y are only rarely admired by the eyes
of curious travellers. We set ourselves down in a region whose name and
situation we counsel nobody to seek out in maps, and which we call--

HEIMDAL.

Knowest thou the deep, cool dale,
Where church-like stillness doth prevail;
Where neither flock nor herd you meet;
Which hath no name nor track of feet?

VELHAVEN.

Heimdal, we call a branch of Hallingdal, misplace it in the parish of
Aal, and turn it over to the learned--that they may wonder at our
boldness. Like its mother valley it possesses no historical memories. Of
the old kings of Hallingdal one knows but very little. Only a few
monumental stones, a few burial-mounds, give a dim intelligence of the
mighty who have been. It is true that a people dwelt here, who from
untold ages were renowned as well for their simplicity and their
contentedness under severe circumstances as for their wild
contest-loving disposition; but still, in quiet as in unquiet, built and
dwelt, lived and died here, without tumult and without glory, among the
ancient mountains and the pine-woods, unobserved by the rest of the
world.

One river, the son of Hallen-Jokul, flows through Heimdal. Foaming with
wild rage it comes through the narrow mountain-pass down into the
valley, finds there a freer field, becomes calm, and flows clear as a
mirror between green shores, till its banks become again compressed
together by granite mountains. Then is it again seized upon by disquiet,
and rushes thence in wild curves till it flings itself into the great
Hallingdal river, and there dies.

Exactly there, where the stream spreads itself out in the extended
valley, lies a large estate. A well-built, but somewhat decayed,
dwelling-house of wood stretches out its arms into the depths of the
valley. Thence may be seen a beautiful prospect, far, far into the blue
distance. Hills overgrown with, wood stretch upward from the river, and
cottages surrounded with inclosed fields and beautiful grassy paths, lie
scattered at the foot of the hills. On the other side of the river, a
mile-and-half from the Grange, a chapel raises its peaceful tower.
Beyond this the valley gradually contracts itself.

On a cool September evening, strangers arrived at the Grange, which had
now been long uninhabited. It was an elderly lady, of a noble but
gloomy exterior, in deep mourning. A young, blooming maiden accompanied
her. They were received by a young man, who was ca