ld him that the child had been taken to his sister's. They asked him
if he would like to see it. He turned away almost angrily. The first
thing that seriously occupied his thoughts when he grew stronger was the
disposal of his business. About this he consulted with a relation, a
cross-grained bachelor, generally known as "Uncle Klaus." Through him
the business was sold; but not the house in which it was carried on;
this was to remain exactly as it was, in remembrance of Marit.

Anders Krog's first walk was down to the chapel and the grave; and this
told upon him so terribly that he became ill again. As soon as he
recovered, he announced that it was his intention to go abroad and to
remain abroad. His sister came to him in alarm: "This cannot be true.
You surely do not mean to leave us and your child?"

"Yes," answered he, bursting into tears; "I cannot bear to live in these
rooms."

"But you will at least see the child before you go!"

"No! no! Anything rather than that!"

And he left without seeing her.

But it was, naturally, the child that drew him home again. When she was
about three years old she was photographed, and that photograph was
irresistible. Such a likeness to her mother, such childlike charm, he
could not stay away from. From Constantinople, where he received it, he
wrote: "It has taken me nearly three years to go through again the
experiences of one. I cannot say that I am in complete possession of
them all yet. Many more are certain to recur to me when I see the places
again where we were together. But the deeper life and thoughts of these
three years have at least taught me no longer to dread these places. On
the contrary, I am longing to see them."

The meeting with the new Marit was a joy. Not at once, for she naturally
began by being afraid of the strange man with the large eyes. But this
made the joy all the greater when she gradually, cautiously, approached
him. And when she at last sat upon his knee with her two new dolls, a
Turkish man and woman, and shoved them up against his nose to make him
sneeze, because "auntie" had sneezed, he said, with tears in his eyes:
"I have had only one meeting that was sweeter."

She came, with her nurse, to live with him. Their first walk together
was to her mother's grave, on which he wished her to lay flowers. She
did it, but was determined to take them away with her again. All their
efforts were in vain. The nurse at last picked others for her; but th