of the flowers planted around
her mother's grave, the beautiful Norwegian informed me, while engaged
in her affectionate office, that, her mother survived the intelligence
of her husband's death but a short time; and on her death-bed, committed
Gunilda to the care of an old friend.

Mid-day came, and brought with it the sultriness and cheerful brightness
of a Norwegian summer's day. Through the fir-trees I could see the
waters of the Fiord sparkling, like liquid silver, in the glare of noon;
and far away, the clouds, like pieces of white wool, resting half-way up
the mountains. Gunilda, perceiving my pensive mood, observed,

"To-morrow, sir, at this hour, I shall not see you; and, I dare say, you
will almost have forgotten the Norwegian peasant girl."

"If there be any grief that pains me," I replied, "it is the one,
because it is fruitless, which reminds me how faithfully and long I
shall remember you and to-day."

"Take me with you to England," she exclaimed, "I will ever serve you
diligently, like a menial."

"To take you hence," I replied, "is only to lead you to destruction. A
flower so delicate in its texture, will not bear transplanting, or lack
of tenderness; and I would not see it droop and fade for all the
gratification I may derive from its presence and sweet perfume."

"What the heart desires, the body can endure," she answered in an
earnest tone. "My grief will be bitterer in your absence than all the
tortures which may attend me when I am near you. Let me go with you,"
and she seized my hand, and clung to it with affectionate tenacity.

"It is impossible," I answered. "In a short time after I am gone, you
will think of me no longer, and selecting from your countrymen one whose
feelings may sympathise with your own, you will pass your days in
happiness, and go to your grave in peace."

The young girl rose to her feet, for she had hitherto sat on the ground,
or retained a kneeling position; and taking the ring, I have casually
alluded to, from her finger, she said in her native tongue;

"The great and the humble, the rich and poor, feel alike, for God has
made no distinction between the peasant girl's deep affections and those
of a queen. My father's name and family will end with me, but let my
memory live with you."

She placed the ring upon my finger. She wept not, and not a sigh escaped
her; but her whole frame trembled with excess of feeling.

"You think," I exclaimed, "that I reverence not