"My father looked up, and taking the Englishman's hand, thanked him, in sentences broken by his sorrow, for his generous mediation. The tale was soon told; and, when my father had recounted his fear, that a happy result could never be brought to his affections, the Englishman bade him not despair; and though the task was arduous, he still would strive to master it. Two days afterwards the Englishman returned to my father, and desired, that he would repair to Constantinople, and meet him there at a certain church which the Englishman indicated by name. Faithful to his promise, my father took leave of the Turkish nobleman who had been his benefactor, and proceeded to Constantinople, where at the place and hour appointed, he met the Englishman. Grasping my father heartily by the hand, and telling him how impotent were the efforts of man to contend with the decrees of Providence, the young Englishman begged that he would follow him into the sacred edifice; and grieving no longer, humiliate himself before his Maker, and thank Him, that his misfortunes had been no greater. My father entered. Near an altar was a veiled figure, and by its side a priest, clad in the snowy flowing robes of his office, seemed busy with some holy ordinances; but when my father came near, the Englishman raised suddenly the white veil, and allowing it to fall on the marble floor, lo! with palpitating heart, before him stood the Circassian slave. The Englishman had bought her for a large sum of money from the Turk, and conveying her to Constantinople, gave her in marriage to my father. My father's joy knew no bounds, and his gratitude to the Englishman became a feeling as limitless in its ecstasy.
"'I desire no thanks,' the noble Englishman replied, 'for you would have done the same for me had our positions been reversed; but I would always be remembered by you both, and, that, I may not be forgotten, take this ring, and wear it for my sake. When I was at Cairo, an Arab gave it me, and bade, when I performed a deed that pleased me by its generosity, to part with it in token of the heart's content.'
"See!" said Gunilda, holding up her hand, "this is the ring;" and she kissed it. It was the same ring I had observed the first day I saw the Norwegian girl; and it was a plain circlet of solid gold, surmounted by a curiously-worked figure, having the beak and plumed wings of a bird, and the body and tail of a lion.
"Since my mother's death I have worn it," said Gunilda sadly; and added, with a faint smile, "but when I wed, my husband will make his claim, no doubt."
Applying herself again to the cultivation of the flowers planted around her mother's grave, the beautiful Norwegian informed me, while engaged in her affectionate office, that, her mother survived the intelligence of her husband's death but a short time; and on her death-bed, committed Gunilda to the care of an old friend.
Mid-day came, and brought with it the sultriness and cheerful brightness of a Norwegian summer's day. Through the fir-trees I could see the waters of the Fiord sparkling, like liquid silver, in the glare of noon; and far away, the clouds, like pieces of white wool, resting half-way up the mountains. Gunilda, perceiving my pensive mood, observed,
"To-morrow, sir, at this hour, I shall not see you; and, I dare say, you will almost have forgotten the Norwegian peasant girl."
"If there be any grief that pains me," I replied, "it is the one, because it is fruitless, which reminds me how faithfully and long I shall remember you and to-day."
"Take me with you to England," she exclaimed, "I will ever serve you diligently, like a menial."
"To take you hence," I replied, "is only to lead you to destruction. A flower so delicate in its texture, will not bear transplanting, or lack of tenderness; and I would not see it droop and fade for all the gratification I may derive from its presence and sweet perfume."