oman, whose husband
had influenced her in everything; he had been her pride, her light,
and when she lost him, the object of her life was gone; she became
absorbed in religion; but, as she was not dictatorial, she allowed her
only child--who much resembled her father--to follow her own
inclinations. The mother associated with no one except an elder
sister, who owned a large farm near the town, but Ella was allowed to
bring in her companions from school, boating, skating, and
snow-shoeing; this, however, made no difference, for there was an
instinctive prudence in her choice of friends; her liveliness was
tempered by her mother's society and the quietness of the house. So
that she was active and expeditious without being noisy, frank enough,
but with self-command and heedfulness.

All the more strange, then, was an incident which occurred when she
was between fourteen and fifteen. She had gone with a few friends to a
concert which the Choral Society of the town, and one or two amateurs,
were giving in aid of the Christmas charities. At this concert, Aksel
Aaroe sang Moehring's "Sleep in Peace." As every one knows, a subdued
chorus carries the song forward; a flood of moonlight seemed to
envelop it, and through it swept Aksel Aaroe's voice. His voice was a
clear, full, deep baritone, from which every one derived great
pleasure. He could have drawn it out, without break or flaw, from
here to Vienna. But within this voice Ella heard another, a
simultaneous sound of weakness or pain, which she never doubted that
everybody could hear. There was an emotion in its depths, an affecting
confidence, which went to her heart; it seemed to say, "Sorrow, sorrow
is the portion of my life; I cannot help myself, I am lost." Before
she herself knew it, she was weeping bitterly. Anything more
impressive than this voice she had never experienced. With every note
her agitation increased, and she lost all control over herself.

Aaroe was of moderate height, and slender, with a fair, silky beard,
which hung down over his chest; his head was small, his eyes large and
melancholy, with something in their depths which, like the voice,
seemed to say "Sorrow, sorrow." This melancholy in the eyes she had
noticed before, but had not fully understood it until now, when she
heard his voice. Her tears would flow. But this would not do. She
glanced quickly round; no one else was crying. She set her teeth, she
pressed her arms against her sides, and her