stronger; he gazes intelligibly around him, he can sit up; he would talk even, if he might be permitted. But Hertha allows it not. The physician warns of great danger, but still gives hope. Yngve may possibly live.

Oh, how softly Hertha moves around him, and strengthens and consoles him silently by her presence, her own soul's fulness and strength. Yngve's mother cannot do as much for him now, because her own physical weakness has overcome her soul's strength, and she cannot look at him without tears.

But Hertha has not this day shed a tear. It is now no time for weeping.

The doctor has ordered a warm foot-bath for Yngve in order to draw the blood from the chest. It is prepared for him in the evening twilight, and mingled with beneficial and fragrant spices. In the hour of twilight Yngve sat and enjoyed its luxury. He asked not now whose are the soft hands which bathe his feet. He closes his eyes and dreams himself back to the time when he was a child in his mother's home and her hands tended him. They would gladly do it now, but they have become too feeble, and it is not the mother, but she, who regards herself as his wife, who laves his feet and calls the warmth of life down into the stiffened limbs. Yngve had closed his eyes, leaning back among the pillows of the easy chair; Hertha believed that he slumbered, and when she saw in his still handsome but emaciated countenance the ravages of suffering and hope long deferred, her tears fell for the first time that day. They fell upon Yngve's feet which she held in her lap, and she let down her rich and beautiful hair, and dried them with it. Yngve had often reproached Hertha for not being able to love as he loved, for not understanding what love was, and she had sometimes thought that there was justice in his reproach; but now she felt that there was not.

HERTHA'S HOME.

IN THE EVENING.

THE bridegroom is in the house of the bride, but the wedding that is a long way off! Farther off it seems now, than it ever did before, for Yngve seems at the point of death; yet he lives; great is the power of love, great also sometimes is the power of the physician's art. The physician is sent for, and in the mean time Hertha is alone with Yngve. She kissed his mouth, his eyes, his cheek; she kissed his cold hand. Who can now deny her that? She can now permit herself to do so, for he will, indeed, soon die. The angels in heaven could not have given kisses of purer or more unselfish love. Never had she kissed the life-warm young man with a love like that with which she now kissed those cold and lifeless lips!

And those kisses of Hertha's have awoke Yngve from his death-slumber. He fixes his eyes upon her; he inhales new life from her glances. He raises himself. He soon rests his head upon her shoulder, and he whispers words of love and joy at seeing her again. But Hertha lays her finger upon his lips, he must not talk now. Soon comes the physician to see what he can do.

Dr. Hedermann is here; he gives the patient a composing draught, which is administered by Hertha's hand. Perfect rest is prescribed. Hertha alone may be near Yngve. He cannot bear her from his presence; he follows her with his eyes; he seems to live in her sight. In the course of a few hours his pulse has become

stronger; he gazes intelligibly around him, he can sit up; he would talk even, if he might be permitted. But Hertha allows it not. The physician warns of great danger, but still gives hope. Yngve may possibly live.

Oh, how softly Hertha moves around him, and strengthens and consoles him silently by her presence, her own soul's fulness and strength. Yngve's mother cannot do as much for him now, because her own physical weakness has overcome her soul's strength, and she cannot look at him without tears.

But Hertha has not this day shed a tear. It is now no time for weeping.

The doctor has ordered a warm foot-bath for Yngve in order to draw the blood from the chest. It is prepared for him in the evening twilight, and mingled with beneficial and fragrant spices. In the hour of twilight Yngve sat and enjoyed its luxury. He asked not now whose are the soft hands which bathe his feet. He closes his eyes and dreams himself back to the time when he was a child in his mother's home and her hands tended him. They would gladly do it now, but they have become too feeble, and it is not the mother, but she, who regards herself as his wife, who laves his feet and calls the warmth of life down into the stiffened limbs. Yngve had closed his eyes, leaning back among the pillows of the easy chair; Hertha believed that he slumbered, and when she saw in his still handsome but emaciated countenance the ravages of suffering and hope long deferred, her tears fell for the first time that day. They fell upon Yngve's feet which she held in her lap, and she let down her rich and beautiful hair, and dried them with it. Yngve had often reproached Hertha for not being able to love as he loved, for not understanding what love was, and she had sometimes thought that there was justice in his reproach; but now she felt that there was not.

At night Hertha sat watching by Yngve's bed; he slept, but uneasily, and often awoke as if terrified by fearful dreams, but at the first glance of that faithful friend, he smiled and was calm. During the stillness of the night Hertha prepared herself for the morrow's combat with her father.

FATHER AND DAUGHTER

YET ONCE MORE.

EARLY in the morning Hertha entered her father's room. She saw, by his threatening and angry countenance, the tempest which awaited her. But she was now in that state of mind when the soul takes no heed of fear, and feels a determination and a power in its will which assures it of victory. Therefore is she so calm, so composed in her demeanour, glance and voice. The strength lies in the depth of the will.

The Chief-Director was deceived by this, and began with a stern voice:

"What liberty is this which you are taking in my house? How dared you, without asking my permission, to bring a stranger hither? Are you, or am I, master of this house?"

"You, my father!" replied Hertha. "But Yngve is in his mother's room; is her guest, not mine."

The old man knew not for a moment what to say to this, but continued to look at his daughter with an angry expression, and then said:

"At all events, I ought to have been asked, been consulted with I ought indeed to have a voice in my own house!"

the bridegroom. All seemed to wait. Anon a door was opened, and accompanied by her maidens and beautiful from the expression of nobility and earnestness, entered the pale but stately bride, with the myrtle crown on her golden hair.

Here, in the circle of their nearest connections, were united Yngve and Hertha, by the warm-hearted little pastor, who was so deeply affected by the scene, that he was scarcely able to read the marriage ceremony, but, from that very cause spoke with still deeper emphasis the benediction on the new-married pair, who seemed to be united rather for death than life.

And yet they looked more happy, nay more blessed, these two, than bridal couples do in general.

Mimmi Svanberg is present at the marriage, and by her lively loquacity introduces a little gaiety into the seriousness of the solemnity. It is the Chief-Director in particular whom she devotes herself to enliven, and she actually succeeds in calling up now and then a smile on his morose countenance. Hertha and Yngve are allsufficient to each other. Yngve is better this evening than he has been since his return. The fulness and the importance of the time seem to have given him a renewed. life. But his affectionate wife watches over him and will not allow him to give himself up to the augmented excitement of the moment, without soon recalling him from the company to stillness and silence with her. Thus, as in former years, she again supported him on her faithful

arm.