On Sunday morning, we went to Krokleven, a spot about twenty miles from Christiania, and celebrated for its scenery. The journey thither was unpleasant enough, for the day was hot, and the roads were dry; and, when the Norwegian started off at the usual speed of his countrymen, the dust, disturbed by the horses’ hooves and the carriage wheels, rose in volumes, which overtook and palpably descended upon us, when the driver suddenly halted the career of his steeds at the base of a hill.

The road to Krokleven was as tantalizing as it was perfect in sublimity of scenery; for, from several elevated places, we could observe our path creeping along over the mountains, and down the valleys, to the very cottage where we intended to stop.

But the same solitude prevailed as on the Fiord; and the silence is the more extreme when not even the warbling of a single bird is heard to test a particle of animal existence; and nothing meets the sight but the blue sky, the bald heads of the mountains, and the yellow-tinted foliage of the fir and pine. As the traveller rises from one side of a mountain to a corner of the road, where it hurries perpendicularly down the other side, his eye may fathom a valley several thousand feet beneath, rich in vegetation, and surrounded on all points by rugged mountains covered with illimitable forests of fir, through the branches of which, here and there, the grey rocks glare, like skulls scattered over a green field; and the whole view which is thus taken at one glance may extend before, and on either hand of the spectator, over a space of twenty miles.

The forests are so extensive, and the chance of being lost in them is so probable, that on our arrival in the vicinity of Krokleven, we hired a guide. Wandering along a pleasant by-way, shaded by the overhanging boughs of the birch, the pine, and the fir, we scaled a mountain, and gaining its highest elevation, saw, about two thousand feet below us, an immense lake, chequered with islands, unequal in size, on which were farms, and on the largest small villages. Dividing its waters into two equal parts, the road to Bergen lay no broader than a pen-knife’s blade, and twisted, far away, like a white thread round the sides of the mountains.

From the bosom of the lake along the easy slope of this mighty valley, the ascent of an amphitheatre of mountains, skirting the horizon, takes the eye up to heaven; and while the sun shone brightly, on these mountains, hoary by lapse of centuries and contention with the storm, they seemed, although the nearest was twenty or thirty miles from us, to be tinged with a red colour, which, contrasted with the snow on their summits and the deep azure sky above, against which their huge forms appeared to lean, produced a scene as difficult to delineate as it was sublime to see.

When we had partaken of some salmon and capercaillie, cooked after the Norwegian process where butter abounded, and had lighted our meerschaums, we went at a gallop homewards. Built by the road-side, many miles apart, the only symbols of mortality to travellers in Norway, are post-houses, stages at which the horses are generally baited, and where a book, under the protection of the Government, is kept to insert the names, occupations, and destination of the persons who alight there, or are travelling through the country. Its pages are divided into four columns, and in the fourth column, the traveller may state any complaint he has to make. At the end of every month, the appointed officers of the State inspect this book, and rectify with severity any errors which may have been brought to their notice.

The highways are kept in order by the gentry, farmers, or peasants; and, along the road-side, a number of black posts are erected at certain distances from one another, on which are painted in white characters the names of the persons who are to repair the road, and the number of yards or feet allotted to each of them; and the more extensive the landed possession, or consequence of the man in the neighbourhood, so the quantity of ground which comes under his care. It is obvious how soon the person, neglecting the performance of the duty imposed upon him by the Government, may be detected; and the imposition is effective in keeping the roads in excellent order.

Though we returned at a late hour to Christiania, I walked to my old spot on the mountain; and there, looking down towards the vessels that were anchored in the harbour, like toys in a basin, the Norwegian girl, whom I had seen yesterday, stood close to the black stone, her right elbow resting on it, and her chin hid in the palm of her hand. She seemed abashed that I had caught her in such thoughtful guise, and began to move towards the path that led through the forest. I motioned to her, as significantly as I could, not to allow me to disturb her.

“Nej, tak,” she said, in a low, sweet tone; and, retiring a short space from the stone, with all the delicacy of her tender youth and sex, and a winning humility of manner, drew back behind me. Retiring, also, a few paces till I was in a line with her, I allowed the huge piece of granite to separate us; and dreading, that, by observing her too attentively, she might go away, I took no apparent notice of her, and kept my eyes fixed on the yacht, which had dwindled to a nutshell in size, with needles for its mast and boom. I could, but indifferently, speak the Norwegian language; and I knew not that she understood mine, though many of the inhabitants of the principal towns of Norway generally possessed a slight knowledge of English; and so, in silence, we stood.

The mournful sighing of the firs, as a current of air, escaping from the Fiord, crept gently through them, and the quietude that reigned around, inspired me with a feeling of melancholy; and after a while, “Do you understand English?” I asked.

“My father was a sailor, sir,” my alabaster, statue-like companion said, sometimes speaking in her own language, and sometimes in mine, with a pretty foreign accent, “and went to England often, and he taught me English; but I do not know it well.”

“You soon would speak it as well as I, if every day you tried,” I answered, with courage, pleased that I could make her understand me.

“But there is no one,” she replied, I thought, in a sad voice, “to speak to me; and I forget all that I have learned. My dear father used to talk to me of England; and I remember still its tongue, because he told me Englishmen were good and great.”

She came nearer to the stone, and looking full in my face, smiled.

“Perhaps,” I said, “some one of my countrymen had been kind to your father, and he taught you a lesson too flattering not to disappoint you when you meet an Englishman.”

“No, sir, I hope not,” she answered, raising her little head somewhat proudly; “for an Englishman was kind and good to him: and my father used, for his sake, to pray for England when he prayed for our country, Norway; and he taught me, when a little girl, to do the same.”

“And where is your father?” I asked.

“He is dead, sir,” and the poor girl began to weep, but so quietly, that I was not aware of her grief until the tremulous motion of her hand, in which she had concealed her face, indicated her sorrow, and made me regret that I had asked the question. Recovering her self-possession, she went on to speak, although, without a sob, her tears still flowed abundantly.

“This cross,” she said, lifting it from her heaving bosom, “my poor father gave, and bade me always wear; for baring his arm one day, he showed a cross tattooed upon the skin, and told me if he died far from his own home, all barbarous men, even Indians, when they saw that sign, would not let his corpse be eaten by birds or beasts of prey; but bury it.”

Her delicate frame swelled with strong emotions, and she could scarce contain her loud grief.

“He died, sir,” she continued, “two years ago on the banks of a river near Rio, in South America; and some Indian tribe, in adoration, as he had surely said, to this symbol of our creed, buried him.”

She had not yet made an end of speaking, when the sound of the church clocks, ascending faintly, tolled eleven. It was broad daylight; for, though the sun had set, his rays darted in orange-tinted pillars to the centre of the sky, and sustained the glory of his presence. My young and beautiful companion, starting at the sound, wiped away her tears, and seemed to regret the lateness of the hour; and noting each vibration as it fell on her ear, she commenced with her thumb, and then advancing to the tip of each tapering finger, counted, with a whisper in her native language,

“En, twa, tre, fyra, fem, sex, sju, atta, nie, tie, elfva!”

Her exclamation of surprise and regret that she had remained so long from home, made me strive to soothe her fears. When she was about to hurry away, I begged her to tell me her name, that I might know what to call her for the future.

“I am a poor peasant girl,” she said, despondingly, “and you will never desire to speak to me more.”

“Are my thoughts to be known by yours?” I asked, with a slight smile; “and do you think I cannot see God’s bounty to the peasant girl, and love virtue and innocence of heart clothed in any garb?”

“Yes, I think that,” she answered, diffidently; “but I am not like those you are wont to converse and dwell with; and when you talk to me, you will learn my ignorance, and you will hate me then. I would have you love me.”

“And why,” I said, “when you do not know my character, or temper, you would have me love you?”

“That you may accept my love.”

“And why yours?”

“Because it was my father’s wish,” she answered, with the gentleness of the most engaging simplicity of manner, “that I should love all Englishmen.”

“I would not have that love,” I replied.

She turned round quickly, and looked steadfastly at me; but soon as her gaze met mine, her large, round, languishing blue eye fell, and drooped to the ground.

“Will you not tell me your name?” I said, going nearer to her; “for we shall meet again. Yonder lies the vessel that will bear me from your country, and it is not prepared to move for many days.”

She raised her eyes, and, with a smile, turned them towards the bay, when observing that the sailors were painting the cutter’s hull, and scraping the spars, she appeared pleased with the sight; and dropping her eyes towards the ground again, her tiny foot dallied with a blade of grass, and, almost inaudibly,

“Call me Gunilda,” she said.

A few minutes more separated us, and I wandered down the mountain. The beauty of face and form, the childish simplicity, the virtue and innocence of Gunilda’s heart, gave a nobler impulse to mine. I retired to rest, but slept not; for when I dozed, the clouds would lower around the yacht, and, the wind blowing with overwhelming force, every successive wave threatened the little bark with instant destruction; then, lo! the black vapours would rise from the surface of the sea, and rolling away to the south, leave all the heaven clear and blue; and there, shining in the west, the crescent moon, not three days old, would slant quite close to Hesperus, twinkling by her nether edge, to help and show the way across the ocean; and while the fair breeze filled the sails, and all the sailors sang for joy, a linnet, blown from off the land, would, shivering, perch upon the yard; and when the boatswain strove to catch the bird, for fear it flew away and should be lost, the foolish thing would stretch its wings and, fluttering, fall within the vessel’s course to sink beneath her bows; and when it rose again a long way in her wake, I thought I heard Gunilda’s screams for help, and I would wake.

Then when I awoke, throughout the night, scaring the timid spirit of sleep, a thousand dogs ashore howled and bayed the moon, as if all the ghosts of the million souls that had perished since the far times when Norway became the abode of men, had returned to earth, and were walking through the streets of Christiania.

The dark grey mantle of morning had only enveloped the shades of night, when I banished sleep, and the hour being yet too early to leave my bed, I lay listening to the growls of Sailor, as he remonstrated with Jacko for coming too close to him; while Jacko, in a low, murmuring twitter, pointed out how scantily the straw was spread in the hutch, and how chilly felt the Northern air to him, a little Indian born between the Tropics.

“Well, D,” I said, about five hours afterwards, when I had gone on deck, and saw the sailing-master sitting without his jacket, on the taffrail, abaft the shrouds, smoking his morning pipe, “What do you think of the day? Shall we move to-day?”

“Why, sir,” replied D, capping me, “what little wind there is, draws up the Fiord, dead on end; but, as the day goes on, it’s just as likely to draw down. You see, sir,” he said, directing my attention to some fleecy clouds, not larger than my thumb-nail, and floating above the mountains to the north-east, “those clouds seem coming this way.”

“Yes, I see,” I answered; “but I hope we shall not go away to-day.”

“I don’t think, sir,” said D, “we shall have any more air to-day, than what there is now. The glass is high; and in these northern latitudes, during the summer months, there is little change of weather.”

“However, you can make some excuse,” I observed, “if there be not sufficient wind, for it is no good floating on the Fiord in a calm.”

“Very good, sir,” answered D; “the wear and tear are certainly more than the pleasure. But, I think, my Lord wants to reach Larvig as soon as possible.”

“I know that,” I said; “but a day won’t make any difference.”

“As you please, sir,” replied D; and I went below to know if R, and P, were getting up.

“Hollo! old fellow!” exclaimed R, when he saw me, “what the devil brought you out of bed so early?”

“Why, simply because I could not remain there later.”

“I suppose so,” replied R; and then, whistling, singing, and humming, he commenced his toilet.

“What sort of a day is it?” at length he asked. “The sun shines I see; but how is the wind?”

“What little there is, is southerly,” I replied.

“That’s a bore, isn’t it?” Robserved.

“Why, that’s as one may think,” I said. “I am just as happy here as anywhere else.”

“What’s the good of frousting here at Christiania;” asked R, disappointed at my difference of opinion.

“Why, look at the scenery. Nothing in the world is like it,” I said warmly.

“Pooh!” replied R, disgustedly, “all my eye! I came to fish, not to look at scenery. I suppose you want to go up to that confounded hill again. But do as you like. I am for Larvig.”

The sun mounted towards the zenith, and still his beams had no power upon the sluggish atmosphere; and the quiet and warmth of the day were unrelieved by a breath of air. Rconsulted D, and found it useless to get under weigh. As soon as I learned the decision that had been come to, I jumped into a boat, and began to row myself towards the mountain where I had met Gunilda.

“Mind you keep a sharp look out,” shouted R, to me, “for should the wind get up, we’ll be off.”

I raised my hand in the air, in token of assent, and to intimate I heard what he said.

“We’ll fire a gun,” he added in a louder voice. Again, I raised my hand aloft; and then applying myself to the oars, soon reached the land. I made the boat fast to a tree’s stump, and commenced my ascent of the mountain. No Gunilda, as yesterday, stood near the stone.

Musing, I sat, watching the crew on board the yacht making preparations for our departure, should the wind shift fair. I saw them running, like mice, up the shrouds, as they boused up the mainsail, and heard them chaunt a cheering chorus, as they heaved in the slack of the cable. It was mid-day. I rose, and turning to the left hand, took my way through the fir forest. I had proceeded about half a mile, when I discerned the kneeling figure of a woman through the closely-planted trees. I approached. It was Gunilda.

A little mound of earth, overgrown with flowers, denoted the humble grave of some one dear to the recollection of the Norwegian girl. A crucifix of black wood, round the top of which was wreathed a small garland of wild flowers, was fixed at one end of the grave; and on the cross the two Norwegian letters “G.H.” signified the initials of the dead one’s name. By Gunilda’s side lay a basket of fresh flowers, culled while yet the morning’s dew was sparkling on them.

“I did not think, sir, to see you again,” said Gunilda, as soon as she had perceived me; and ceasing in her dutiful care of removing the weeds that had crept up since her last visit.

“Yes, I am here once more; but I shall not disturb you again after to-day; though I regret my departure from Christiania, now that I have known you.”

“You regard me well,” she replied sadly; “and, perhaps, it is, sir, because you have seen me thus dutifully employed; but I do no more than she would have done for me, had I been the first to die. This, sir, is my mother’s grave.”

The girl turned away her face, and busied herself with the renewal of her task, and plucked the weeds, one by one, from the grave. How great was the contrast with my own country, England, where the moss and long grass soon conceal the tomb of relative and friend, and living footstep comes no more near the spot where the dead lie; but here, in simple Norway, the ties between those who breathe, and those who are gone, are still existent; nor does “death bring oblivion to the living as well as to the dead.” Strewn with the flowers of yesterday, the grave gives no evidence that death has broken the strong links of affection; and while I gazed and marked this young girl’s sweet solicitude, a melancholy feeling, even in the soul’s desolation, came with a hope, that I too may not rest altogether unremembered.

“How can I fail,” I replied, “to love one who has not only affectionate tenderness of heart, but surpassing beauty of form? God has denied you nothing.”

“Oh! sir, do not say so,” she exclaimed. “Heaven has been good to me; but I am also afflicted. My father sleeps in a distant land, and my poor mother here; and, look, how young I am to be alone.”

The tears followed each other down her face, and the intensity of her grief was too great to allow Gunilda, for some moments, to speak. Looking up into my face, her eyes still filled with tears, she said,

“My condition is one of extreme sorrow and loneliness; and if you could hear it all, you would confess that I have cause to weep as well as others. But think me not ungrateful.”

“One whose heart is so guileless can never know ingratitude,” I replied. “But may I know your sorrows?”

“Would you like to hear them, sir?”

“I would.”

“As I told you, then, sir,” Gunilda said, rising from her kneeling attitude, and sitting at my feet on the ground, “my father was a sailor. His heart was as affectionate as his form was manly; and his was a nature not long to roam the world without the sigh of sympathy. In the summer of 1832, my father’s vessel sailed from Christiania, bound to the Black Sea; and he has often told me how dreary his fate felt, doomed, as he was, to leave his country without one heart to think of him when absent, or rejoice when he should return. After a prosperous voyage the Mediterranean was reached, and the ship entered, with a fair wind, the Straits of the Hellespont. On one side, sir, of the Hellespont, is a small town called Sestos; it is a spot ignoble now, but was, once, one of note. At Sestos a Turkish nobleman, removed by age from the cares of State, had retired to pass in quietude the remainder of his life; and, surrounded by his harem, desired no other felicity than the companionship of his mistresses.

“The castle of this Turk lay by the Dardanelles, and from its windows the clear blue waters might be seen.

“Beautiful, and having yet the innocence of youth, and brought from her mountain home, near the Caucasus, to pant beneath the influence of a warmer sun, a Circassian maiden pined. One day, oppressed by the heat, the Circassian stole to a window overlooking the Straits, and strove to catch the freshness of the wind that passed, cooled, from the surface of the sea. While she stood there, the barque which bore my father sailed in sight, and making her way with speed upon the water, soon drew, by her gallant trim and flowing canvass, the attention of the girl; and with swelling heart she sighed to see the vessel move towards that part of earth from whence she came. That I may not weary you,” Gunilda continued, “my father’s vessel arrived in safety at her destined port; but, on her return homewards, a gale of wind arose, and the ship was stranded under the walls of the castle where the Circassian dwelt. My father and three other sailors were the only men saved from a crew of twenty-five.”

Gunilda stopped; and, turning towards me, said,

“Were you ever, sir, in Turkey?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Because, sir,” she answered, “they say the Turkish people are not compassionate; but I do not think that, for hear how kindly the Turkish nobleman behaved to my poor father. When the tidings flew round the country that a European vessel had been cast away, a multitude of people hurried to the shore, some to see, and some to give aid; and among this latter class, the good old Turk. My father, almost lifeless, by the nobleman’s command, was taken to the castle, and with kind attention, was soon sensible of recovery. Though assiduity and tender care were shown alike by all, my father selected from the group of maidens who waited on him, a fair, slender girl, whose looks of sadness secured his solicitude to learn the sorrow that oppressed her youthful heart. When all were busy to restore my father’s health and secure his comfort, this young girl would sit apart, and, mutely, gaze for hours on him; but when my father caught her glance, she would smile with sadness, and then look another way.

“In our country, Norway, we are betrothed for many months before marriage; and I suppose, sir, this custom is observed, that the dispositions may assimilate; but, sir,” observed Gunilda, retaining my attention by her earnest countenance of inquiry, “do you not think that two youthful creatures may love instinctively? Must the affections be always fostered by the caution of time?”

“I think not,” I replied, smiling to see her face beaming with anxiety to learn my answer. “As the sun-flower turns to the sun, and the petals of the rose open to the dew, so the human heart sighs for sympathy. Nature is joined together by links identical to all; and the same law that governs the sap, and external freshness of that little herb, rules inexplicably our own affections, and visible demeanour. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, I do,” she answered; and clasped my hand with much delight.

“Indeed, Gunilda,” I continued, “I believe in that heart’s faith which, in England, is called ‘love at first sight.’”

“And so do I,” she exclaimed, sidling closer to my feet, “and so did my father. One day he took occasion, when all had retired, and left the youthful Circassian watching by his couch alone, to tell her how he loved her, and how devotedly he would watch over her happiness if she would become his bride. The maiden wept, and told him, in return, how reciprocal was her affection; but how insurmountable were the barriers between their union, since she had been purchased as a slave, and destined for the Turk’s seraglio. Boldly defined as the forms of these mountains are against the heavens, my father’s noble character yielded only to the sensitiveness of his heart; and when the Circassian made known to him her destined abjection, he turned his face away and wept in agony. Listen now to me, and hear the reason why I have been taught to love your countrymen.

“Resident in Sestos, a young Englishman met, by accident, my father a few days after his recovery, and seeing his dejected mien, entered into conversation; and desired, finally, to know if he could aid him in his return to Norway. My father told him he had no wish to see his native land again, since he had seen at Sestos that which an unhappy destiny had rendered dearer than the soil of his nativity.

“‘No sorrow,’ answered the young Englishman, ‘is without alleviation.’

“‘But this, sir,’ my father said, ‘is without remedy.’

“‘If you desire money,’ observed the Englishman, ’here is my purse; and when I come, some day, to Christiania, you can then repay me.’

“‘I desire not gold, sir,’ and my father bowed his head in sorrow.

“‘You are yet in the prime and vigour of youth,’ the Englishman said; ’and, perhaps, you swerve under the infliction of a feeling to which I have not been an entire stranger. You love.’

“My father replied not.

“‘I have power in the presence of the Sultan,’ replied the young Englishman, ’and doubt not, if you will inform me of your grievances, the sincerity of my desire to mitigate your grief.’

“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.”

“What the heart desires, the body can endure,” she answered in an earnest tone. “My grief will be bitterer in your absence than all the tortures which may attend me when I am near you. Let me go with you,” and she seized my hand, and clung to it with affectionate tenacity.

“It is impossible,” I answered. “In a short time after I am gone, you will think of me no longer, and selecting from your countrymen one whose feelings may sympathise with your own, you will pass your days in happiness, and go to your grave in peace.”

The young girl rose to her feet, for she had hitherto sat on the ground, or retained a kneeling position; and taking the ring, I have casually alluded to, from her finger, she said in her native tongue;

“The great and the humble, the rich and poor, feel alike, for God has made no distinction between the peasant girl’s deep affections and those of a queen. My father’s name and family will end with me, but let my memory live with you.”

She placed the ring upon my finger. She wept not, and not a sigh escaped her; but her whole frame trembled with excess of feeling.

“You think,” I exclaimed, “that I reverence not your love, and deem your affectionate and noble heart worthy of my acceptance; but you know not the false position in which I stand, or you would favour that apparent apathy which wounds my soul. Had it been in my destiny, I could have dwelt for ever among these mountains, with no other minister to my love than your own self; but to take you hence to England, and refuse you the cheerfulness and honourable endearments of wedlock, is to humiliate my own conscience, and covet the curse of God in your hatred.”

I had scarcely spoken, when a flash of light shot across the sky, and before the girl had even ceased to start at the sight, the long, loud roar of a gun succeeded. I understood the signal. The token of a sincerely cherished, and steadfast friendship, I had worn, since I left England, a valuable ring, and removing it from my finger, I took Gunilda’s hand and replaced her gift with mine. Gunilda held up her hand before her for some minutes, without the utterance of a word, and gazed on the brilliant jewel, then allowing her hand to fall by her side, burst into a passionate flood of tears.

Again, a sudden gleam of light glanced through the forest, and, a moment after, the booming of another gun rolled away down the valleys, and over the rocks, with a faint, and then a loudly reviving echo.

“Good bye, Gunilda,” I said. She spoke not, nor moved; but her shoulders shook with a convulsive heaving.

“Will you not shake hands with me?” I asked, my voice almost indistinct with emotion. Still, she spoke not. I kneeled down, for Gunilda had reseated herself near her mother’s grave, and raising her hand, I took it in mine, and pressed it. I felt the pressure returned, and allowing her small passive hand to fall gently again in her lap, I rose.

“God bless you!” I said.

She uttered a low, passionate cry, and then checking her anguish, murmured faintly,

“Farvael!” and covering her face with her hands, fell, sobbing violently, on her mother’s grave.

I hurried from the spot; and hardly knew that I had left Gunilda, until the boat ran against the cutter’s bow, and roused me as from a dream.

When I got on board, I found that the wind was still too trivial to allow us even to drift out of the harbour, and the cutter lay the whole night immoveably on the water.