the soul of the drowned girl prisoner at the bottom of the Saale. She could not mount to heaven; she could not even rejoice in the sunlight which pressed in softened radiance through the water to the meadow on the river's bed, nor might she play like the little water-elf with the silvery fishes. Heedless of her entreaties, the water-man put her under the heavy bell among the lilies, and said, as he went back to his castle, "Here thou shalt stay in punishment for thy father's insolence; and my watchful eye and the weight of the bell will prevent any one from setting thee free."

He went away, and left the soul of the poor little girl alone in her prison. Her sighs and lamentations could not pierce through the thick metal walls, but they were only sent back to her in dismal echo.

Meantime the little water-elf stood outside the bell in sympathetic grief. She wound a garland of the fairest lilies round the little girl's corpse, carried it gently up through the water, and left it near the boat. The parents would never again see their dear child alive, but she had laid the little body in a soft bed of flowers, to make the sad sight less startling to their loving hearts.

Next morning, when the sun began to gild the waters of the Saale, the boatman left his cabin to make preparations for departure, while the mother, shading her eyes with her hand, stood looking along the high-road, where she expected every moment to see the child appear.

"Look there, wife!" said the boatman, pointing to an object in the water, which slowly approached the boat. "Look there! What is that?"

The woman turned to see. The waters of the Saale were gently bringing a great garland of blooming lilies, and in their midst lay, with closed eyes and folded hands, their loved and only child.

---

The little girl's soul sat beneath the bell. She could not leave her prison. Not a chink was visible, and the heavy bell would not move one hairsbreadth, notwithstanding all her efforts.

"What will my father and mother say if I do not come home?" sighed the child's soul. "Oh, my poor dear parents! Never to see the pleasant sunlight or the blue sky! To stay down here for ever in this narrow, dark coffin—oh, how dreadful!" And if a soul could have died with terror, grief, and longing, that would certainly have been the fate of the little girl's spirit The hours passed silently over her and her prison. The hours became days. How many had gone by? The little soul did not know. At last she sank into a kind of stupor, and almost ceased to feel.

But one day something approached her prison, the edge of the bell was raised, and the water-sprite's rough voice said, "Come out."

The opening through which the light was peeping was small, but souls, with their light transparent forms, do not need much space, and in a moment the little spirit slipped out, and now stood trembling before the wicked water-man.

"Thou mayest play here for a little," he said; "but in an hour thou must return to the bell."

The soul looked up. She had been so long in that dismal tomb, and now she found herself all at once in God's gloriously beautiful creation, though only for a short time, and as a prisoner! She forgot her past sorrow, and thought not of the future; she rejoiced in the delightful present, and looked up at the sun, which in noontide splendour stood in the blue canopy of heaven, sending its rays down on the green meadow, their brilliance softened by the crystal flood.

Then she looked around. Before her stood the splendid palace, with its glittering walls and transparent pillars, and round her swam the prettiest little fishes as fearlessly as if the little soul had been an acquaintance for years.

A lovely young girl came out of the shining building, and asked her to play with her.

The old water-sprite frowned in displeasure at his daughter's friendliness, but the little elf did not look at him, and the child's soul thought, "I must go back to prison at any rate, and he cannot do anything worse to me!" So she took the friendly fairy's hand, and rose with her through the silvery flood, chasing the fishes and trying to grasp the sunbeams with her little transparent hand. Then she wound garlands of reeds, and let them rise to the top of the water, after she had pressed sweet kisses on them, and laden them with loving messages for her dear ones up above.

As she stood watching them with tearful longing as they rose nearer and nearer to her home, she heard herself called once more. The water-sprite stood behind her, seized her hand, and led her back to the bell. She turned for a last look at the clear blue sky; the next moment she was back in her dark and narrow prison.

Hours and days passed slowly by. The time seemed endless to the poor little soul. Her only amusement and her only pleasure was to go over again and again that one hour of freedom and happiness.

One day, just as she was doing this, there was a noise outside the bell; the ray of light pierced her prison again, and before the old water-sprite had time to give her permission the little prisoner slipped through, spread out her delicate transparent arms towards the light of heaven, and with a cry of joy greeted the fair, free world. Her playfellow was standing waiting for her, and together they left the bell with joyous haste, slipped through the waving grass, and danced on the sunbeams with the dragon-flies and fishes.

"Oh!" said the little soul sadly, "why does this delightful hour come so seldom. Why may I not get out every day?"

"I do not know," answered the water-fairy; "but it is only on Saturday, between twelve and one o'clock, that the spirits are allowed to leave their prison down here and play in the sunlight."

"But it is so lonely and dark in the bell," said the child's soul dolefully.

The little nymph looked at her compassionately. Both had lost all pleasure in their joyous play, and arm-in-arm they looked up through the water at the clouds which were slowly sailing past.

"There comes your father to fetch me," said the little girl's soul, shuddering. "Oh! do come once, just once, every day to my prison; knock against the bell, and when the sound pierces through my metal walls I shall know that I am not quite alone in the world. Will you?"

A thought struck the young water-sprite; she opened her mouth to tell it to her playmate, but just then her father came up, and she had to be silent. She could only nod kindly at the poor little prisoner, whom the old water-sprite led roughly away to the dismal prison, whose narrow walls soon shut her out from the cheerful daylight.

It was night. Souls cannot sleep, but they may have waking dreams.

Thus the child's spirit was led back in imagination to her home. She saw herself once more in the ship on which she had been born, and fancied herself sitting beside her mother, listening to pleasant stories told by the dear gentle voice, and as she dreamed she forgot the impassable gulf which separated her from the living ones above the stream.

Then the sound of a bell fell gently on her ear. She had been so absorbed in her dreams that she started in alarm at the unexpected sound, and it was a moment or two before she could collect her thoughts to think. Then she remembered her request, of which this was evidently the fulfilment, so she struck softly against the inside of the bell as a sign that she had heard her friend's greeting.

Then the edge of her prison was gently lifted, and with a cry of joy she slipped out into the water. There stood the little water-sprite.

"Will you go up with me to the surface of the stream?" asked she. "Would you like to float up and down on my lily-raft?"

"Indeed I should," answered the little soul. "What do I want but freedom, air, and light? Oh yes, take me with you!"

The lovely nymph took the child's hand, and a little shining wave bore them upwards as on the wings of a swan.

Now they are standing on the surface of the water. The little water-sprite beckoned, and from far and near swam the water-lilies and anemones to make a boat of flowers for their young mistress and her dear little pale companion.

They glided down the stream. Oh, how beautiful it was!

THE WATER-ELF AND THE LITTLE SOUL ON THE RAFT OF WATER-LILIES.

On they moved past lofty mountains crowned by stately castles—past villages lying in peaceful slumber, whose churches mirrored their graceful spires in the clear flood below—past the willows on the banks, that nodded their drowsy heads as the night-wind played through their branches. And over all these lovely scenes the moon shed her magic light, and the waves sang softly their everlasting song.

Then the little water-elf took her golden harp, and sent her clear voice floating through the stillness of the night. She sang of what was stirring her own heart and filling the child's soul with sorrow—of their longing for happiness on earth or in heaven, which was so far, so far from them both. The sweet sounds floated through the silent night, till the waves checked their song, and the slumbering trees awoke to listen to the enthralling strains.

"Oh!" said the child's soul at length, "why cannot I rise into the kingdom of light? why must I linger far away from my heavenly home, and pine down below in that dark dungeon?"

"Because," answered the lovely water-elf kindly, "my father has sentenced you to the bell, and this spell holds you bound, and always forces you to return to darkness and captivity."

"Can this sentence, this spell never be broken?" asked the little soul.

"Yes, if a human being descends and overthrows the bell the charm will be broken, and you may rise to heaven."

"Ah! would that that time would come!" said the little one sorrowfully. "The only ones whose love would be strong enough to make them take the risk are far away." And she looked sadly into the distance.

When the moonlight began to pale, and the stars were dying out one by one, the friends left their lily-raft, plunged into the flood, and the little soul went back reluctantly to her dark prison.

So the days went by. Alone, alone in the dark bell, and once a-week one short hour of freedom and sunlight—that was the lot of the little soul, with now and then a sail on the lily-raft by the side of the water-elf. Unspeakably delightful were these hours, but the longing for their return made the dark days seem all the longer to the poor little prisoner.

And this pleasure was but rare. The little water-sprite had to be very prudent, for her cruel father might have made her pay for her nightly journeys with her life, so displeasing to him was her hankering after the human world, and her mild and friendly disposition.

Many a night the old water-fairy rose himself to the surface, many a time did his sons sit among the willows; and often the water-man could not sleep, and went restlessly through the rooms of his palace to see that everything was right.

It was only on nights when all in the crystal castle were fast asleep, and no discovery was to be feared, that the young nymph hastened to the little soul, opened her prison, by raising the edge of the bell, and rose with her for a sail in the lily-boat.

Years passed by, and with them hope died out from the little girl's soul; nothing remained to her but memory and longing. In the world above the water, what she had last seen young and fresh had grown gradually old. The playmates of her childhood had been married long ago, and some of them had entered on their eternal rest. Her father had never recovered the shock of that unhappy day, and the secret thought that he had excited the water-fairy's wrath by his defiant words, and had thus caused his dear child's death, gnawed at his life, and brought him to an untimely grave. Her mother alone was left. Her hair had grown white, not so much through age as through sorrow. Once, when in her solitude a deep longing seized her to see once more the place where her child had died, she entrusted the guidance of the boat to her brother's son, who was one day to fall heir to all her little possessions, and told him to take her to her darling's grave.

The boat reached its destination the night before Easter. Here, opposite the clump of willows, which had grown even denser than when she saw them last, and above which the spire of the village church raised its graceful form, the boat had stopped on that unhappy day so many years ago. Here, therefore, was the anchor lowered, and the boatman went to rest. But the mother, when she found herself so near the fatal spot, could not sleep. The most dreadful hour of her life, when she stood watching for the coming of her merry child, and saw instead but her pale, cold corpse, came again before her soul, and she passed the night in bitter weeping.

When the first gleam of daylight played on the stream, she rose and went on deck. All the stars had gone to rest except the morning star, and even its radiance grew gradually fainter; for the young day began to don his golden festive robe. The poor mother leaned over the edge of the boat, and looked down into the water. The sky was one glow of purple, and on the stream lay the roses of the dawn. The Easter sun rose slowly above the horizon, and as its first beam struck the river a sound of solemn melancholy came upwards from its depths.

"What was that?" said the woman, leaning forward to listen.

A second chime broke the stillness of the morning, and soon the bell began to ring in tones of wondrous richness from the bed of the river. With the chimes, and borne on the sunbeams, which cheerfully plunged into the stream, and rose again radiant from the crystal flood, came a sweet, familiar voice to thrill the heart of the listening mother.

"Jesus lives, and I in Him:
Where is thy victory, O grave?
Jesus lives to set me free,
My captive soul His love will save;
Jesus will lead me to the light,
This the sure hope that cheers my night."

So sang her child's clear voice in the words of the hymn which she herself had once taught her, and which the little one used to sing on Easter morning. The child's soul was still imprisoned, but now, on the day of Christ's resurrection, when the bell began to ring as the first sunbeam touched it, she felt a strange, sweet joy, that made her feel inclined to join her voice with its mellow chimes.

On the great Christian festivals all bells that have sunk in rivers or lakes awake to join in the hymn of all creation, and when, among the rest, the little girl's bell began to sound, her grief and longing generally awoke afresh. But to-day with the first note her sadness suddenly vanished, and a strange joy sprang up in her heart. She folded her delicate hands, and sang the verse of her childhood. But the metal did not send the sound back to her as on other days; it pierced through the walls, and floated through the waves up to the ear and heart of her sorrowing mother.

Yes, it was her child's voice; every drop of blood, every pulse-beat of her trembling body told her that. She had indeed found her little daughter's corpse; but her soul must have remained in the power of the cruel water-sprite, and had been pining all these years down in the stream, shut out from light and liberty and love. All the stories that she had heard of the imprisonment of souls, and which she had always laughed at as childish tales, came into her mind, and filled her with unspeakable anguish. Her captivity must be somehow connected with the bells, or else the chimes would not have mingled as they did with the hymn. She leaned over the edge of the boat, and looked down into the water.

There was a sudden splashing and foaming in the river, and the old water-sprite slowly rose, parted the waves, and stood before the terrified woman. It was the same powerful form, the erect carriage, the long grey-green beard, for the hand of time passes more gently over spirits than over men. The woman recognised him at the first glance, for she had seen him from her cabin window as he vented his wrath on her husband, though she herself was out of sight. She knew that the murderer of her child stood before her, but the water-sprite did not suspect that this was the mother of his little prisoner.

"My wife is ill," he said gloomily. "The chimes in the water always make her ill, but there must have been some special power in them to-day, for she is writhing in agony, and she begged me to bring her a woman of the human race, to lay her warm hand on her aching head, and restore her to health. Come with me," he concluded sullenly; "it is not for nothing that I ask this."

The woman could have shouted with joy. Her enemy himself was about to lead her to the place where all her affections were centered; it seemed to her a sign from heaven, and she went fearlessly to the edge of the boat, and prepared to plunge into the stream.

"Not so," growled the water-sprite: "thou couldst not reach the bottom alive—a thing which would have pleased me well enough at any other time, but to-day it would not suit my purpose. Take this ring!"

She placed the glittering circle on her finger, and followed the water-elf into the river. Thus protected, she could walk through the water as on dry land, and breathe in the river as freely as in the air.

They came to the beautiful green meadow, passed the clump of water-lilies, in the midst of which the woman's quick eye had already noted the bell, and entered the crystal castle. There, in a spacious and glittering hall, lay, on a glass bed with shining pillows of fish-scales, the wife of the water-elf. She was tossing in restless pain, and as the woman entered she stretched out her hands entreatingly. The little nymph knelt sobbing by her sick mother's side, and even the rough sons looked on with grave faces.

The boatman's widow went up to the bed, and laid her warm hand on the sick fairy's cold, white forehead. Almost instantaneously the pain vanished, and she fell into a gentle sleep.

The little nymph grasped the woman's hand, and said, while her eyes shone with grateful tears, "Come, I will get you some of our beautiful lilies."

The old water-sprite, in his anxiety about his wife, had quite forgotten the little prisoner below the bell, and, besides, he had no reason to suspect that this strange woman knew anything about the little soul. So, though he did not like to see his daughter so friendly with the human race, he did not try to hinder her from getting the flowers, but sat down quietly to watch his sick wife's slumber.

How the mother's heart beat as she arrived at the lilies, pressed through their intertwining stems, and stood at last close to the bell. With trembling hand she knocked, and the sound thrilled through the child's spirit.

The little water-elf stood in amazement as she watched her visitor making her way so eagerly among the lilies, and great was her alarm when she heard the bell sound, for she thought of her sick mother and her father's wrath. But before she had time to remonstrate, the little soul said, "Who knocks?" She knew it could not be her friend the young nymph, for she came only at night, and this was early in the morning. "Who knocks?" she asked again with trembling voice.

The mother thought her heart would break with joy; her breath left her, and she could not answer just at once; yet the greatest haste was needful, for the old water-sprite might be beside her every moment.

"It is your mother, my dear child," she said at last with trembling lips; "tell me, oh! tell me quickly how I can set you free."

"Mother, mother!" cried the little prisoner; "mother, is it you?"

"It is indeed, my darling," said the mother anxiously; "but we must not lose any time, for the water-sprite may come any moment, and then I shall not be able to help you."

The words brought the little soul back to reality.

"Mother, dear mother, throw the bell down, and your child's soul will thank you for ever in the heavenly world," begged the girlish voice.

The mother put forth all her strength, but the bell, which the spirits moved so easily, would not yield an inch before the woman's efforts.

When the old water-sprite heard it sound, he went to one of the high-arched windows, and saw the widow struggling to overturn her poor child's prison. He beckoned to his sons, and quickly but noiselessly the three left the palace. Once outside, they screamed with furious rage.

The little captive heard the wild cry, and trembled. The mother heard it, and the thought that on one moment hung her own life and her dear child's future happiness gave her gigantic strength; one desperate effort, and the heavy bell gave way, and lay on its side.

It was almost too late; for the angry water-sprites had reached the spot, and stretched out their hands to seize the woman.

But the little soul had left her prison, snatched up her mother in her arms, and darted quick as lightning up through the waves. When they reached the land the mother felt her child's arms taken from around her, while a light, cold kiss was pressed upon her cheek. Then the slight, transparent form of her loved one soared like a cloud towards heaven, till it was lost to her sight. With mingled joy and grief she watched the vanishing soul.

"Oh! leave me not behind, my child; take me also up to heaven!" she cried, amid streaming tears.

Night came once more, and with his starry mantle covered joy and sorrow, life and death. The poor mother lay on a narrow couch in the cabin of her boat. She was wearied out with the day's lamentations, and a gentle sleep had kindly blotted from her mind her bitter sorrow. It seemed to the sleeping one as if heavenly radiance filled the little room, and an angel with shining wings approached her bed. But when she looked on the face it was that of her dear child, whom she had yesterday freed from the power of the water-sprite.

"Mother, dear mother, come!" said the loved voice; "I am sent to fetch thee, that thou mayest keep the Easter feast in heaven with father and me."

And she took her mother in her arms, soared out into the night, high above land and sea, higher and higher, past the glittering stars, till they arrived at last in the glorious heavenly temple, and met the loved father and the beautiful angels.

Next morning, when the nephew found the woman was not rising, he went into the cabin and stepped up to the bed. There she lay, cold and dead, but her hands were folded in prayer, and round her mouth and her closed eyes was a smile of peace and happiness.

---

[The Last Home of the Giants.]

V ALE and mountain alternated in beautiful succession beneath the blue sky of Norway thousands of years ago just as they do to-day, and the Gulf Stream flowed then as now past its rugged coasts; yet it was a far different land. In the thick forests no axe had yet been heard felling the strong timbers that the Norwegian rivers would bear down to the sea, to float hereafter as noble ships upon the breast of the ocean; in the sheltered bays no cosy houses nestled with their neatly-kept surroundings of garden and field; no boat yet flew over the sea with nets and fishing tackle. Man had not yet sought out as a home this beautiful northern land.

A race of giants, of tall and powerful build, dwelt there. Their lifetime was measured by centuries as ours by years. They tore rocks asunder with their hands, and left the great streams a free channel. They bore huge blocks on their shoulders to the shore, and built them into castles whose turrets towered into the clouds. Their voice drowned the roar of the ocean, and scared the eagle from its nest. But this powerful race, beneath whose tread the ground trembled, were of peaceful, harmless disposition. No quarrel divided, nor envy embittered, their hearts. They lived together like the children of one great family.

Their chief was Hrungnir. His companions voluntarily submitted to his control; for he excelled them all in years, wisdom, and strength, as a father his children.

Hrungnir lived in a splendid castle by the sea. The mountains of Norway had had to yield their most precious metals to adorn the walls of his giant dwelling within and without. The chief's numerous flocks and herds roamed over miles of land, the bears of the thick forests were slain in hundreds by his hands that their skins might cover pillows for his guests, and the tables and drinking-horns gleamed with precious stones. But Hrungnir's most cherished possession was Guru, his only daughter. Her hair shone golden as the stars of the northern night, her eyes were blue as the sky of her native land, and her skin was of dazzling whiteness.

The most powerful giants of the whole country were suitors for Guru's hand, and Hrungnir promised his daughter to him who should excel in swiftness in the race, or whose arm should be strongest to hurl huge boulders. Then the mighty men came down from their castles in the mountains, where the snowstorm sweeps round the hoary peaks, and from sea-side fortresses, till Hrungnir's roof could scarcely give shelter to the host of powerful suitors. The tables smoked with countless dishes, the horns of mead were filled and filled again, and from the windows the songs of the giants sounded forth so loudly that the waves fled back in terror towards the sea.

After the feast, the giants went out to the strand, broke huge masses from the rocks, and hurled them out in the sea as children would throw pebbles. Far out into the ocean flew the masses of stones, but none so far as those thrown by the hand of Andfind, the valiant youth whose castle stood amid the rocks of the storm-swept Doverfjeld, whose wealth almost equalled Hrungnir's, whose beauty bore comparison with that of Guru herself. Then when the suitors arranged themselves on the strand for the race, and the shingle resounded with their golden sandals, Andfind left all his rivals far behind, and his long fair locks floated like golden pennons on the rock that was the goal of the race, while his fellow-suitors were still toiling along the course.

Andfind was victor, and Guru's heart sang for joy, for she had long loved him in secret, though she was prepared to submit to her father's wish, even if he had chosen some other for his son-in-law.

Far from grudging envy, the giants loudly applauded the conqueror, bore him on their shoulders to Hrungnir's castle, where the chief bade him welcome, and called his daughter to meet her chosen bridegroom.

The lovely Guru came dressed in a sky-blue robe with a silver-embroidered hem, which she and her maids had woven and wrought in the retirement of the women's room. Round her white neck and rounded arms lay gleaming jewels, and her locks were bound with a golden fillet. Thus she came to meet the guests. Hrungnir took his daughter's hand, laid it in Andfind's right, and then, as priest of the household, the chief united them in the indissoluble ties of marriage.

Night fell round the Castle of Hrungnir. The chief and his guests lay wrapped in deep slumbers, preparing for the enjoyment of a new day. But destruction approached them, as they slept, with stealthy steps; for Odin, that crafty king, of whose origin no man could tell, came with his trusty warriors down from the mountains. They had heard of the beauty of Norway, and wished to win it for their home. They had heard that the bravest in the land were feasting in Hrungnir's castle, and they had waited till the hours of slumber that they might strike unawares the foes with whom they could not have dared to cope on equal terms.

The moonlight glided through the open windows and fell on the forms of the defenceless sleepers: the deep breathing of the warriors and the murmur of the waves were the only sounds that the ear could distinguish. But dark shadows fell in the moonlit hall, tall forms climbed in at the windows, and noiselessly, holding their weapons carefully to prevent them from clashing, they stole into the rooms. With sure aim they bathed their swords in the heart's blood of the sleepers, so that, with one last groan, each warrior yielded up his brave spirit. The pavement swam in blood, but Odin's band passed from hall to hall and never slipped on their gory path.

The death-groan, though short, reached Guru's ear. She rose and listened. No, it was no dream; there came that sound again with dreadful distinctness. She threw on her garments and sprang to the window, and when she drew aside the curtain she saw strange forms in the courtyard, bearing with difficulty a heavy burden. She looked more closely, and recognised in the clear moonlight the bloody corpse of her noble father. She stole up to Andfind's couch, and whispered, "Awake, awake, my husband, and let us fly, for treachery and death have entered our house!"

The bloody work seemed finished in the other rooms, and now the dreaded footsteps were drawing near.

Guru raised a stone from the pavement and disclosed a secret stair. She bade Andfind descend, and then quickly following him, she carefully closed the opening behind her.

By a narrow passage which led beneath the castle and the rocks to the strand they reached the sea unseen. There a boat lay rocking, which Guru and her maids had often used for pleasant sails. They stepped in. Andfind spread the sail and seized the helm, and the boat flew out into the open sea.

Odin had conquered. The noblest of the land were killed in the inglorious victory of that night, and the weak remnant of the giant race were obliged to leave their old home and seek a refuge in unknown lands. Notwithstanding this ignoble beginning, Odin's reign was one of wisdom, power, and beneficence.

Of Guru and her husband nothing more was ever heard. Whether the sea had swallowed the boat in its hungry depths, or whether the waves had borne them to happier coasts, none had ever brought back the tidings to their old home. But in the winter evenings, when the maidens sat around the blazing pine-log, and talked at their spinning about the days of the Norwegian giants, some aged dame would tell her shuddering listeners of that night of death, and of the mysterious fate of Guru and her noble bridegroom.

---

Odin's reign was long since ended. His wisdom and his crimes were both alike well-nigh forgotten. Olaf had many years ago brought in the knowledge of the Christian religion, and reared churches on the sites of the old altars; and to the ancient honesty and strength of the nation was added the mild spirit of the religion of the cross.

On the spot where Hrungnir's castle once stood rose now a fortress as proud, and well-nigh as strong, as that of the giant chief; the flocks that grazed around it were as great as his; and the present possessor, Sämund, like him, counted as his dearest treasure an only daughter.

It seemed almost as if the days of Guru were come back again, for Aslog's golden hair and snowy skin, Aslog's blue eyes and graceful form, attracted the wealthiest and most powerful nobles of the land to woo her.

As each noble suitor was rejected, the father's heart swelled high with pride and hope. "She will only take the best and greatest," he thought. But when the most powerful prince in the land came, and the fair one's lips said "No" to him also, Sämund no longer praised his daughter's prudence. With bitter words he reproached her for her folly, and commanded her to choose before Christmas Eve some one on whom he might bestow her hand.

Days came and went, and Aslog's cheek grew paler and her father's eye more gloomy, for her heart was given to Orm, the poor but beautiful youth whom her father had given her as page. Orm's strong arm had on lovely summer evenings rowed the boat out into the gold-flooded sea; Orm's hand had guided her over the vast snow-fields, as in snow-shoes, with points thin and supple as a beech-leaf, they glided swiftly through the bracing air; and in long winter evenings, while the guests were drinking and singing in her father's halls, Orm used to sit and tell her beautiful stories as she sat by the cheerful fire.

Sämund loved the brave youth, but had any one spoken of him as his daughter's choice he would have challenged the informant to single combat.

The lovers knew this, and it was with trembling that they awaited the decisive day.

"If she has not chosen before the time I have named," said Sämund to Orm, "I will choose her a bridegroom myself, and you shall have the honour of bearing her bridal train."

Orm gave no answer, but with trembling hand he arranged the table for the guests, and pressed his lips close together to restrain the eager words that his love prompted.

It was the night before Christmas Eve—starry and cold. A secret door opened in the side of the mountain, and two muffled figures slipped out. They were Orm and Aslog. They had brought nothing with them but a little bundle of necessary clothing, a warm skin rug, and a bow and arrows which Orm had slung across his shoulder.

On they hurried over the icy plain, swiftly and terror-stricken, like a pair of hunted doves. They reached the edge of the wide plain. Their snow-shoes were no longer of use, for their road led now towards the defiles and rocky heights of the highlands. It was bitterly cold, the wind whistled through the clefts of the mountain, and its icy breath made Aslog's frail form tremble. Long their path wound among the snow-clad mountains; then they reached a thick fir wood, in the midst of which stood a little hermit's cottage.

"It is I, Father Jerome," said Orm to the old man who came to greet them at the door.

"Welcome, my son!" said the old man, as the youth stooped to press a reverent kiss on his withered hand; "and the maiden at thy side is welcome too to the poor hospitality of the hermit's cell."

The offered rest and refreshment were eagerly accepted by the weary maiden. With pitying eyes the hermit gazed on her grief-marked features, and when Orm begged him to unite them in marriage, the old man, after short consideration, granted their request.

How different was this hour from Aslog's dreams! Not that she gave many thoughts to the splendour and festivity that should have done honour to her bridal, but she felt bitterly the want of her father's blessing.

The ceremony over, there could be no further delay. On the wanderers pressed on their weary way, till Aslog would have sunk exhausted but for Orm's supporting arm. Through the thick fir woods, over rough mountain paths, they hastened on till the first streak of dawn gleamed in the eastern sky. Then Orm pointed to a cluster of dark rocks that lay before them.

"There," said he cheerfully—"there, my Aslog, is rest and safety."

Aslog's courage rose; with renewed energy she pressed over the intervening ground, till they reached a tall jagged rock and entered a cleft in its side. They now found themselves in a cave, which, though narrow at the entrance, became higher and wider as they went on, till it formed a spacious chamber. Out of this gloomy abode Orm's care and thoughtfulness made a home for his loved one that was not wholly lacking in comfort or happiness, and here they lived in secure retirement as long as the winter blocked the mountain roads. But when spring came, and the ways became accessible, Sämund's spies were able to explore more thoroughly, and Orm could no longer go out and in freely among the mountains. But when provisions ran short, he was obliged to tear himself from Aslog's weeping embrace, and sally forth with his bow and arrows. At last, when, after weeks of mild weather, no living soul had been seen near their retreat, their fears subsided, and Orm began to lay aside caution and to venture further from the cave. Perhaps Aslog's father had grown tired of the fruitless search, or perhaps he was even cherishing thoughts of forgiveness. Aslog's heart was quick to believe what she so ardently wished, and Orm began to believe it too. One night, while his wife was sleeping, he took the path towards the valley where the hermit's cell nestled amid the woods. His breast beat high with hope that the old man might be able to give him some good tidings to take back to his loved Aslog, who, although she bore her privations even cheerfully, was yet paler and feebler every day. He drew near a jutting rock, behind which lay the path to the hermit's cottage. In his glad excitement he had forgotten all fear. His bow hung with loose string behind him, and his hand grasped his staff but carelessly. Suddenly he heard a rustling in the thick bushes beside him, and two heavy hands were laid on his shoulder. With a strong effort he shook himself free, stepped back a few paces, and swung his stick menacingly.

"It is he whom we seek," cried his assailants; "remember the reward."

Then it seemed to Orm as if all the bushes and even the brown rock behind him became alive, so great a rustling was heard on every side. Quick as thought he brought his stick down on the heads of the two who had first attacked him, and before the others could leave their hiding-places he had turned and fled.

At first there was wild shouting and a sound of eager feet behind, but he never stopped to look back, and he soon passed out of sight of his pursuers. The way was long and rough, but Orm was strong and fleet of foot, and before him lay his home and Aslog. At last he was at the cave.

How different was this home-coming from his former hopes! Aslog lay in sweet sleep, with a happy smile on her lips, as if she dreamt of love and forgiveness; and Orm must soon waken her, and tell her that she must go forth once more a homeless wanderer.

"Awake, awake, beloved one," he whispered, seizing her hand, "and let us flee, for your father's men are on our track, and we must be far from this before to-morrow dawns."

Aslog opened her eyes, and gazed in speechless astonishment at her husband's lips, but when she could no longer doubt, she sprang quickly up and arranged her clothing and the soft skins which had formed her covering in a neat bundle. Without delay they crept out of the cave by its narrow entrance, and went forth, not, as they had hoped, to Sämund's castle, but to a dark and unknown future. Westward, where Aslog's home lay, danger and treachery threatened them, so they turned their steps northwards, on untried mountain paths. The air was mild, the moon shone brightly on their way, and the soft moss kept no trace of their footsteps that might betray them to their watchful enemies. Thus they wandered northwards for hours. The cave in the rock lay miles behind them, and they were far from the place where Orm had been seen by his father-in-law's men. Then at last he ventured to turn westwards, towards the sea. Their way led down towards the lowlands. The wintry mists were still hanging over the plain. Orm's keen eye could scarcely pierce their grey veil, and Aslog shuddered as she felt their cold embrace. They could no longer tell in what direction they were going, but they went on and on, hoping to come ere long to the friendly ocean. At last Aslog's pale face caught a flush of joy as she heard its distant murmur. Nearer and nearer sounded the familiar music, and soon the wanderers came to a narrow valley, at the further edge of which rose a cluster of dark rocks.

"It is the coast!" said Aslog joyously, as she almost flew along the ground.

In a little bay at the foot of the rocks lay a fishing-boat. Orm bore his wife in his arms along the sand, for on this open strand the greatest haste was necessary, lest some hostile eye might see them. He placed Aslog gently in the boat, sprang in after her, and with trembling hands spread the sail.

The wind seemed to wish the fugitives well. It swept down from the mountains and filled the white sail, so that the little boat shot out into the sea like a swan with spreading wings. The sun rose higher and higher, the cliffs of their native coast seemed now but a line of low hills; proud ships glided not far from them, and on the farthest horizon appeared a group of islands gleaming in the golden mist. As the sun sank slowly to the horizon, the great ships passed by without noticing the wanderers, and the little islands were still in the far distance. Aslog's face, that had before glowed with hope, grew pale and wan.

"What is wrong, my darling?" asked Orm anxiously.

"I am hungry," answered Aslog faintly.

Orm sighed deeply. They had had to flee without waiting to get provisions, and now they had been twenty-four hours without food, and the islands lay far, far away. The sun sank into the sea.

"Sleep, my Aslog, sleep!" begged Orm at length; "you will not feel your hunger while you are asleep, and by the time you awake, perhaps we shall have reached one of the little islands before us."

And Aslog smiled submissively, and loosing the skins from the bundle, lay down beneath their protecting warmth at the bottom of the boat. The waves rocked the little vessel gently, the oar splashed in measured monotony, and at last Aslog's eyes closed, and she fell asleep.

Orm now kept watch alone on the wide ocean. Night had come, but a warm breath of spring was still hovering over the sea. The moon rose slowly above the distant mountains of Norway, and flooded the ocean with its silvery light. The waves danced sparkling round the boat, sails and masts shone brightly, and the hair of the slumbering fair one gleamed like waves of gold.

Full of love and grief, Orm's eyes rested on Aslog's pale face. Allowing himself but short rest, and that at long intervals, he rowed on all night, and when morning dawned, a large island with blossoming trees lay before his eyes bathed in the purple light. His cry of joy woke Aslog, who rose and looked at this lovely haven of refuge, which seemed offered to the homeless wanderers. Like a guardian of their future safety a tall grey rock stood upon the shore, in form not unlike a gigantic human figure.

Orm tried to steer between the small islands that lay round this tempting spot; but the waves, which had heretofore played so gently round the shores, now foamed and roared about the boat, and drove it back into the open sea. Nevertheless Orm undauntedly plied helm and oar, only to be driven back irresistibly again and again.

Noon came, and the fruitless struggle still continued; and now the sun was inclining towards the west. Orm's strength and heroic perseverance began at length to fail. His hands bled, his arms trembled, hunger and exhaustion almost overpowered him; while Aslog, who had sunk from a state of the most eager hope into the deepest despondency, clung, well-nigh unconscious, to the mast. Orm thought her dying. Then despair gave him fresh strength. "Almighty God, pity us!" he cried aloud to heaven. Immediately the waves submitted to the holy name; the foaming billows glided gently beneath the boat; the vessel shot like an arrow through the midst of the islands, and drew near the haven where the giant rock with its dark countenance looked down on the little boat that glided past it to the smooth strand. Orm sprang out, took the exhausted Aslog in his arms, and carried her across to the dry, soft sand. He looked round for something to eat. Fruit-trees waved their blossoming crowns at no great distance, but the time for fruit was not come. Orm looked still more anxiously about the beach. Then he saw a mussel right at his feet, then another and another. He lifted them, and offered them to his half-fainting wife; and so much refreshed did she feel by the slight nourishment, that she was able to walk towards the centre of the island, supported by Orm's arm, in search of some place of shelter.

The blossoming fruit-trees bore evidence of some careful hand, but no path, no footprint told of the cheering nearness of human beings. They went on further through the green island, over which the sun was shedding its last golden beams. There before them they saw a clear space amid the foliage, and with hearts beating with hope and fear they approached it. Soon they stood before a house of very ancient architecture. Its walls sank deep into the earth, and towered so high into the air that the firs could scarcely stretch their dark branches over the hide-covered roof. The windows were small, and their panes made of fishes' skins. The door was made of strong planks, and firmly bound with iron. The whole house looked as if it bade defiance to the storms, and had done so for centuries.

But where were now its builders? Did they lie sleeping in the depths of the ocean? Did the tall grass of the little islands wave above their last resting-place, or did they still sit, spell-bound, behind the iron-bound door and the grey walls of the dreary dwelling? Checking the slight shudder that shook his frame at these thoughts, Orm knocked at the door of the mysterious house. No sound, no footstep told him that he had been heard within. He knocked again, then a third time, but there was still no movement. Then he laid his hand on the heavy latch; the door opened, and they entered a stone-paved hall. There was no one to bid them welcome or refuse them entrance. At one side of this hall was another door. Orm knocked, and when again there was no answer he opened it, and stepped with Aslog by his side into a large and lofty apartment. There was no one to be seen, yet everything bore traces of an orderly hand. A bright fire burned on the hearth, and above it hung a cauldron with fish, the smell of which greeted the hungry fugitives with pleasant invitation.

"Forgive us, noble master of this house!" said Orm in a loud voice, yet in a respectful tone; "it is necessity, not forwardness, which makes us intruders."

They both listened breathlessly; but there was still no answer. Then Orm poured some of the contents of the cauldron into two plates, and placed them on the table. With trembling at first, but afterwards with growing comfort and courage, the wanderers enjoyed the much-needed food.

When their hunger was satisfied, and their spirits revived, they looked around them. At the farther side of the room stood two beds of gigantic size, and of an ancient, long-forgotten form. The fire below the cauldron was getting low, the evening light had ceased to fall through the windows, and the darkness was only broken by the faint glimmer of the dying embers.

Nature at last claimed her rights. The wanderers' eyes were almost closing, and, laying aside all fear, they took possession of the couches where surely giant forms had once reposed.

When they awoke the sun was shining brightly outside, but its beams could fall but dimly through the rude window-panes. The doors were firmly fastened, and there was no trace of human footsteps, yet the fire burned once more on the hearth, from the bubbling cauldron rose a tempting fragrance, and the table was laid as for a meal.

"See, dear Orm," cried Aslog joyfully, pointing to the fire and the table, "this language is easy to understand, though it be a silent one. The unseen owners of this dwelling know our need, and bid us welcome to their hospitable roof."

When they had again partaken of the contents of the boiling cauldron, Orm and Aslog went into the hall, and found there a stair which led up to a room just below the hide-covered roof. This and the room in which they had passed the night were the only apartments of the house, but they contained all that was necessary for a life of retirement. There was no sign of any inhabitant, yet it seemed as if some one had lately been there, whose hand had lovingly arranged everything for the poor homeless ones. They understood the silent language, and they remained henceforth contentedly in the house, enjoying the sweet feeling that they had at last a home.

Orm never cast his net into the sea without drawing out a rich supply of delicious fish; the snares he set in the morning for the birds were never empty at evening. The fruit-trees bore abundantly, and Aslog found plenty of employment in gathering and storing the rich harvest.

Summer passed away, and the short autumn was drawing towards its close, when a lovely baby boy came to cheer the hearts of Orm and Aslog through the dreary winter. The child was called Sämund, and seemed to his parents a pledge of future reconciliation.

One day Orm was holding his little son in his arms, and watching with delight his baby smiles, and Aslog stood at the fire preparing the midday meal, when a tall shadow passed the window, the heavy house door swung open, and a loud knocking was heard at the door of the room. Aslog let the spoon fall in terror, and even brave Orm pressed his boy closer to his heart as the visitor entered.

A gigantic woman stepped into the room. Her stature was greater than Orm and Aslog had ever seen among their own powerful nation. She wore a sky-blue robe with a silver-embroidered hem; a golden fillet bound her long snow-white hair, and on her once beautiful features centuries of joy and grief seemed to have left their traces.

"Do not be afraid," said the majestic visitor, with gentle gravity; "this is my island and my house, but I gladly gave them up to you when I knew of your distress. Only one thing I ask of you. Christmas Eve is drawing near. For that one night let me have the room for a few hours, while we hold our yearly festivity. But you must promise me two things—not to speak a word while our feast lasts, and not to make any attempt to see what is going on in the room below. If you grant this request you may live here undisturbed, and enjoy my protection until you wish to leave the island."

With lightened hearts Orm and Aslog gave the promise, then the majestic lady bowed her silvery head in gracious farewell, and passed out through the door.

It was Christmas Eve; Aslog had cleaned and tidied the room with even more than her ordinary care. The boards were snow-white, and Orm strewed them with finely-cloven fir-twigs. The fire burned brightly on the neatly-swept hearth, and above it hung the shining cauldron. Aslog rolled her baby in the softest of the skins that served to cover her bed, and went with Orm to the upper room, where they sat down beside the warm chimney of the apartment below, which passed of necessity through this second storey.

For a long time all was silent. Suddenly a sweet, soft sound was heard; others followed, and soon the music swelled in waves of melody through the night air. Aslog listened entranced, while Orm went to the gable end of the roof, and, since this was not forbidden, opened the shutter which in the daytime served to let in air and light.

There was motion over the whole island. Little shrivelled forms, with grave and aged faces, were bustling about with blazing torches in their hands. They ran dry-shod over the waves, and made their way to the rock that guarded the entrance to the bay. When they reached it they placed themselves in a circle round it, and sat down on the ground in respectful humility. Then a tall form approached from the centre of the island. The dwarfs opened their circle to admit her, and Orm recognised by the flickering light the noble lady who had a few days before paid them so unlooked-for a visit. Her sky-blue robe and the gold in her hair gleamed with even more than their former brilliance. She stepped up to the rock, threw her arms round the cold stone, and remained so for a moment in a silent embrace. Suddenly the stone acquired life and motion. The gigantic limbs were freed from their petrifaction, the hair rolled down over the shoulders, the eyes began to glow once more with life. As if awaking from the sleep of death, the giant rose, seized the hand of the stately lady whose loving embrace had called him back to life, and they both turned towards the house, whither the dwarfs accompanied them with flaming torches and heart-enthralling melody. The ground seemed to tremble beneath the tread of the giants. Soon they reached the house-door. Then Orm shut the shutter, and groped his way back to where his wife sat beside the chimney.

GURU AWAKES THE ROCK TO LIFE.

Below there was rattling of dishes and the patter of many feet; the young couple heard every sound through the wide chimney. The strong voice of the rock giant sounded like thunder to human ears, and the voice of the lady, which Orm and Aslog had heard once before, was like the powerful notes of some musical instrument. Tables and chairs were moved, drinking-horns were knocked together; the feast was beginning, and now was heard once more that music which had before so overwhelmed Aslog with delight. Then an irresistible longing seized her to see the wondrous company which Orm had described to her. She rose and groped for a crack in the floor through which it was possible to see into the room below. Orm in silence held out his hand to check her fatal rashness, but the movement woke the sleeping babe, who, terrified by the unwonted sounds below, raised a cry that went to the mother's heart. Forgetting everything now but her child's distress, she began, as was her wont, to soothe him with caressing words. Then suddenly an awful cry and a wild tumult arose below, the music ceased, and through the door rushed the dwarfs in wild commotion. Their torches went out, the noise of their flight sounded but a few moments, then night and silence reigned over the place which a minute before had resounded with festive merriment.

In deadly terror Aslog had sunk back on her seat, tremblingly awaiting the fate that her rashness had called down on her dear ones. They were anxious hours that they spent now in the dark upper room, almost more anxious than those of their flight and of that hard struggle with the waves. At last the morning dawned. A clear sunbeam shot through a hole in the shutter and awoke the boy, who began to cry with cold and hunger. Then her love for her child overcame her fear, and Aslog persuaded her husband to go down with her and learn their fate. They descended the stairs, trembling at every step. Now they stood at the door of the room and listened. There was no sound—all was still as death. At last they lifted the latch; Aslog pressed her child to her heart and entered the room. A loud cry escaped her lips. At the far end of the room, at the seat of honour at the table, sat the mighty giant whose awakening Orm had witnessed; but life had again left his veins, and he sat there a cold, grey mass of rock. It seemed to Aslog that the stony hand which still grasped the drinking-horn might yet be raised to hurl destruction at her and her dear ones. She gazed in speechless terror at the rock-giant, her eyes passing slowly from the motionless head to the massive folds of the stone garment. Then she perceived another form, sunk motionless, as in deepest anguish, on the floor. The face was pressed against the cold stone, but the blue robe with the silver-embroidered hem and the flowing white hair told the terrified Aslog who it was.

"Andfind, my Andfind!" moaned the giant lady, raising her face at last, "thou wilt never again smile on thy faithful Guru, and rejoice with her at thy short space of life and freedom."

Aslog uttered a cry, but not, as before, of terror for her own fate, but of anguish and remorse. Her bitter sobbing caused even the grief-stricken giantess to raise her head.

"Do not weep so," she said gently, "and do not be afraid; I could indeed easily kill you, and break this house, which I gave you as your home, like a child's toy. It is true that your forgetfulness has caused untold anguish to me, but the revenge of the powerful must be—forgiveness! Then do not weep, for there is nothing to fear."

"Oh, that is not all!" sobbed Aslog. "The names which you named, noble lady, cut me to the heart. They remind me of a legend which I often heard when a child about Guru, the beautiful giant-maiden, who was obliged to flee from cruel Odin with her beloved Andfind. The story of their fate always touched me deeply, and I thought when I heard these names that you might perhaps be that Guru, and this thought added fresh bitterness to my remorse."

The giantess appeared sunk in dreamy meditation.

"And do they remember us still in the old Fatherland?" she said at length; "and are there yet any halls remaining of Hrungnir's castle?"

"No, noble lady," answered Aslog, "they have all long since crumbled to dust, for many centuries have passed over Norway since those days. It is true a proud castle still looks down on the foaming waves, but it is owned by Sämund, whose only child I am."

"Our fate, O daughter of my former home, is wondrously alike," said Guru; "but your life will end more joyfully than mine. We lived here in undisturbed happiness for many centuries, for it was to this island that our trusty bark bore us after that night of death. This house, which my husband's strong arm built for our home, is small and poor compared with my father's halls, but we did not miss the lost splendour. The days went by in quiet happiness, and we felt no longings after the land which drove out us and our friends. The dwarfs also, who like us had turned their backs on an inhospitable country, settled round about on the little islands, and lived there in the heart of the earth in peace and contentment. Every Christmas Eve we met in this room, and held festival as our forefathers did even before your religion had spread to these northern lands. Centuries passed away, and one evening I was standing with Andfind at the shore of our island looking out over the sea. On the northern horizon appeared a stately ship, and Andfind, whose eye was sharper than the eagle's, and had power to see into the future, recognised in the man at the prow a powerful foe of the freedom of Norway and of our authority. It was Olaf, whom you call a saint, who, not long afterwards, overcame the princes of Norway in one night, and destroyed the last vestiges of the old customs. All this my husband's prudent foresight saw, and with a mighty effort he blew the waves to fury with his breath, so that they threatened to break Olaf's proud ship to pieces. But the invader spoke some prayer such as you uttered when you approached our shores, and the raging sea grew calm. Then Andfind put forth his hand to push back the vessel as it drew near the shore, but Olaf, raising his hands towards heaven, said, in a tone of stern reproof—'Stand thou there a stone henceforth!' Immediately the eyes in which I had been wont to read my husband's every wish were closed, the hand that had grasped mine lovingly grew cold and hard, the form so full of life and beauty turned to unfeeling stone, and my beloved Andfind stood a grey, lifeless rock upon the shore. The invaders sailed on towards the coast of Norway, and I remained in dreary desolation on the now lonely island. Only once a year, on Christmas Eve, petrified giants are allowed a few hours of life if one of their own race embraces them, and thus sacrifices centuries of his own lifetime. I loved my husband too dearly not to offer this sacrifice willingly, that he and I might enjoy yearly a few hours of intercourse. I never counted how many times he woke to life at my embrace, how many centuries of my life I yielded for his sake; I did not wish to know the day when I, as I embraced him, should likewise turn to stone, and stand henceforth on the shore one for ever with my Andfind. Now all is over," Guru concluded; "I may never more awake my beloved one, for a human eye, a human voice has disturbed the sacred festival of our spirit-race. Stone must my Andfind remain till that day when all the rocks and mountains of old Norway will perish in the ruin of the world."

She threw her arms once more round the cold stone, lifted her golden harp from the floor, and then turned to Orm and Aslog, who had listened in silent grief.

"Farewell!" she said; "I leave you my protection and my blessing. Yours are henceforth the costly vessels that adorned our festive board; I need them no more. Live still in peace and happiness in this house until you return to receive Sämund's forgiveness, and live a life of gladness on the site of my old home."

She passed out, and her sorrowing guests followed her to the door. Without once looking back, she glided away through the leafless trees; her blue robe gleamed far away over the snow-covered plain. Orm and Aslog watched her crossing the waves to the little islands; then they saw her no more.

Had she descended to the music of her golden harp into the cold billows? or did she go to rule as queen in the kingdom of dwarfs? Orm and Aslog never knew her fate, but her prophecies of good were richly fulfilled.

Sickness and misfortune kept far aloof from their island home. They were happy in their mutual love, strong in body, cheerful in spirit, contented even in their isolation. Their boy grew daily in beauty, strength, and obedience; the trees bore double fruit, the sea yielded its tribute more freely than ever, and the bird-snares were never empty. Sunshine and the fragrance of flowers filled the air, and they drank in life and happiness at every breath. And when winter came, the storm raged round the house, and the thick snowflakes whirled through the cracking fir branches against the window, then the little family sat cosily in their sheltered home; the dry wood blazed brightly on the hearth, and at the cheerful fireside sat Aslog making nets, while Orm carved away at a new oar, and the child listened eagerly to the tales of Old Norway.

Year after year rolled away, and left no traces of care on the faces of the lonely exiles, save that when Aslog thought of her father a shadow crossed her white brow, and the old longing awoke for his love and forgiveness.

It was the beginning of spring. The fruit-trees wore their wreaths of blossoms, and the sunbeams played through the dark fir branches on the roof of the lonely house. The door opened, and Orm, accompanied by Aslog and the boy, stepped out, bearing one of the precious vessels which Guru had left as a parting gift to her guests. The utensils which her motherly hand had provided had become worn out in the course of years, and Orm was going to the coast of Norway to sell the golden goblet, and buy the needed utensils with its price. He had long postponed this step, for he still feared the sharp eye of treachery and revenge; but their need was pressing, and there could be no longer delay.

The parting was a bitter one. Aslog embraced him again and again, and even Guru's prophetic words had lost their power to comfort. But Orm, although his heart was far from light, soothed her with a promise of a quick return; then he tore himself away, sprang into a boat, and pushed from the shore.

The boat flew like a sea-mew over the waves, through the circle of little islands, and out into the open sea. A wind as fresh as that which had favoured their flight came now from the north to swell the white sail. Orm drew in the oars and watched how his boat darted over the gleaming waves. He directed his course towards the south-east. As it was drawing towards noon the coasts of his native land appeared above the horizon; and long before the set of sun the boat sailed up the narrow waters of the Trondheim Fiord, and landed at the quay of the old royal city. Orm passed the streets with hurried steps, and with the precious vessel under his arm he entered the shop of a goldsmith.

The man seemed amazed at the rich metal and the rare and elaborate workmanship, paid without demur the price asked, and Orm hastened gladly to another building to choose his purchases. There was a great crowd of buyers, and fearing lest some old acquaintance should be among them, he turned aside, and examined the wares in silence.

"Welcome, friend! What's the news in your mountains?" said the merchant to a countryman who had just entered.

"Thanks, sir, not much good," replied the newcomer.

"What is wrong?" asked the merchant. "Is your master, rich Sämund, not well? Has he not yet submitted to his fate?"

Orm listened eagerly.

"It will soon be all over with him," replied the countryman; "his grief about his daughter is breaking his heart. He is ill, lonely, and sad. He has had it proclaimed through the whole land that he will forgive the fugitives everything if they will only return; and he has promised a great reward to any one who will bring him the smallest tidings of them. But they seem to have vanished from the earth, and it is most likely the old man will die without one of his kin to close his eyes in the last sleep."

Orm thought no more about his purchases; he thought only of Aslog and her dying father. Without being noticed in the crowd he left the shop. Scarcely had he turned the first corner when he ran at full speed to the quay, sprang down the steps, loosed his boat, and by the last rays of the setting sun he steered skilfully along the narrow fiord among all the larger vessels, and rowed towards the ocean. His heart beat with eager longing and delight. Had not a reconciliation with the father of his loved Aslog long been the most cherished wish of his heart as well as of hers, though he had been silent on the subject for Aslog's sake?

It was night when his boat glided out of the fiord and sailed out to sea. The wind, which had blown towards land all day, had turned, and, sweeping now from the Norwegian mountains, drove Orm's boat with the swiftness of an arrow over the waters. The moon rose clear and full above his native land, and the waves dashed their silver spray against the keel. Orm could not but think of that night when Aslog lay hungry and exhausted at his feet—behind him terror and treachery—before, an unknown future. The moon's clear radiance and the sparkling waves were the same then as now, but in all else how blessed was the change!

Thus the night passed, and when the east began to glow with red his boat glided between the little islands, and when the first full beam fell on the fir-tree tops he landed on the shore of his island home.

He scarcely took time to fasten the boat. Then he hastened under the blossoming fruit-trees—with empty hand, indeed, yet with a richer gift than Aslog would have dared to hope for.

And now he stood beside her couch. "Awake, awake, beloved one!" he whispered as he bent over her; "I bring news of your father, the best news that your heart could wish for—love and forgiveness!"

Then Aslog awoke, and her beaming eyes, the silent tears that fell over her clasped hands, told of even deeper joy than Orm had pictured to himself as he hastened home.

Soon all was bustle in the quiet room. Once more Aslog lit the fire, once more the breakfast bubbled in the cauldron, while she adorned herself and her boy in festive garments, and Orm carried Guru's gifts of gold and precious stones down to the boat. Once more they sat together at the table enjoying the provisions of Guru's hospitable home. They gazed at the lofty walls which had afforded them shelter, and sadly looked on the stony form of Andfind, who had for years been a silent member of the little household. Then Orm seized his wife's hand; and they left the house, carefully closing the door behind them, and followed the boy, who had run on before in his eagerness, towards the strand.

"Farewell, thou lovely island!" cried Orm, as he loosed the rope; "and if ever again hunted fugitives land on thy shore, be to them as sweet a home as thou hast been to us."

The child was already seated in the boat, playing with the beautiful vessels of gold and precious stones, and Aslog sat down beside him to tell him about his new home and his dear grandfather, while Orm dipped the oars, and the boat left the strand of the "Last Home of the Giants."

The sun was just about to sink into the sea; its rays cast a parting glance on the windows of the lonely castle, on the rock which had once resounded with mirth and revelry. And now the splendid halls were desolate. The servants, serving not out of love but out of fear, obeyed in sullen silence the commands of their gloomy master. The daughter, the only one whom his cold heart had ever loved, was lost to him. His old age was lonely and desolate. Then his pride yielded. "What if she has disgraced my house by choosing the servant instead of the prince?—still she is my child, my only one, and dear and loving she has always been to me! Oh, bring back my daughter, my Aslog, that I may look upon her face before I die!"

Rich were the rewards offered by the sorrowing father for the least tidings of his child, but he waited days and weeks in vain. She seemed lost to him for ever.

"Take me out, that I may see the sun as long as I have sight!" said he to his servants as the evening sun looked in at the castle windows.

The servants supported his tottering steps to the edge of the rock. Then he beckoned to them to go, and leave him with his sorrow.

The sun sank like a ball of fire into the ocean, and the sea rolled in purple waves from the farthest horizon, and broke them into golden spray at the foot of the castle rock.

"Would that my old age could be calm and clear, like this sweet evening, and would that my life might sink in brightness as the sun into the sea!"

Then he heard in the distance the splashing of oars, and his eye, keen as of old, looked eagerly towards the horizon. A boat, gently urged on by the wind, was sailing from the north-west. Nearer and nearer it came, and seemed to be directing its course to the rock where the old man sat. At the helm sat a manly form, and at the prow stood a graceful woman with a boy pressed closely to her side. Her hair gleamed golden, as his daughter's used to do; and now she raised her hand, and fluttered a white kerchief as in eager greeting. Sämund's heart beat with glad presentiment, he felt his weakness no longer, but raised himself, unaided, from the stone breastwork, and fixed his gaze on the approaching boat. Now the little vessel came up to the very foot of the rock, he heard the chain rattling round the post, and the sound of familiar voices was borne up to him on the evening air. It was no dream. There were light footsteps beside him, and when he turned to look, Aslog, his lost Aslog, knelt before him, her eyes full of humble penitence, and by her side knelt a fair-haired boy, who stretched out his hands to the old man, and echoed his mother's words in childish accents—"Oh, grandfather, forgive and love us!"

The old man opened his arms, and pressed the welcome suppliants to his heart, and as he kissed his lovely grandson, he said in a voice more mild and soft than was his wont—"Thank God, I shall not die in my loneliness after all!"

And he did not die. From day to day he felt more and more of his old vigour, and when he saw how tenderly Aslog loved her husband, what a faithful husband and father Orm was, and what a dutiful son to himself, he forgot all his disappointed hopes—even the royal diadem that Aslog had rejected. The love of his children and grandchildren made his last days his brightest, and thus the wish of that spring evening was fulfilled, his old age was calm and clear, and his life sank in brightness as the sun into the sea.

Marcus Ward & Co., Royal Ulster Works, Belfast.

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Transcriber's Note:

Inconsistent and archaic spelling, punctuation, and syntax retained.