It was while the month was in this latter
mood that Brita and her son entered once more
the valley whence, twenty-five years ago, they
had fled. Many strange, turbulent emotions
stirred the mother's bosom, as she saw again
the great snow-capped mountains, and the calm,
green valley, her childhood's home, lying so
snugly sheltered in their mighty embrace.
Even Thomas's breast was moved with vaguely
sympathetic throbs, as this wondrous scene
spread itself before him. They soon succeeded
in hiring a farm-house, about half an hour's
walk from Blakstad, and, according to Brita's
wish, established themselves there for the summer.
She had known the people well, when she
was young, but they never thought of identifying
her with the merry maid, who had once
startled the parish by her sudden flight; and
she, although she longed to open her heart to
them, let no word fall to betray her real
character. Her conscience accused her of playing
a false part, but for her son's sake she kept silent.
Then, one day,--it was the second Sunday
after their arrival,--she rose early in the morning,
and asked Thomas to accompany her on a
walk up through the valley. There was Sabbath
in the air; the soft breath of summer, laden
with the perfume of fresh leaves and field-flowers,
gently wafted into their faces. The sun
glittered in the dewy grass, the crickets sung
with a remote voice of wonder, and the air
seemed to be half visible, and moved in trem-
bling wavelets on the path before them.
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