The news of the disappearance of Frans had brought gloom to the golden house. There he had been lovingly received, and had appeared at his best. Nono was clear in his mind that Frans had had nothing to do with the theft, however wrong he might have done in running away and causing his friends such painful anxiety.

Jan shut his mouth firmly and went about in determined silence. Karin cried as if it had been her own boy who had gone wrong.

“He hasn’t had any mother to look after him,” said Nono, and he patted Karin tenderly. “If you could have had him it would have been quite different, I am sure.”

“That is a fact,” said one of the twins.

“A solid fact!” echoed the other.

Karin smiled for a moment kindly, and then said soberly, “If only Uncle Pelle were here! I should so like to know what he would say.”

Old Pelle had gone on his pedestrian trip. Not that he had any sportsman accoutrements, or used any slang as to the particulars of his expedition. In one respect he was prepared for his excursion on the strictest modern principles. He was lightly equipped as to clothing, and in woollen garments from top to toe. Better still, he had a light heart within, and a thankful one. He was out on a pleasant errand.

Pelle was now a settled resident in the parish where the golden cottage stood, with occupation pledged to him while he had strength to work, and a support as long as life lasted. The colonel had settled that matter; and Karin rejoiced to see the shadows cleared from the old man’s future, with the bright prospect of his continuing to be “a blessing” to them, as she said, “while he was above the green grass.”

Pelle had left a few trifles at the poorhouse, where he had been grudgingly received during his last long attack of serious illness. He had before been unable to make up his mind to go after his small belongings. There had been lingering in the depths of his heart a germ of bitterness about the whole affair, and he had been afraid it might spring into strong life if he returned to see the old place again. Now the rankling, tormenting thoughts had vanished in the sunshine that had come to him, and he was sure it would be pleasant to see the familiar scenes again, and to take well-known people by the hand in a friendly way, and let bygones be bygones.

Pelle had been rowed over to the opposite side of the bay, to avoid an unnecessary bit of walking; and now that he was expected home, Nono was sent across the water to meet him. Nono was already in the boat and taking up the oars, when Alma came strolling along the shore with her hands full of wild flowers, for she had been botanizing. “Let me row with you,” she said eagerly to Nono.

“Yes,” said Nono; “I am going after Uncle Pelle. But the boat ” and he looked at Alma’s light dress, and then at the traces left of the last trip of the fishermen to whom the boat belonged.

“Never mind that,” said Alma cheerily. “I can manage my dress, and I do so love to row.” She seated herself and took up a pair of oars.

It was a long pull across the bay, and they were only half over when they saw a sail-boat in front of them, making for the wider part of the inlet.

“Not very good sailors, I think,” said Nono critically, for Pelle had taught him how to trim a sail. He had hardly spoken the word when a flaw struck the little skiff they were watching, and it capsized instantly. There was a loud shriek from the place of the accident, and a groan from Nono and Alma. They could soon see two heads, and arms clinging to the upturned boat. Alma and Nono rowed desperately towards the spot, but made slow progress, as the bay had suddenly grown rough, and the wind was contrary. They could distinguish the faces now. One was unknown, but Alma’s eyes grew large and full of anguish as she recognized her brother. “It is Frans!” she said to Nono.

“Yes,” was his only reply, and they pulled with even more determination than before. In a few moments Frans and his companion were taken on board by Alma and Nono.

“Frans!” said Alma, as she laid her hand in his, “I was so afraid I was so afraid we should not reach you in time. You can swim; why didn’t you start out for us?”

“Knut here can’t swim, and of course I couldn’t leave him. I knew I couldn’t keep him up and make my way to you. It was better for us to hold fast as long as we could.”

A well-manned boat was now seen coming towards them from the shore. The strong rowers soon brought it to their side. Knut looked meaningly at Frans, but was silent.

“We must have those young fellows,” said the person in command, who was evidently an officer of justice.

The dripping boys changed their quarters without a word. Frans turned and looked at Alma as the boat he had entered headed for the shore. “Thank you, sister,” he called out; “you rowed like a man!”

He had never called her “sister” before. Alma’s eyes filled with tears. She moved as if to row after her brother.

“Uncle Pelle will be expecting us. I think I see him there waiting,” said Nono. “We must go for him.” Nono was decided. This was the errand on which he was sent, and the duty must be done, even though Miss Alma might be displeased with him. Alma looked impatient, but after a moment she began to move her pair of oars willingly as she said, “You are right, Nono,” and relapsed into silence.

When Pelle came on board, Nono did not say anything about what had happened until Pelle himself, who had seen the whole from the shore, asked what it all meant, and who the boys were who had so mismanaged their boat, “green hands” as he could see.

“You can tell him, Nono,” said Alma. “He will have to know it all. But I am so glad Frans was not drowned!”

Alma looked straight forward over the water, while Nono, as kindly as he could, told in a few words all the sad story to Pelle, who listened in silence; but towards the close a strange gleam of intelligence came into his eyes. Pelle never talked if he were not in the humour, and now Nono was not surprised that no answer came from the old man’s firmly-closed lips.

Alma was the first to step ashore. With a hurried nod to her companions she moved off swiftly towards her home.

“Now pull for town pull, Nono!” said Pelle, with unusual energy, taking up himself the oars that Alma had laid down.

Pull they did, tired as were Nono’s young arms, and feeble as were Pelle’s. The distance was short by water, and the two were soon at the magistrate’s office, where Pelle expected to find the delinquent boys. They were already there. Their wet clothes had been changed, and they were for the moment in private conversation with the colonel, who had been summoned immediately on their arrival.

In the pocket of the dripping coat that had been worn by Frans a bundle of the missing bank-notes had been found, carelessly rolled in a bit of yellow wrapping-paper. This all the by-standers about the door had heard, for the proceedings at the country seat of justice seem to be considered to belong to the small public of the neighbourhood.

While Pelle was waiting without, Nono having been sent back at once with the boat, the colonel was holding Frans by the hand, and talking to him from the depths of his stirred paternal heart.

“I have you, Frans, as one alive from the dead, and so I must talk to you,” said the colonel solemnly. “Don’t answer me; don’t speak a word, Frans! And you, boy,” and he turned towards Knut, “keep quiet. No excuses; no explanations from either of you! I want to say to you, Frans, what I should have longed to say to you if you had sunk in that deep water. I have not watched over you as I should, my boy. I take my share in the blame of what you have done. I have been too wrapped up in my own sorrows, my own ill-health, and my own melancholy reflections, to be to you what I ought to have been. I find I love you most intensely, and your loss would have been a terrible blow to me. Your bright face gone for ever from the home would have made it dreary indeed. You have caused me great sorrow by running away, and have, I fear, been guilty of that for which the law must punish you.”

Frans stirred as if about to speak.

“Silence!” said his father sternly. “The missing bank-notes were some of them found in your coat pocket. You had no such money when you left home; you will be called on to account for its being there.”

Frans stared speechlessly at his father, and then looked at his companion.

“He’s been free with money since we were out,” said Knut; “but I supposed such high-fliers had always no end of cash on hand, and never suspected anything more than the boys’ frolic we started out for when we found it had gone contrary for us at school.”

“Papa!” began Frans eagerly.

At the moment an officer came in to say, “There is an old man outside old Pelle everybody calls him who says he must see the boys; that it is most important for them.” The magistrate and Pelle and several other solemn-looking individuals entered the room.

Pelle looked first at Frans and then at his companion. The strange gleam came again into his eyes as he bowed to all present and asked to be allowed to tell his story. Permission to speak was authoritatively given him, and he began,

“About four hours ago I was standing by the bay, up at Trolleudden, when I saw that young fellow,” pointing at Knut, “come up to a chap who had a sail-boat there to let to the summer villa people. The boy wanted a boat for a trip down the bay. He was willing to pay handsomely, he said, and he did, with a bank-note, though he didn’t look as if he were much used to handling that sort of thing. I somehow thought there must be something wrong about it. Then I went up to the little inn to get a glass of milk and a bit of bread. When I came into the sitting-room, there was a boy there, who sat with his arms on the table, and his head on his hands, with his hat tipped down so over his eyes that I couldn’t see his face. He was dressed like a workman, with a leather apron on, and a coarse shirt, and an old overcoat outside, though it was so warm I was glad to go in my flannel sleeves. There was something queer about the boy. I could see his hands. They were not very clean, to be sure, but they didn’t look as if they had seen much real work. I soon got through thinking about the boy, who seemed to be asleep. I finished my bread and milk, and took out my book to read while I rested, and quite forgot where I was. Suddenly I heard somebody steal into the room, tiptoe up, and stand behind me. I kept quite still, but on the watch, for I felt all was not right. As I looked into my spectacles I saw who it was that was so near me. Often in church I see the person who is standing behind me. I don’t know how it is, but I do, as if my spectacles were a looking-glass. I didn’t like the sly, bad face right before my eyes. I could not help seeing it between me and the book, and I knew it was the lad who had hired the boat. In a second an arm was stretched forward towards the boy who was sitting very near me, the other side of the corner of the table, and a little yellow parcel was tucked into the pocket of his great-coat. I had nothing to say in the matter, and did not let on that I noticed it. It might be some young folks’ frolic. I am not used to meddle in other people’s business, but I generally know what goes on round me. The face went out of my spectacles, and the door shut quietly. I finished my reading and went out. Those boys I have not seen again to know them till I meet the very same here.”

“What were you reading?” asked the magistrate sternly.

“This book,” said old Pelle, taking out his worn paper-covered “Thomas a Kempis,” and handing it to the gentleman, who returned it without a word, but ordered the wet clothes of the boys to be brought in. “I don’t know those things, surely,” said Pelle, pointing to the larger suit, “but should say that might be the leather apron the younger boy had on. I couldn’t be sure either of the coat, but the striped shirt is just like the wrist-band that showed as the boy had his arms on the table, as he was asleep or pretended to be.”

“The roll of bank-notes was found in that coat, wrapped up in a bit of yellow paper,” said the magistrate. “You may sit down, Pelle.”

The magistrate then solemnly called on Frans to speak for himself.

“I know nothing at all about the money,” he said. “I heard somebody coming in at the inn, and put down my head at once, and tipped my hat forward to hide my face. I did not look up again until I had heard the person beside me stir and then go out. I believe I had dozed a little, but I can’t be sure.”

Knut, when questioned, denied having seen old Pelle at all, and declared that it was probable the whole story had been made up after the old man had heard outside that the notes were found in Frans’s pocket. As if anybody could see who was behind him by looking into his own spectacles! It had been a bad business going off with Frans, and he was very sorry for it. He had found Frans in such a taking about his bad report, ashamed and afraid to go home, and talking of working his way as a sailor over the ocean. “Of course I went with him, and tried to take care of him,” said Knut, “and this is my reward! Frans and that old fellow have been regular ‘chums.’ I have often seen them together. Of course ‘the quality’ would have somebody to turn the world upside down to help them. Frans has his own father, but I” here Knut sobbed audibly “a poor widow’s son, have nobody to stand by me. If my poor mother were here, what could she do for me? But she is far back in the country, not knowing what her boy has come to by trying to help a young scamp who had got into a tight place.”

There was much sympathy for Knut in the little assembly, and “Poor fellow! poor fellow!” had been murmured by more than one listener as he went on.

“See out of the back of his head!” continued Knut, “or in his spectacles, as he says! Likely! Better try him,” he boldly concluded.

“A good suggestion,” said the magistrate.

The court-room seemed suddenly changed into a playroom for grown people. Pelle was placed on a chair, now here and now there, while different people were placed behind him, and he was called on to say who was leaning towards his shoulder.

Pelle looked and looked in vain. The spectacles told no tales. A sneer went round the room again and again, and Knut was heard to chuckle as he said, “Of course he made up the whole story. That any one in his senses could believe it!”

Pelle was discomfited. At last he said falteringly, “I have told the truth. I did see that face in my spectacles, but I don’t see anything now. It has happened to me many times in church on Sunday morning. I am sure I could do it where I sit in the church.”

“Why not let him try it in the church?” said the colonel. “I am sure the pastor would give his permission.”

The experiment in the church was arranged for the next morning.

Frans and his companion were left in custody for the night, and the colonel went home with a sad heart, but not without some hope that his son would be proved to be innocent. For it was true that Frans had been much at the golden house, and was a great favourite there, and it was not impossible that the temptation to free him had been too strong for Pelle to resist.

The morning came, and at eleven o’clock there was an unusual gathering in the parish church. The stillness round the marble sleepers on the monumental tombs was broken, not by the sound of prayer and praise, but by the low hush of murmuring voices and the tramp of eager feet. Pelle came quietly in and took his usual seat. He bowed his head, just from habit, then followed a silent petition, not for a blessing on the services of the sanctuary, but that the innocent might be defended and the guilty brought to justice.

He raised himself up and sat down, intending to wait for further orders. He suddenly said in a sharp voice, “Take off your hat, Adam or Enos!” and then turned unconsciously to look behind him. Yes, there stood one of the twins, which he could not say, his mouth wide with delight, while a murmur went round, “He was right this time!”

“Of course it was all planned before at the cottage,” said a dissenting voice.

“I don’t plan to have boys stand in the church with their hats on,” said Pelle.

“I ordered the boy to take his place there myself,” said the magistrate.

Again and again the experiment was tried, and with success, even the pastor and the magistrate curiously taking their turn in the performance; Pelle then, most respectfully stating whom he had had the honour to see, bowing as he did so.

At last all present were fully convinced that Pelle had spoken the truth, and he was conducted in a kind of triumphal procession back to the cottage.

The question was everywhere agitated, “What is to ‘come of’ Pelle’s testimony?” The fate of the boys was not to be altogether decided by him.

The authorized messengers who had been sent to the little inn where Pelle had stopped came back with the innkeeper and the owner of the boat that had been hired by the boys. From them it was easily learned that the culprits had been seen at the time mentioned by Pelle, and had been considered suspicious strangers, especially the older lad, who was foolishly free with his money, and had a bold, bad look about him. The younger boy was described as cast down, and evidently not on good terms with his companion.

The case did not come to a public trial. A large part of the money taken had been recovered, the note paid for the boat being identified as one of the missing bills. The merchant who had been robbed declined prosecuting the offender, as his loss was fully made good to him by the colonel. It was, however, exacted in the agreement that Knut should be sent out of the country at once.

The pastor took Knut home with him, and gave him such a kind, serious talk that the poor lad’s heart was quite melted, and he, sincere for the time at least, promised to try to lead a better life.

“He will only go to ruin if he is sent to prison,” Pelle had said. “May God help the boy in his own way! I will try to help him in mine. Who knows what I might have been if I had kept on as a sailor!” So Pelle, for the time a prominent man, went round in the neighbourhood and collected money enough to send the guilty boy over the Atlantic to begin life again in the far West.

Karin wrote a short letter to her “son in America,” full of love to Erik, and with a request that he would do what he could for Knut to help him on in the right way. Oke penned a full description of the whole affair, which he declared was written so plainly that anybody ought to understand it, let alone a Swede like Erik, born in the best country in the world, though he did now seem to be more than half an American.

A neat suit of clothes had been sent to Frans by the careful housekeeper, so that he looked quite like himself when he took his seat beside his father for his homeward drive.

Oke had made haste to tell all the neighbourhood of the success of Pelle in the church, and Alma had had her share of the good news. Whether Frans would be allowed to return home with his father she had not yet heard. She sat anxiously watching at the window, when there was a sound of carriage-wheels in the avenue. There were two persons in the carriage! Yes, one was certainly Frans!

Alma ran down to the veranda. “Dear, dear Frans! I am so glad to see you!” she exclaimed, as she put her arm around him; and so they followed their father into the house.

“Thank you, sister!” he answered, with a quivering lip. He could say no more.

The colonel went into the library and closed the door, and Frans and his sister were left together. They went back to the veranda and sat down side by side, Frans still struggling to gain self-command.

“Dear brother,” began Alma, “I am so sorry I have been a cross, disagreeable sister to you. I mean to be better. I shall try, and you must forgive me if I fail, and am cross to you sometimes.”

“Don’t speak so, sister,” said Frans, interrupting her. “You do not know what you have been to me. You have kept me from much that is wrong. When I have been with the boys, and have been tempted to speak and do as some of them did, I have thought of you. ’What would Alma say to such talk and such doings?’ would come into my mind and help me to resist temptation. I have thought of you as something higher, holier, purer than myself. And such a good scholar, too! I have always been proud of my sister. You found fault with me, of course. I deserved it, poor, thoughtless fellow that I have been. I cannot be like you, Alma, but I am really going to try to be better. I have done with idle ways and bad companions. I did not know what Knut really was until we came to be constantly together, and then, bad as I was, I thanked God that I had had such a father and such a sister and such a home. It is only God’s mercy that has saved me from a prison. I had no way to prove my innocence. What I have suffered you can understand, but I deserved it all. I have been doing badly all the term. I tried to make it up at the last. All went well with me in the morning, but in the afternoon I was so worn out and so tired and dull that I could not command myself to say what I really knew. Of course I made a miserable failure. I was afraid to meet my father and ashamed to see your face when I had come out so badly. I did the worst thing I could do. I added wrong to wrong, not thinking of all the worry and trouble I was making. I was quite desperate when I met Knut, and he proposed that we should go off together. I caught at the plan. Listen. When I was hanging, clinging to the boat, in that deep water, so far from the shore, my whole life came before me; and what a worthless life it was! I seemed shut out from heaven. I felt so miserable and hopeless and wretched! Then I saw you coming over the water. You looked so pale and slight, but you worked like a man. Then I understood that you loved me, that you really cared for me, and would forgive me. I did not know then of the dreadful thing of which I was suspected, but you did, and you and dear father were willing to forgive me. That helped me afterwards to understand that I might try to lead a new life, and to believe our heavenly Father too could forgive me, and willingly give me strength to do better.”

Alma had several times tried to speak, but Frans had laid his hand pleadingly on hers as he went on. Now she said solemnly, “Thank God, Frans! we are to begin our new life together. I have not been the true Christian you seem to have thought me, in spite of my very wrong way towards you. I feel that I have set you a very bad example. We must help each other now.”

“You must help me,” said Frans soberly; then starting up, he exclaimed, “But I am forgetting Marie, who has always been so kind to me. You can’t think how many messages she managed to send me when I was in town in disgrace, and little things to eat, too, that she thought I would like.”

Marie was lingering in the hall, listening not to catch the words of the conversation going on without, but enjoying the satisfaction of hearing the voice of her “dear boy,” as she called him, once more in his own home. She had made up her mind, however, to reprove him sharply for causing them all so much trouble. When, however, she saw him looking so humble and sorrowful, so little like himself, she had no reproaches for him, but took his offered hand affectionately, and exclaimed, “You dear boy!” as if he had been a little child.

And Frans felt like a child a naughty child; but a child forgiven, and resolved to do better.