The valley was strewn with yellow leaves. The birds had ceased their songs. The grass had withered. Rains and storms had discolored the fountain. Yet, although Nature seemed to have been engaged in contentious strife, still joy reigned supreme within the little cottage. Ragnar, the beloved husband, the darling son, had returned. Seated in the midst of his children beside his lovely wife, and with his arm encircling her waist, he listened with a countenance changing from cheerfulness to solemnity to a recital of all that had transpired during his absence.
As soon as Mr. Lonner, for he was the narrator, had concluded, Ragnar advanced and enfolded the old man in his arms.
"What viper did this? I have a strong suspicion—to cast such an old man into prison—and I was away from you, unable to protect you and these weak and deserted women."
As he thus spoke, his countenance glowed with indignation.
A slight cough at the other side of the room attracted Ragnar's attention. It was Carl.
"I understand you, Carl," said he, "you must pardon me. I forgot myself when I said the women were deserted."
And the frank and honest Ragnar, whose ruddy brown countenance bespoke his health, advanced and extended his hand to Carl, who with a face as sickly and yellow as the seared leaves without, was reclining upon the sofa, watching the family group with a restless eye.
Poor Carl, each day he gradually faded, and his belief in the warning voice he had heard in the church yard became firm and unwavering. He accepted Ragnar's proffered hand with a grateful smile.
"How hot you are!" exclaimed Ragnar, "I will hasten to the village and speak to the physician."
As Ragnar thus spoke, Carl laughed in his peculiar manner. "That will be profitable indeed!" said he.