she could hear
her own foot fall on the sand. The very sea seemed slumbering; the
waves rolled lazily and noiselessly on the shore, and away on the open
deep there seemed to be a dead calm: not a line of foam, not a ripple
was visible on the water. All were quiet beneath, the living and the
dead.

Anne Lisbeth walked on, and her thoughts were not engrossed by
anything in particular. She was not at all lost in thought, but
thoughts were not lost to her. They are never lost to us; they lie
only in a state of torpor, as it were, both the lately active thoughts
that have lulled themselves to rest, and those which have not yet
awoke. But thoughts come often undesired; they can touch the heart,
they can distract the head, they can at times overpower us.

"Good actions have their reward," it is written.

"The wages of sin is death," it is also written. Much is written--much
is said. But many give no heed to the words of truth--they remember
them not; and so it was with Anne Lisbeth; but they can force
themselves upon the mind.

All sins and all virtues lie in our hearts--in thine, in mine. They
lie like small invisible seeds. From without fall upon them a sunbeam,
or the contact of an evil hand--they take their bent in their hidden
nook, to the right or to the left. Yes, there it is decided, and the
little grain of seed quivers, swells, springs up, and pours its juice
into your blood, and there you are, fairly launched. These are
thoughts fraught with anxiety; they do not haunt one when one is in a
state of mental slumber, but they are fermenting. Anne Lisbeth was
slumbering--hidden thoughts were fermenting. From Candlemas to
Candlemas the heart has much on its tablets--it has the year's
account. Much is forgotten--sins in word and deed against God, against
our neighbour, and against our own consciences. We reflect little upon
all this; neither did Anne Lisbeth. She had not broken the laws of her
country, she kept up good appearances, she did not run in debt, she
wronged no one; and so, well satisfied with herself, she walked on by
the seashore. What was that lying in her path? She stopped. What was
that washed up from the sea? A man's old hat lay there. It might have
fallen overboard. She approached closer to it, stood still, and looked
at it. Heavens! what was lying there? She was almost frightened; but
there was nothing to be frightened at; it was only a mass of seaweed
that lay twined over a large, oblong, flat rock,