e children. As for "the twins," it was difficult to think of them as
two boys. They were so much alike that their mother could hardly tell
them apart. Indeed, she had a vague idea that she might have changed
them without knowing it many times since they were baptized. How could
she be sure that the one she called Adam was not Enos, and Enos the
true Adam? Of two things she was certain--that she loved them both as
well as a mother ever loved a pair of twins, and that they were worthy
of anybody's unlimited affection. She was proud of them, too. Were
they not known the country round as Jan Persson's splendid twins, and
the fattest boys in the parish? As for "the little boys," they were
much like the Irishman's "little pig who jumped about so among the
others he never could count him." "The little boys" were always to be
found in unexpected and exceptionable places, to the great risk of life
and limb, and the great astonishment of the beholders. To try to ride
on a strange bull-dog or kiss a bear was quite a natural exploit for
them, for they feared neither man nor beast.

As for Karin, she was not a worrying woman, and took the care of her
many children cheerily. She could but do her best, and leave the rest
to God and the holy angels. Those precious protectors had lately
seemed very near to her, since baby Gustaf had gone to live among them.
That all would go right with Nono she did not doubt. When she laid him
down for the night, she clasped his tiny brown hands, and prayed not
only for him, but for his poor mother, wherever she might be, and left
her to the care of the merciful Friend who could give to wild lunatics
full soundness of mind.

CHAPTER III.

ANEHOLM CHURCH.

Sunday had come. Along the public road, where the Italians and the
bear had lately passed, rolled a heavy family carriage, drawn by two
spirited horses. The gray-haired coachman had them well in hand, and
by no means needed the advice or the assistance of the fat little boy
perched at his side, though both were freely proffered. The child was
dressed in deep mourning, but his clothes alone gave any sign of
sorrow. His face gleamed with delight as he was borne along between
green fields, or played bo-peep with the distant cottages, through a
solemn line of spruces or a glad cluster of young birches.

On the comfortable back seat of the carriage was an elderly gentleman,
tall, thin, and stooped, with eyes that saw nothing of e