and her
heart was as light as in the days of her early youth. But her bodily
strength had given out, and her limbs almost refused to support her. The
strain upon her nerves and the constant effort had hitherto enabled
her to keep up, but now, when that strain was removed, exhausted nature
claimed its right. The next day--she could not leave her bed, and
with every hour her strength failed. A physician was sent for. He gave
medicine, but no hope. He shook his head gravely, as he went, and both
mother and son knew what that meant.

Toward evening, Bjarne Blakstad was summoned, and came at once. Thomas
left the room, as the old man entered, and what passed in that hour
between father and daughter, only God knows. When the door was again
opened, Brita's eyes shone with a strange brilliancy, and Bjarne lay on
his knees before the bed, pressing her hand convulsively between both of
his.

"This is my son, father," said she, in a language which her son did not
understand; and a faint smile of motherly pride and happiness flitted
over her pale features. "I would give him to thee in return for what
thou hast lost; but God has laid his future in another land."

Bjarne rose, grasped his grandson's hand, and pressed it; and two heavy
tears ran down his furrowed cheeks. "Alas," murmured he, "my son, that
we should meet thus."

There they stood, bound together by the bonds of blood, but, alas, there
lay a world between them.

All night they sat together at the dying woman's bedside. Not a word
was spoken. Toward morning, as the sun stole into the darkened chamber,
Brita murmured their names, and they laid their hands in hers.

"God be praised," whispered she, scarcely audibly, "I have found you
both--my father and my son." A deep pallor spread over her countenance.
She was dead.

Two days later, when the body was laid out, Thomas stood alone in the
room. The windows were covered with white sheets, and a subdued light
fell upon the pale, lifeless countenance. Death had dealt gently with
her, she seemed younger than before, and her light wavy hair fell softly
over the white forehead. Then there came a middle-aged man, with a dull
eye, and a broad forehead, and timidly approached the lonely mourner.
He walked on tip-toe and his figure stooped heavily. For a long while
he stood gazing at the dead body, then he knelt down at the foot of the
coffin, and began to sob violently. At last he arose, took two steps
toward the young man,