oki--I don't know if you've heard of the
place."

"I have been there, years ago," said the old man in a kindlier tone,
taking a step towards him. "And what's the name of your place there?"
he asked.

"Koskela."

"Koskela? That's a big place."

"Why, 'tis big enough," said Olof.

"And why didn't you say that before--when you were here last?" said
the old man sharply. "'Twould have been better for both if you had."

Olof flushed slightly. "I never thought to take a wife but in my own
name," he answered--"for myself, and what I might be worth by myself."

"Yes, that's your way," said the old man, scanning him critically. "I
see it now."

He glanced out of the window and seemed to catch sight of something.
"Don't mind what's past," he said kindly. "There's the horses
coming from the smith's. I must look to them a minute. I'll be back
again...." And he strode out.

The two that remained felt as if the calm of a bright Sunday morning
filled the room after a stormy night. Blushingly the girl hurried
across to her lover, who came towards her; she flung her arms round
his neck, and whispered:

"Olof, I have never really known you until now!"

"And I," he answered, "have never known you till to-day."

THE BROKEN STRING

The dark of an autumn evening was abroad. It marched along the roads,
stole over the meadows, and sat brooding in the forest; the shimmering
waterways marked its track.

But at Moisio all the homestead was ablaze with light; every window
shed its bright stream into the night, as if from a single fire
within.

And from within came a constant sound of many voices, as of men
sitting round the hearth relating manifold adventures. Outside, all
round the house, were voices too, loud and low, soft and harsh, with
an undertone of whispering in corners, and footsteps moving here and
there. All that there was of life and light and sound in Kohiseva
seemed gathered this night at Moisio.

The fiddler played his hardest, the floor creaked, and the walls
quivered to the tramp of many feet; a stream of figures passed
continuously before the windows.

The wedding had taken place that afternoon. Then came feasting and
dancing--and the guests were dancing still, though it was close on
midnight.

The bridegroom was a fine upstanding fellow, and the bride a worthy
mate--as stately a pair as any had seen. All the neighbourhood agreed
in this--and all had seen the couple, though not all had been bidden