understood that it was not for
him alone the tears had been shed; they told also of sympathy with her,
and of remorse. Had it not been so, Uncle Klaus would have stayed beside
the coffin.

The sweet-toned chapel bell began to toll. The dog, which had been kept
prisoner in Mary's room all day, and was very restless, rushed to the
window towards the sea, and put his fore-paws up on the sill, to look
out. Mary followed him.

At that moment Uncle Klaus drove off. The singing of a psalm began in
the rooms below, and the funeral procession issued from the house. The
coffins were carried by the peasants from the neighbouring farms. When
the first came in sight, Mary fell on her knees and wept as if her heart
would break. She saw no more.

She flung herself across the bed. The strokes of the bell seemed to cut
into her flesh; she imagined that she felt the stripes they raised. Her
mind became more and more confused. She was certain now that her father,
when he caught sight of her in the doorway, had guessed the truth, and
that this had killed him. Mrs. Dawes had followed him, as she always
did. Her love for Anders Krog was the one great love of her life. They
were both here now. And Mary's mother, too, was in the room, in a long
white robe. "You are cold, child!" she said, and took her into her
arms--for Mary had become a child again, a little innocent child. She
fell asleep.

When she awoke and heard no sound, outside the house or in, she folded
her hands and said, half aloud: "This was best for us, for all three. We
have been mercifully dealt with."

She looked round for the dog; she craved for sympathy. But some one must
have taken him away whilst she was asleep.

No more was needed to make the tears flow again. Welling forth from the
inexhaustible fountain of grief within, they poured down her cheeks and
over the hands with which she was supporting her heavy head.

"Now I can begin to think of myself again. I am alone now."

THE CRISIS

When Mary was visiting the graves next day, her grief was distracted by
the following little occurrence.

It was Saturday, and the eve of one of the few Sundays in the year when
service was held in the chapel. On such occasions it was customary to
decorate the graves. As the farm to the right of Krogskogen had once
formed part of that estate, its owners had their burial-place here. The
peasant's wife had come with flowers to deck a new grave, and the old
Lapland dog was