rchiefs. "There he is!"

Olof walks up with easy steps, but the blood is streaming down
his face. The first to meet him is a girl, her face pale, her body
trembling with emotion. She is standing by herself--the others are
still far off.

Olof stops and hesitates--shall he go to meet her, or turn off? The
girl casts down her eyes. He draws nearer--she looks up, and gives him
one deep, warm glance, and looks down again--her cheeks flushed.

Olof's face lights up, and he lifts his hat as he passes. Then the
crowd surges round him with shouts of applause.

"Bravo! Well done! Here's the man that's beaten Kohiseva! Who's the
best man now?"

Vantti steps forward and lays a hand on his shoulder. "Well done,
lad! 'Tis plain to see you're not born to be drowned." And the sturdy
fellow laughs till his great boots shake.

"You've made a name for yourself to-day," says Falk.

"'Olof' was a bit short, maybe...."

"Aha-a-a!"

"So now they'll call you Kohiseva--and a good name too!"

"'Tis as good as another," said Olof, with a laugh. "And longer,
anyway."

"And now we'll go down to the mill and see about drinks all round.
Twice round, it ought to be--'twas worth it!"

* * * * *

When Olof came home that evening, a girl sat anxiously waiting at
Moisio.

A bright rose was stuck between the palings of the fence beside the
road. Olof sprang across the ditch--the girl drew her head back behind
the curtain.

He fastened the rose in his coat. With a grateful glance he searched
the garden, up towards the house, but no one was to be seen.

In the safe shelter of her room a girl sat bowed over the table with
her face hidden in her arms, crying softly.

THE SONG OF THE BLOOD-RED FLOWER

"Why are you so sad this evening, Olof?" asked the girl.

"Sad?" he repeated, almost to himself, staring absently before him.
"Yes--I wish I knew."

"But how--when it is yourself--don't you know?"

"No--that's the strange thing about it. I don't know."

There was a pause.

"I won't ask you if you don't like it," she said, after a while. "But
if I were sad, and had a friend, I should want to."

"And make your friend sad too--by telling things no friend could
understand?"

"Perhaps a friend might try."

But Olof seemed not to have heard. He leaned back, and his glance
wandered vaguely.

"Life is very strange," he said dreamily. "Isn't it strange to have
cared very much for a thing--and the