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Petrea listened with a strongly beating heart; the rustling came nearer
and nearer; for one moment she thought of concealing herself on the
opposite side of the way, but in the next she boldly demanded "Who is
there?"

All was still. Petrea strained her eyes to discover some one in the
direction of the sound, but in vain: the wood was thick, and it had
become quite dark. Once again, exclaimed Petrea, "If any one be there
let him come to the help of unfortunate travellers!"

Even the heart of robbers, thought she, would be mollified by
confidence; and prayers for help might remove thoughts of murder. The
rustling in the wood began afresh, and now were heard the voices
of--children. An indescribable sensation of joy went through Petrea's
heart. A whole army, with Napoleon at their head, could not at this
moment have given that feeling of security and protection which came
from those children's voices; and soon came issuing from the wood two
little barefooted human creatures, a boy and a girl, who stared on
Petrea with astonishment. She quickly made herself acquainted with them,
and they promised to conduct her to the cottage, which lay at a little
distance. On their way they gave Petrea bilberries out of their full
birch-wood measure, and related to her that the reason of their being
out so late was, that they had been looking for the cow which was lost
in the wood; that they should have driven her home, but had not been
able to find her; which greatly troubled the little ten-years-old girl,
because, she said, the sick lady could not have any milk that evening.

Whilst Petrea, led by her little guardian-angels, wandered through the
wood, we will make a little flight, and relate what had occurred there a
few days before.

A few days before, a travelling-car drove along this road, in which sate
a lady and a little girl. As they came within sight of a small cottage,
which with its blossoming potato-field looked friendly in the wood, the
lady said to the peasant boy who drove, "I cannot go farther! Stop! I
must rest!" She dismounted, and crawled with his help to the cottage,
and besought the old woman, whom she found there, for a glass of water,
and permission to rest upon the bed for a moment. The voice which prayed
for this was almost inaudible, and the countenance deathly pale. The
little girl sobbed and cried bitterly. Scarcely had the poor invalid
laid herself upon the humble and hardly clean bed, when she fell into a
deep stupor, from which she did not revive for three hours.

On her return to consciousness she found that the peasant had taken her
things into the cottage; taken his horse out of the car, and left her.
The invalid made several ineffectual attempts during three days to leave
the bed, but scarcely had she taken a few steps when she sunk back upon
it; her lips trembled, and bitter tears flowed over her pale cheeks. The
fourth day she lay quite still; but in the afternoon besought the old
woman to procure her an honest and safe person, who, for a suitable sum,
would conduct the little girl to a place which would be made known to
him by a letter that would be given with her. The old woman proposed her
brother's son as a good man, and one to be relied on for this purpose,
and promised in compliance with the prayer of the sick woman to seek him
out that same day and speak with him; but as he lived at a considerable
distance she feared that she should only be able to return late in the
evening. After she was gone, the invalid took paper and a lead pencil,
and with a weak and trembling hand wrote as follows:

"I cannot arrive--I feel it! I sink before I reach the haven. Oh,
foster-parents, good sisters, have mercy on my little one, my
child, who knocks at your door, and will deliver to you my humble,
my last prayer! Give to her a warm home, when I am resting in my
cold one! See, how good she looks! Look at her young countenance,
and see that she is acquainted with want--she is not like her
mother! I fancy her mild features resemble hers whose name she
bears, and whose angelic image never has left my soul.

"Foster-mother, foster-father! good sisters! I had much to say,
but can say only a little! Forgive me! Forgive me the grief which
I have occasioned you! Greatly have I erred, but greatly also have
I suffered. A wanderer have I been on the earth, and have had
nowhere a home since I left your blessed roof! My way has been
through the desert; a burning simoom has scorched, has consumed my
cheek----

"About to leave the world in which I have erred so greatly and
suffered so much, I call now for your blessing. Oh, let me tell
you that that Sara, which you once called daughter and sister, is
yet not wholly unworthy! She is sunk deep, but she has endeavoured
to raise herself; and your forms, like good angels, have floated
around the path of her improvement.

"It will do your noble hearts good to know that she dies now
repentant, but hopeful--she has fixed her humble hope upon the
Father of Mercy.

"The hand of mercy cherished on earth the days of my
childhood--later, it has lifted my dying head, and has poured into
my heart a new and a better life; it has conducted me to hope in
the mercy of heaven. Foster-father, thou who wast His image to me
on earth, thou whom I loved much--gentle foster-mother, whose
voice perhaps could yet call forth life in this cold breast--have
mercy on my child--call it your child! and thanks and blessings be
upon you!

"It never was my intention to come, as a burden, into your house.
No; I wished only to conduct my child to your door--to see it open
to her, and then to go forth--go forth quietly and die. But I
shall not reach so far! God guide the fatherless and the
motherless to you!

"And now farewell! I can write no more--it becomes dark before my
eyes. I write these last words upon my knees. Parents, sisters,
take my child to you! May it make you some time forget the errors
of its mother! Pardon all my faults! I complain of no one.

"God reward you, and be merciful to me!

"Sara."

Sara folded her letter hastily, sealed it and directed it, and then,
enfeebled by the exertion, sank down beside her sleeping child, kissed
her softly, and whispered, "for the last time!" Her feet and hands were
like ice; she felt this icy coldness run through all her veins, and
diffuse itself over her whole body; her limbs stiffened; and it seemed
to her as if a cold wind blew into her face.

"It is death!" thought Sara; "my death-bed is lonesome and miserable;
yet--I have deserved no better." Her consciousness became ever darker;
but in the depths of her soul combated still the last, perhaps the
noblest powers of life--suffering and prayer. At length they too also
became benumbed, but not for long, for new impressions waked suddenly
the slumbering life.

It appeared to Sara as if angel voices had spoken and repeated her name,
tender hands had rubbed her stiffened limbs with electrical fire; her
feet were pressed to a bosom that beat strongly; hot drops fell upon
them, and thawed the icy coldness. She felt a heart throbbing against
hers, and the wind of death upon her face vanished before warm summer
breath, kisses, tears. Oh! was it a dream? But the dream became ever
more living and clear. Life, loving, affectionate, warm life, contended
with death, and was the victor! "Sara, Sara!" cried a voice full of love
and anxiety, and Sara opened her eyes, and said, "Oh! Petrea, is it
you?"

Yes, indeed, it was our poor Petrea, whose distress at Sara's condition,
and whose joy over her now returning life, can neither of them be
described. Sara took Petrea's hand, and conveyed it to her lips, and the
humility of this action, so unlike the former Sara, penetrated Petrea's
heart.

"Give me something to drink," prayed Sara, with a feeble voice. Petrea
looked around for some refreshing liquid, but there was nothing to be
found in the cottage excepting a jug containing a little muddy water;
not a drop of milk, and the cow was lost in the wood! Petrea would have
given her heart's blood for a few drops of wine, for she saw that Sara
was ready to die from feebleness. And now, with feelings which are not
to be told, must she give Sara to drink from the muddy water, in which,
however, to make it more refreshing, she bruised some bilberries. Sara
thanked her for it as if it had been nectar.

"Is there anywhere in this neighbourhood a place where one can meet with
people, and obtain the means of life?" asked Petrea from her little
guide.

The little guide knew of none excepting in the village, and in the
public-house there they could obtain everything, "whatever they wished,"
said the child; to be sure it was a good way there, but she knew a
footpath through the wood by which they might soon reach it.

Petrea did not stop thinking for a moment; and after she had encouraged
Sara to courage and hope, she set out most speedily with the little
nimble maiden on the way to the village.

The girl went first: her white head-kerchief guided Petrea through the
duskiness of the wood. But the footway which the girl trod so lightly
and securely, was an actual way of trial for Petrea. Now and then
fragments of her clothes were left hanging on the thick bushes; now a
branch which shot outwards seized her bonnet and struck it flat; now she
went stumbling over tree-roots and stones, which, on account of the
darkness and the speed of her flight, she could not avoid; and now bats
flew into her face. In vain did the wood now elevate itself more
majestically than ever around her; in vain, did the stars kindle their
lights, and send their beams into the deep gullies of the wood; in vain
sang the waterfalls in the quiet evening as they fell from the rocks.
Petrea had now no thought for the beauty of nature; and the lights which
sparkled from the village were to her a more welcome sight than all the
suns and stars in the firmament.

More lights than common streamed in pale beams through the misty windows
of the public-house as Petrea came up to it. All was fermentation within
it as in a bee-hive; violins were playing; the _polska_ was being
danced; women's gowns swung round, sweeping the walls; iron-heeled shoes
beat upon the floor; and the dust flew up to the ceiling. After Petrea
had sought in vain for somebody outside the dancing-room, she was
compelled to go in, and then she saw instantly that there was a wedding.
The gilded crown on the head of the bride wavered and trembled amid the
attacks and the defence of the contending parties, for it was precisely
the hot moment of the Swedish peasant wedding, in which, as it is said,
the crown is danced off the head of the bride. The married women were
endeavouring to vanquish and take captive the bride, whilst the girls
were, on their part, doing their utmost to defend and hold her back. In
the other half of the great room, however, all went on more noisily and
more violently still, for there the married men strove to dance the
bridegroom from the unmarried ones, and they pulled and tore and pushed
unmercifully, amid shouts and laughter, whilst the _polska_ went on its
whirling measure.

It would be almost at the peril of her life that a delicate lady should
enter into such a tumult; but Petrea feared in this moment no other
danger than that of not being able to make herself heard in this wild
uproar. She called and demanded to speak with the host; but her voice
was perfectly swallowed up in the universal din. She then quickly turned
herself, amid the contending and round-about-swinging groups to the two
musicians, who were scraping upon their fiddles with a sort of frenzy,
and beating time with their feet. Petrea caught hold of one of them by
the arm, and prayed him in God's name to leave off for a moment, for
that her business was of life and death. But they paid not the slightest
attention to her; they heard not what she said; they played, and the
others danced with fury.

"That is very mad!" thought Petrea, "but I will be madder still!" and so
thinking, she threw down, upon the musicians, a table which stood near
them covered with bottles and glasses. With this crash the music was
suddenly still. The pause in the music astonished the dancers; they
looked around them. Petrea took advantage of this moment, went into the
crowd and called for the host. The host, who was celebrating his
daughter's wedding, came forward; he was a fat, somewhat pursy man, who
evidently had taken a glass too much.

Petrea related summarily that which had happened; prayed for people to
assist at the carriage, and for some wine and fine bread for an invalid.
She spoke with warmth and determination; but nevertheless the host
demurred, and the crowd, half intoxicated with drink and dancing,
regarded her with a distrustful look, and Petrea heard it whispered
around her--"The mad lady!" "It is the mad lady!" "No, no, it is not
she!" "Yes, it is she!"

And we must confess that Petrea's excited appearance, and the condition
of her toilet after the fatigues of her wandering, gave some occasion
for her being taken for a little crazy; this, and the circumstance of
her being mistaken for another person, may explain the disinclination to
afford her assistance, which otherwise does not belong to the character
of the Swedish peasantry.

Again Petrea exhorted host and peasant to contribute their help, and
promised befitting reward.

The host set himself now in a commanding attitude, cleared his throat,
and spoke with a self-satisfied air.

"Yes, yes," said he, "that's all right-good and handsome, but I should
like to see something of this befitting reward before I put myself out
of the way about overturned carriages. In the end, maybe, one shall find
neither one nor the other. One cannot believe everything that people
say!"

Petrea recollected with uneasiness that she had no money with her; she,
however, let nothing of that be seen, but replied calmly and
collectedly, "You shall receive money when you come to the carriage. But
for heaven's sake, follow me immediately; every moment's delay may cost
a life!"

The men looked undecidedly one on another; but no one stirred from the
place; a dull murmur ran through the crowd. Almost in despair, Petrea
clasped her hands together and exclaimed, whilst tears streamed from her
eyes, "Are you Christians, and yet can hear that fellow-creatures are in
danger without hastening to help them."

She mentioned the name and office of her father, and then went from
prayers to threats.

Whilst all this was going on in the house, something was going on at the
door, of which, in all speed, we will give a glimpse.

There drew up at the inn-door a travelling-calash, accompanied by a
small Holstein carriage in which sate four boys, the eldest of whom,
probably ten years of age, and who, evidently greatly to his
satisfaction, had managed with his own hands a pair of thin travelling
horses. From the coach-box of the calash sprang nimbly a somewhat stout,
jovial-looking gentleman, and out of the carriage came, one after
another, other four little boys, with so many packets and bundles as was
perfectly wonderful; among all these moved a rather thin lady of a good
and gay appearance, who took with her own hands all the things out of
the carriage, and gave them into the care of a maid and the eldest of
the eight boys; the youngest sate in the arms of his father.

"Can you yet hold something, Jacob?" asked the lady from one of the
boys, who stood there loaded up to the very chin. "Yes, with my nose,"
replied he, merrily; "nay, nay, mamma dear, not the whole
provision-basket--that's quite impossible!"

The mother laughed, and instead of the provision-basket, two or three
books were put under the protection of the little nose.

"Take care of the bottles, young ones!" exhorted the mother, "and count
them exactly; there should be ten of them. Adam, don't stand there with
your mouth open, but hold fast, and think about what you have in your
hand, and what you are doing! Take good care of the bottle of mamma's
elixir. What a noise is there within! Does nobody come out? Come here my
young ones! Adam, look after David! Jonathan, stand here! Jacob,
Solomon, where are you? Shem and Seth, keep quiet!"

This was the moment when, by the opening of the door of the
dancing-room, they became aware of the arrival of the travellers, and
when the host hastened out to receive them. Many followed him, and among
the rest Petrea, who quickly interrupted her address to the peasants, in
order, through the interposition of the travellers, as she hoped, to
obtain speedier help.

"Good gentlefolks," cried she, in a voice which showed her agitation of
mind; "I know not, it is true, who you are" (and the darkness prevented
her from seeing it), "but I hope you are Christians, and I beseech of
you, for heaven's sake----"

"Whose voice is that?" interrupted a cheerful, well-toned, manly voice.

"Who speaks?" exclaimed Petrea in astonishment.

A few words were exchanged, and suddenly the names "Petrea! Jacobi!
Louise!" flew exultantly from the lips of the three, and they locked one
another in a heartfelt and affectionate embrace.

"Aunt Petrea! Aunt Petrea!" cried the eight boys in jubilation, and
hopped around her.

Petrea wept for joy that she had not alone met with good Christians, but
had hit upon her most Christian brother-in-law and court-preacher, and
upon "our eldest," who, with her hopeful offspring, "the Berserkers,"
were upon their journey to the paternal house and the new parsonage.

A few minutes afterwards the carriage, containing Petrea, Louise, and
Jacobi, accompanied by peasants on horseback, drove away at full gallop
into the wood, into whose gullies, as well as into Petrea's imploring
eyes, the half-moon, which now ascended, poured its comfortable light.

We leave Petrea now with her relatives, who, on their homeward journey,
fell in with her at the right moment to save her from a situation in the
highest degree painful. We are perfectly sure that the Assessor received
speedy assistance; that Sara was regaled with wine as well as with
Louise's elixir; that Petrea's heart was comforted, and her toilet
brought into order; and in confirmation of this our assurance we will
quote the following lines from a letter of Louise, which on the next day
was sent off home.

"I am quite convinced that Sara, with careful attention, befitting diet,
and above all, by being surrounded with kindness, may be called back to
life and health. But for the present she is so weak that it is
impossible to think of her travelling under several days. And in any
case, I doubt if she will come with us, unless my father come to fetch
her. She says that she will not be a burden to our family. Ah! now it is
a pleasure to open house and heart to her. She is so changed! And her
child is--a little angel! For the Assessor it might be necessary, on
account of his leg, that he go to the city; but he will not leave Sara,
who requires his help so greatly (his servant is out of all danger).
Petrea, spite of all fatigues and adventures, is quite superb. She and
Jacobi enliven us all. As things now stand we cannot fix decidedly the
day of our arrival; but if Sara continue to improve, as appearances
promise, Jacobi sets out to-morrow with the children to you. It is so
dear with them all here in the public-house. God grant that we may all
soon meet again in our beloved home!"

An hour after the receipt of this letter the Judge set off with such
haste as if his life were concerned. He journeyed from home to the
forest-village; we, on the contrary, reverse the journey, and betake
ourselves from the public-house to----

FOOTNOTES:

[21] A Day-book (Dagbok) is kept at every inn in Sweden. The name of
every traveller who takes thence horses, and the name of the next town
to which he proceeds, are entered in it; and thus when once on the
trace, nothing could be easier than to discover such a traveller. The
day-book is renewed each month.--M. H.

CHAPTER IV.

THE HOME.

Lilies were blossoming in the house on the beautiful morning of the
twentieth of September. They seemed to shoot up of themselves under
Gabriele's feet. The mother, white herself as a lily, went about softly
in her fine morning-dress, with a cloth in her hand, wiping away from
mirror or table the smallest particle of dust. A higher expression of
joy than common animated her countenance; a fine crimson tinged her
otherwise pale cheeks, and the lips moved themselves involuntarily as if
they would speak loving and joyful words.

Bergstroem adorned ante-room and steps with foliage and splendid flowers,
so that they represented a continuation of garlands along the white
walls; and not a little delighted was he with his own taste, which
Gabriele did not at all omit to praise. But although an unusually great
deal of occupation pervaded the house this morning, still it was
nevertheless unusually quiet; people only spoke in low voices, and when
the least noise was made, the mother said, "Hush! hush!"

The cause of this was, that the lost but again-found child slept in the
house of her parents.

Sara had arrived there the evening before, and we have passed over this
scene, for the great change in her, and her shaken condition, had made
it sorrowful; yet we wish indeed that the feeling reader had seen the
manly tears which flowed down the cheeks of the Judge, as he laid the
found-again daughter on the bosom of her mother. We should like to have
shown him the unfortunate one, as she rested with her hands crossed over
her breast on the snow-white couch, over which the mother herself had
laid the fine coverlet; have shown him how she looked upon the child,
whose bed stood near her own; upon the beloved ones, who full of
affection surrounded her--and then up to heaven, without being able to
utter one word! And how glad should we have been could he have seen the
Jacobian pair this evening in the paternal home, and how there sate
eating around them, Adam and Jacob, the twin brothers Jonathan and
David, ditto Shem and Seth, together with Solomon and little Alfred.
They were well-trained children, and looked particularly well, all
dressed alike in a blouse of dark stuff, over which fell back the white
shirt collar, leaving free the throat with its lively tint of health,
whilst the slender waist was girded with a narrow belt of white leather.
Such was the light troop of "the Berserkers."

But we return to our bright morning hour. Eva and Leonore were in the
garden, and gathered with their own hands some select Astracan apples
and pears, which were to ornament the dinner table. They were still
glittering with dew, and for the last time the sun bathed them with
purple by the song of the bulfinch. The sisters had spoken of Sara; of
the little Elise, whom they would educate; of Jacobi--and their
conversation was cheerful; then they went to other subjects.

"And to-day," said Leonore, "your last answer goes to Colonel R----,
your last, no! And you feel quite satisfied that it should be so?"

"Yes, quite!" returned Eva; "how the heart changes! I cannot now
conceive how I once loved him!"

"It is extraordinary how he should still solicit your hand, and this
after so long a separation. He must have loved you much more than any of
the others to whom he made court."

"I do not think so, but--ah, Leonore! do you see the beautiful apple
there? It is quite bright. Can you reach it? No? Yes, if you climb on
this bough."

"Must I give myself so much trouble?" asked Leonore; "that is indeed
shocking! Well, but I must try, only catch me if I should fall!"

The sisters were here interrupted by Petrea, whose appearance showed
that she had something interesting to communicate.

"See, Eva," said she, giving to her a written piece of paper, "here you
have something for morning-reading. Now you must convince yourself of
something of which till now you would not believe. And I shall call you
a stock, a stone, an automaton without heart and soul, if you do
not--yes, smile! You will not laugh when you have read it. Leonore!
come, dear Leonore, you must read it also, you will give me credit for
being right. Read, sisters, read!"

The sisters read the following remarks, in the handwriting of the
Assessor.

"'Happy is the lonely and the lowly! He may ripen and refresh himself in
peace!' Beautiful words, and what is better, true.

"The foundling has proved their truth. He was sick in mind, heart, and
sick of the world and of himself, but he belonged to the lowly and to
the unnoticed, and so he could be alone; alone, in the fresh, quiet
wood, alone with the Great Physician, who only can heal the deep wounds
of the heart--and it is become better with him.

"Now I begin to understand the Great Physician, and the regimen which he
has prescribed for me. I feared the gangrene selfishness, and would
drink myself free therefrom by the nectar of love; but he said,
'Jeremias, drink not this draught, but that of self-denial--it is more
purifying.'

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