strange impulses, seemed unable to distinguish clearly between dream
and reality, and was possessed by a desire to make changes in everything
that was under her care, both at home and in their house in town. The
people who rented part of the latter had to move. She wished to have the
house to herself.

Much of her husband's time was occupied in carrying out her plans, more
in watching over herself. His gratitude did not find much expression in
words; it was to be read in his eyes, in his increased reverence of
manner, and above all in his tender care. He was afraid of losing what
had come to him so unexpectedly, or of something giving way. His
humility led him to feel that his happiness was undeserved.

Marit clung to him closer than ever. Two expressions she never tired of
repeating: "You are my father--and more!" and: "You have the most
beautiful eyes in the world; and they are mine." Gradually she gave up
many of her wonted occupations. In place of them she took to reading
aloud to him. From her childhood she had been accustomed to read to her
father; this practice was to be begun again. She read American
literature, chiefly poetry--read it in the chanting style in which
English verse is recited, and carried conviction by her own sincerity.
Her voice was soft; it took hold of the words gently, repeated them
quietly, as if from memory.

Then came the time when they went every day together to the hot-house.
The flowers there were the harbingers of what was growing within her;
she wished to see them every day. "I wonder if they are talking about
it," she said.

And one day, when winter had given the first sign of departure from the
coast, when they two had gathered the first green leaves in the border
beneath the sunny wall, she fell ill and knew that the great hour had
come. Without excessive previous suffering, and with her hand in his,
she bore a daughter. This had been her wish. But it was not her lot to
bring up her child; for three days later she herself was dead.

THE NEW MARIT

The doctor long feared that Krog, too, would die--of pure over-exertion.
During his long solitude he had been unaccustomed to give as much of
himself, or to receive as much, as life with Marit demanded and gave.
Not until she died did it become apparent how weak he was, how little
power of resistance was left him. It took months to restore the feeble
remnant so far that he could again bear to have people about him. They
to