n sigh as the wind does amidst the sedges
and the rushes--Oh! No church bell tolled at _thy_ death, Waldemar
Daae! No charity-school children sang over his grave when the former
lord of Borreby was laid in the cold earth! Oh, all shall come to an
end, even misery! Sister Ide became a peasant's wife. That was the
hardest trial to her poor father. His daughter's husband a lowly serf,
who could be obliged by his master to perform the meanest tasks! He,
too, is now under the sod, and thou art there with him, unhappy Ide! O
yes--O yes! it was not all over, even then; for I am left a poor, old,
helpless creature. Blessed Christ! take me hence!'

"Such was Anna Dorthea's prayer in the ruined castle, where she was
permitted to live--thanks to the storks.

"The boldest of the sisters I disposed of," said the wind. "She
dressed herself in men's clothes, went on board a ship as a poor boy,
and hired herself as a sailor. She spoke very little, and looked very
cross, but was willing to work. She was a bad hand at climbing,
however; so I blew her overboard before any one had found out that she
was a female; and I think that was very well done on my part," said
the wind.

* * * * *

"It was one Easter morning, the anniversary of the very day on which
Waldemar Daae had fancied that he had found out the secret of making
gold, that I heard under the storks' nests, from amidst the crumbling
walls, a psalm tune--it was Anna Dorthea's last song.

"There was no window. There was only a hole in the wall. The sun came
like a mass of gold, and placed itself there. It shone in brightly.
Her eyes closed--her heart broke! They would have done so all the
same, had the sun not that morning blazed in upon her.

"The storks had provided a roof over her head until her death.

"I sang over her grave," said the wind; "I had also sung over her
father's grave, for I knew where it was, and none else did.

"New times came--new generations. The old highway had disappeared in
inclosed fields. Even the tombs, that were fenced around, have been
converted into a new road; and the railway's steaming engine, with its
lines of carriages, dashes over the graves, which are as much
forgotten as the names of those who moulder into dust in them!
Wheugh--wheugh!

"This is the history of Waldemar Daae and his daughters. Let any one
relate it better who can," said the wind, turning round.

And he was gone!

_The Girl who Tr