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The daughters approached to ripened youth. The parents evidently wished
them married; they wished it likewise, which was only natural,
especially as at home they were not happy; and it must be confessed that
neither did they themselves do much to make it pleasant there. They were
peevish and discontented--no one knew exactly what to do or what she
wanted; they groped about as if in a mist.

It is customary to hear unmarried ladies say that they are satisfied
with their condition, and do not desire to change it. In this pretension
there lies more truth than people in general believe, particularly when
the lively feelings of early youth are past. I have often found it so;
and above all, wherever the woman, either in one way or another, has
created for herself an independent sphere of action, or has found in a
comfortable home that freedom, and has enjoyed that pure happiness of
life, which true friendship, true education, can give.

A young lady of my acquaintance made what was with justice called a
great match, although love played but a subordinate part. As some one
felicitated her on her happiness, she replied, quite calmly, "Oh, yes!
it is very excellent to possess something of one's own." People smiled
at her for her thus lightly esteeming what was universally regarded so
great a good fortune; but her simple words, nevertheless, contain a
great and universal truth. It is this "one's own," in the world, and in
his sphere of action, which every man unavoidably requires if he would
develop his own being, and win for himself independence and happiness,
self-esteem, and the esteem of others. Even the nun has her own cell,
where she can prepare herself in peace for heaven, and in which she
possesses her true home. But in social life, the unmarried woman has
often not even a little cell which she can call her own; she goes like a
cloud of mist through life, and finds firm footing nowhere. Hence,
therefore, are there often marriages the genuine children of necessity,
which ought never to have taken place, and that deep longing after the
deep quiet of the grave, which is experienced by so many. But there is
no necessity for this, and in times, in which the middle classes are so
much more enlightened, it becomes still less so; we need, indeed, only
contemplate the masses of people who strive for a subsistence, the
crowds of neglected and uncared-for children that grow up in the world,
in order to see that whatever is one-sided in the view of the
destination of woman vanishes more and more, and opens to her a freer
sphere of action.

But I return to the _pros_ and _cons_ of my own life, one feature of
which I must particularly mention. If young ladies of our acquaintance
connected themselves by marriage with men who were rather above than
below them in property or station, we considered it, without exception,
reasonable and estimable. But if a man, whose connexions and prospects
were similar to our own, looked round him for a wife in our house, we
considered it great audacity, and treated it accordingly. We were
secretly looking out for genteeler and richer individuals, who again, on
their part, were looking out for genteeler and richer individuals than
we.--N. B. This _looking-out_ in the great world is a very useful thing,
both for gentlemen and ladies, although anybody who would be _naive_
enough to acknowledge as much, would not be greatly in favour either
with those who looked-out or those who did not.

In the mean time, a spirit was developed within me, which full of living
energy woke to the sense of its nonentity--to a sense of the enslaving
contradictions in which it moved, and to the most vehement desire to
free itself from them. As yet, however, I did not understand what I was
to do with my restless spirit. By contemplation, however, of noble works
of art, it appeared to me frequently that the enigma of my inner self
became clear to me. When I observed the antique vestal, so calm, so
assured, and yet so gentle--when I saw how she stood, self-possessed,
firm, and serene--I had a foretaste of the life which I needed, and
sought after, both outwardly and inwardly, and I wept tears of
melancholy longing.

Tortured by the distorted circumstances (many of which I have not
mentioned) under which I moved in my own family connexion, I began, as
years advanced, to come in contact with the world in a manner which, for
a temper like mine, was particularly dangerous.

We have heard of the daughters of the Husgafvel family, who grew old
yawning over the spinning-wheel and the weaving-stool; but, better so to
grow old, yes, better a thousand times to grow grey over the
spinning-wheel and the ashes of the cooking-stove, than with artificial
flowers--oh, how artificial!--in the hair, on the benches of the
ball-room, or the seat of the supper-room, smiling over the world, which
smiles over us no longer. This was the case with me.

There are mild, unpretending beings, who bow themselves quietly under
the yoke which they cannot break; move, year after year, through the
social circle, without any other object than to fill a place there--to
ornament or to disfigure a wall. Peace to such patient souls! There,
too, are joyous, fresh, ever youthful natures, who, even to old age, and
under all circumstances, bring with them cheerfulness and new life into
every circle in which they move. These belong to social life, and are
its blessings. Many persons--and it is beautiful that it should be
so--are of this description. I, however, belonged neither to the joyous
and enlivening, nor yet to the patient and unpretending. On this account
I began to shun social life, which occasioned in me, still more and
more, a moral weariness; yet, nevertheless, I was driven into it, to
avoid the disquiet and discomfort which I experienced at home. I was a
labourer who concealed his desire for labour, who had buried his talent
in the earth, as was the hereditary custom of the circle in which I
lived.

The flower yields odour and delight to man, it nourishes the insect with
its sweetness; the dewdrop gives strength to the leaf on which it falls.
In the relationships in which I lived, I was less than the flower or the
dewdrop; a being endowed with power and with an immortal soul! But I
awoke at the right time to a consciousness of my position. I say at the
right time, because there may be a time when it is too late. There is a
time when, under the weight of long wearisome years, the human soul has
become inflexible, and has no longer the power to raise itself from the
slough into which it has sunk.

I felt how I was deteriorating; I felt clearly how the unemployed and
uninterested life which I led, nourished day after day new weeds in the
waste field of my soul. Curiosity, a desire for gossip, an inclination
to malice and scandal, and an increasing irritability of temper, began
to get possession of a mind which nature had endowed with too great a
desire for action for it blamelessly to vegetate through a passive life
as so many can. Ah! if people live without an object, they stand as it
were on the outside of active life, which gives strength to the inward
occupation, even if no noble endeavour or sweet friendship give that
claim to daily life which makes it occasionally, at least, a joy to
live; disquiet rages fiercely and tumultuously in the human breast,
undermining health, temper, goodness, nay, even the quiet of conscience,
and conjuring up all the spirits of darkness: so does the corroding rust
eat into the steel-plate and deface its clear mirror with a tracery of
disordered caricatures.

I once read these words of that many-sided thinker, Steffen:--"He who
has no employment to which he gives himself with true earnestness, which
he does not love as much as himself and all men, has not discovered the
true ground on which Christianity even here brings forth fruit. Such an
occupation becomes a quiet and consecrated temple in all hours of
affliction, into which the Saviour pours out his blessing; it unites us
with all other men, so that we can sympathise in their feelings, and
makes our actions and our wills administer to their wants; it teaches us
rightly to weigh our own circumscribed condition and the worth of
others. It is the true, firm, and fruit-bearing ground of real
Christianity."

These words came like a breath of air on glowing sparks. A light was
kindled in my soul, and I knew now what I wanted, and what I ought to
do. After I had well considered all this with myself, I spoke with my
parents, and opened my whole heart to them. They were surprised, opposed
me, and besought me to think better of it. I had foreseen this; but as I
adhered firmly and decidedly to my wishes and my prayers, they surprised
me by their kindness.

I was very fond of children; my plan was, therefore, to begin
housekeeping for myself, and to undertake some work or occupation which
should, by degrees, enable me to take two or three children, for whom I
would provide, whom I would educate, and altogether adopt as my own. I
was well persuaded that I needed many of the qualifications which make a
good teacher; but I hoped that that new fountain of activity would, as
it were, give to my whole being a new birth. My goodwill, my affection
for children would, I believed, be helpful to make me a good guide to
them; and thus, though I could not become a wife, I might yet enjoy the
blessing of a mother.

"And why could you not--why could you not?" interrupted Elise.

"People say," returned Evelina, smiling, "that you had to make your
selection of a husband from many adorers; you cannot then understand a
case in which there should not even be one choice. But truly, indeed,
that was my case. But do not look at me so amazed--don't look at me as
if I were guilty of high treason. The truth is, sweet Elise, that I
never had an opportunity to say either yes or no to a lover. With my
sisters, who were much more agreeable and much more attractive than I,
it was otherwise."

But now I must return to that moment of my life when I released myself
from every-day paths--but, thank God! not with violence, not amid
discontent; but with the blessing of those who had given me life, for
which I now, for the first time, blessed them.

Touched by my steadfastness of purpose, and by the true goodwill which
they had perceived in me, my parents determined--God reward them for
it!--to bestow upon my desired domestic establishment the sum of money
which they had put aside for my dowry, in case I married. Indeed, their
and my sisters' kindness made them find pleasure in arranging all for me
in the best and most comfortable manner; and when I left the paternal
roof for my own new home, it was with tears of real pain. Yet I had too
clearly studied my own character and position to be undecided.

It was a day in April, my thirtieth birthday, when, accompanied by my
own family, I went to take possession of my new, small, but pretty
dwelling. Two young father-and-motherless girls, not quite without
means, followed me to my new habitation. They were to become my
children, I their mother.

I never shall forget the first morning of my waking in my new abode. At
this very moment it is as if I saw how the day dawned in the chamber;
how all the objects gradually assumed, as it seemed to me, an
unaccustomed definiteness. From the near church ascended the morning
hymn with its pleasant serious melody, which attuned the soul to
harmonious peace. I rose early; I had to care for house and children.
All was cheerful and festival-like in my soul; a sweet emotion
penetrated me like the enlivening breeze of spring. Also without spring
breathed. I saw the snow melt from the roofs, and fall down in
glittering drops, yet never had I seen the morning light in them so
clear as now. I saw the sparrows on the edge of the chimneys twittering
to greet the morning sun. I saw without, people going joyfully about
their employments: I saw the milk-woman going from door to door, and she
seemed to me more cheerful than any milk-woman I had ever seen before;
and the milk seemed to me whiter and more nutritious than common. It
seemed to me as if I now saw the world for the first time. I fancied
even myself to be altered as I looked in the glass; my eyes appeared to
me larger; my whole appearance to have become better, and more
important. In the chamber near me the children awoke--the little
immortals whom I was to conduct to eternal life. Yes, indeed, this was a
beautiful morning! In it the world first beamed upon me, and at the same
time my own inner world, and I became of worth and consequence in my own
estimation.

The active yet quiet life which I led from this time forth, suited me
perfectly well. From this time I became more thoroughly in harmony with
myself, and altogether happier. The day was often wearisome, but then
the evening rest was the sweeter, and the thought that I had passed a
useful day refreshed my soul. The children gave me many cares, many
troubles; but they gave likewise an interest to my life, and happiness
to my heart, and all the while, in pleasure and want, in joy and sorrow,
they became dearer and dearer to me. I cannot imagine that children can
be dearer to their own mother than Laura and Karin are to me.

In this new position I also became a better daughter, a more tender
sister than I had hitherto been; and I could now cheer the old age of my
parents far more than if I had remained an inactive and superfluous
person in their house. Now for the first time I had advantage of all
that was good in my education. Amid lively activity, and with a distinct
object in life, and in affectionate relationships, that which was vain
and false fell gradually away from my disposition; and the knowledge
which I had obtained, the truths which I had known, were productive in
heart and deed since I had, so to say, struck root in life.

* * * * *

Evelina ceased. All had heard her with sympathy, but no one more than
Ernst Frank. A new picture of life was opened to his view, and the
truest sympathy expressed itself on his manly features. He suffered by
this picture of so contracted a world, in so oppressive and gloomy a
condition, and his thoughts already busied themselves with plans for
breaking open doors, for opening windows in these premises, to free this
oppressed and captive life.

"Ah, yes!" said Mrs. Gunilla, with a gentle sigh, "everybody here in
this world has their difficult path, but if every one walks in the fear
and admonition of the Lord, all arrive in the end at their home. Our
Lord God helps us all!" And Mrs. Gunilla took a large pinch of snuff.

"Don't forget the _Orbis Pictus_," exclaimed she to Elise, who with her
husband was preparing to go; "don't forget it, and let the children be
educated from it, that they may observe how the soul looks. He, he, he,
he!"

CHAPTER XIV.

THE ORPHAN.

The day was declining, and Ernst and Elise sate in one of the parlour
windows. Mutual communications received with mutual sympathy, had made
them have joy in each other--had let them feel at peace with life. They
were now silent; but a presentiment that for the future they should be
ever happier with each other, like a harmonious tone, responded in their
hearts, and brightened their countenances. In the mean time, the shadows
of evening began to grow broader, and a soft rain pattered on the
window. The sonorous voice of the Candidate, as he told stories to the
children, interrupted occasionally by their questions and exclamations,
was heard in the saloon. A feeling of home-peace came over the heart of
the father; he took the hand of his wife affectionately between his, and
looked joyfully into her gentle countenance, whilst she was projecting
little domestic arrangements. In the midst of this sense of happiness a
cloud suddenly passed over the countenance of the Judge, and tears
filled his eyes.

"What is it, Ernst?--what is amiss, Ernst?" asked his wife tenderly,
whilst she wiped away the tears with her hand. "Nothing," said he, "but
that I feel how happy we are. I see you, I hear our children without
there, and I cannot but think on that unfortunate child opposite, which
will be ruined in that wretched home."

"Ah, yes!" sighed Elise; "God help all unfortunate little ones on the
earth!"

Both cast their eyes involuntarily towards the nearest window of the
before-mentioned house. Something was moving before the window; a female
figure mounted on the window ledge, a dark child's head peeped out from
between her feet, was kicked away, and a large white cloth, which was
quickly unrolled, hid all within.

"He is dead!" said both husband and wife, looking at each other.

The Judge sent over to inquire how it was; the messenger returned with
the tidings that Mr. N. had been dead some hours.

Lights were now kindled behind the blind, and people appeared to be busy
within the chamber. The Judge walked up and down his room, evidently
much affected. "The poor child!--the poor little girl! what will become
of her? Poor child!" were his broken exclamations.

Elise read the soul of her husband. She had now for some time, in
consequence of a wish which she had perceived in his heart, accustomed
herself to a thought, which yet at this moment her lips seemed unwilling
to express: "Ernst," at length, suppressing a sigh, she began, "the pot
which boils for six little mouths will boil also for seven."

"Do you think so?" asked he, with pleasure, and with beaming eyes. He
embraced his wife tenderly, placed her beside him, and inquired--"Have
you proved your own strength? The heaviest part of this adoption would
rest upon you. Yet if you feel that you have courage to undertake it,
you would fulfil the wish of my heart."

"Ernst," said she, repressing a tear, "my strength is small, and nobody
knows that better than you do; but my will is good;--I will undertake
the trouble--you will support me?"

"Yes, we will help one another," said he, rising up joyfully. "Thank
you, Elise--thank you, my sweet friend," continued he, kissing her hand
affectionately. "Shall I go to fetch the child immediately?--but perhaps
it will not come with me."

"Shall I go with you?"

"You!" said he; "but it gets dark--it rains."

"We can take an umbrella," replied she; "and besides that, I will put on
a wrapping cloak, and will soon be ready."

Elise went to dress herself, and her husband went to help her, put on
her cloak for her, and paid her a thousand little affectionate
attentions.

After Elise had given sundry orders to Brigitta, she and her husband
betook themselves to the house, whilst the children set their little
heads together full of curiosity and wonder.

The two crossed the street in wind and rain; and after they had ascended
the dark staircase, they arrived at the room which Mr. N. had inhabited.
The door stood half open; a small candle, just on the point of going
out, burned within, spreading an uncertain and tremulous light over
everything. No living creature was visible within the room, which had a
desolate, and, as one might say, stripped appearance, so naked did it
seem. The dead man lay neglected on his bed, near to which was no trace
of anything which might have mitigated the last struggle. A cloth
covered his face. Ernst Frank went towards the bed, and softly raising
the cloth, observed for a moment silently the terrible spectacle, felt
the pulse of the deceased, and then covering again the face, returned
silently, with a pale countenance, to his wife.

"Where can we find the child?" said she, hastily. They looked
searchingly around; a black shadow, in a human form, seemed to move
itself in one corner of the room. It was the orphan who sate there, like
a bird of night, pressing herself close to the wall. Elise approached
her, and would have taken her in her arms, when the child suddenly
raised her hand, and gave her a fierce blow. Elise drew back astonished,
and then, after a moment, approached again the half-savage girl with
friendly words; again she made a threatening demonstration, but her
hands were suddenly grasped by a strong manly hand, and a look so
serious and determined was riveted upon her, that she trembled before
it, and resigned herself to the power of the stronger.

The Judge lifted her up, and set her on his knee, whilst she trembled
violently.

"Do not be afraid of us," said Elise, caressingly; "we are your good
friends. If you will come with me this evening to my little children,
you shall have sweet milk and wheaten bread with them, and then sleep in
a nice little bed with a rose-coloured coverlet."

The white milk, the rose-coloured coverlet, and Elise's gentle voice,
seemed to influence the child's mind.

"I would willingly go with you," said she, "but what will my father say
when he wakes?"

"He will be pleased," said Elise, wrapping a warm shawl about the
shoulders of the child.

At that moment a sound was heard on the stairs; little Sara uttered a
faint cry of terror, and began to tremble anew. Mr. N.'s housekeeper
entered, accompanied by two boys. The Judge announced to her his
determination to take the little Sara, as well as the effects of her
deceased father, under his care. At mention of the last word, the woman
began to fume and swear, and the Judge was obliged to compel her to
silence by severe threats. He then sent one of the boys for the
proprietor of the house, and after he had in his presence taken all
measures for the security of the effects of the deceased, he took the
little Sara in his arms, wrapped her in his cloak, and, accompanied by
his wife, went out.

All this time an indescribable curiosity reigned among the little
Franks. Their mother had said, in going out, that perhaps, on her
return, she should bring them another sister. It is impossible to say
the excitement this occasioned, and what was conjectured and counselled
by them. The Candidate could not satisfy all the questions which were
let loose upon him. In order, therefore, somewhat to allay their
fermentation, he sent them to hop through the room like crows, placing
himself at the head of the train. A flock of real crows could not have
fluttered away with greater speed than did they as the saloon door
opened and the father and mother entered. Petrea appeared curious in
the highest degree, as her father, opening his wide cloak, softly set
down something which, at the first moment, Petrea, with terror, took for
a chimney-sweeper; but which, on closer inspection, seemed to be a very
nice thin girl of about nine years old, with black hair, dark
complexion, and a pair of uncommonly large black eyes, which looked
almost threateningly on the white and bright-haired little ones which
surrounded her.

"There, you have another sister," said the father, leading the children
towards each other;--"Sara, these are your sisters--love one another,
and be kind to one another, my children."

The children looked at each other, somewhat surprised; but as Henrik and
Louise took the little stranger by the hand, they soon all emulated each
other in bidding her welcome.

Supper was served up for the children, more lights were brought in, and
the scene was lively. Everything was sacrificed to the new comer. Louise
brought out for her two pieces of confectionery above a year old, and a
box in which they might be preserved yet longer.

Henrik presented her with a red trumpet, conferring gratuitous
instruction on the art of blowing it.

Eva gave her her doll Josephine in its new gauze dress.

Leonore lighted her green and red wax tapers before the dark-eyed Sara.

Petrea--ah, Petrea!--would so willingly give something with her whole
heart. She rummaged through all the places where she kept anything, but
they concealed only the fragments of unlucky things; here a doll without
arms; here a table with only three legs; here two halves of a sugar-pig;
here a dog without head and tail. All Petrea's playthings, in
consequence of experiments which she was in the habit of making on them,
were fallen into the condition of that which had been--and even that
gingerbread-heart with which she had been accustomed to decoy Gabriele,
had, precisely on this very day, in an unlucky moment of curiosity, gone
down Petrea's throat. Petrea really possessed nothing which was fit to
make a gift of. She acknowledged this with a sigh; her heart was tilled
with sadness, and tears were just beginning to run down her cheeks, when
she was consoled by a sudden idea--The Girl and the Rose-bush! That
jewel she still possessed; it hung still, undestroyed, framed and behind
glass, over her bed, and fastened by a bow of blue ribbon. Petrea
hesitated only a moment; in the next she had clambered up to her little
bed, taken down the picture, and hastened now with beaming eyes and
glowing cheeks to the others, in order to give away the very loveliest
thing she had, and to declare solemnly that now "Sara was the possessor
of the Girl and the Rose-bush."

The little African appeared very indifferent about the sacrifice which
the little European had made to her. She received it, it is true, but
she soon laid it down again without caring any more about it, which
occasioned Louise to propose that she should keep it for her.

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