He hurried to the stable, had his horse harnessed, and in a few minutes, seated in his cabriolet, was crossing the fields. On her way, Ebba, with peculiar tenderness, pointed out various scenes of her childhood and youth, the home of old servants, spots where she had been with Alete, and made memorable by various little incidents.
Suddenly she ceased to speak—looked at the scenery with deep interest glancing at the sea and the sky, and seemed absorbed in a melancholy reminiscence.
Her father had listened to her with pleasure, and turned to ask why she was silent. He was filled with delight. Had he been able, however, to look into her mind, he would have seen a deep sentiment of sadness and resignation, united with resignation and hopelessness.
In the silent meditation of the poor invalid there might be read a last adieu to the blue wave, the green wood, the distant prospects which so often had occupied her reverie. The warm summer breeze, which played in her hair, the clear sky, the whole tapestry of nature she was about to leave, instinct as it was with poetic fancy. By her half open lips, by her wondering eye, she bade adieu to the scenes amid which she had lived, to the flowers which smiled on her as a sister, and where birds sang their matin lays as if she had been one of their kindred.
When he reached the parsonage, her father stopped to chat with the old pastor. Ebba took Alete by the hand, and hurried her into the chamber.
"Dear sister," said she, "I wished to see you again."
"Again, Ebba—I hope you will, and for many a year."
"Yes—yes—but not here, in another world." She grew pale as she spoke.
"What an idea!" said Alete. "I was so agreeably surprised by your visit.
Have you come to distress me?"
As she spoke, Alete covered her face, now suffused with tears, with her hands.