"Alas," murmured he, "my
son, that we should meet thus."
There they stood, bound together by the
bonds of blood, but, alas, there lay a world
between them.
All night they sat together at the dying
woman's bedside. Not a word was spoken.
Toward morning, as the sun stole into the darkened
chamber, Brita murmured their names, and
they laid their hands in hers.
"God be praised," whispered she, scarcely
audibly, "I have found you both--my father
and my son." A deep pallor spread over her
countenance. She was dead.
Two days later, when the body was laid out,
Thomas stood alone in the room. The windows
were covered with white sheets, and a subdued
light fell upon the pale, lifeless countenance.
Death had dealt gently with her, she seemed
younger than before, and her light wavy
hair fell softly over the white forehead. Then
there came a middle-aged man, with a dull eye,
and a broad forehead, and timidly approached
the lonely mourner. He walked on tip-toe and
his figure stooped heavily. For a long while he
stood gazing at the dead body, then he knelt
down at the foot of the coffin, and began to sob
violently. At last he arose, took two steps toward
the young man, paused again, and departed
silently as he had come. It was Halvard.
Close under the wall of the little red-painted
church, they dug the grave; and a week later
her father was laid to rest at his daughter's side.
But the fresh winds blew over the Atlantic
and beckoned the son to new fields of labor in
the great land of the future.
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