 1. O Rose of May. 2. Hamlet. The babe lay on the nurse's knee. Could any impression have been received through those wide-stretched eyes that stared as wonderingly as if they were, in fact, beholding amazed the new existence upon which they had so lately opened? The child would have seen that it lay in a spacious apartment, furnished with all the tokens of wealth and magnificence which those rudor ages could command. There were thick hangings of costly stuff to exclude the keen outer air and chill mists of that north climate. The furniture of the room was constructed of the rare kind of woods, and fashioned with the utmost skill and taste and design than attained. The dogs that sustained the fur-clumps blazing on the hearth were of classical form and device, and the andiorns on either side were of a no less precious material than silver. The sconces round the apartment were of the same metal, while the spoon, cup, and other utensils appropriated to the infant's use were of gold. Could any dawning sense of external objects yet have made its way to the brain through those wide-stretched violet eyes? They might have noted that a tall figure of graceful mean, of gracious aspect, frequently came to bend over, utter murmured words of joy and tenderness, and breathe mother's blessings upon the little baby-head. They might have perceived that another figure of less gentle aspect, but kindly and fond, would come to look upon the little daughter lately vouchsafe to him, and that still another, a young boy, would advance on tiptoe to peep at and touch very carefully the strange baby-sister. Of the large, broad, good-humoured face that more constantly hung over it, of the huge splay hand that enclosed its own diminutive one in the recesses of the crummy palm, of the white amplitude of warmth and softness and comfort and repose, against which the babe buried its nose and nestled its cheek, and from which it drew forth delicious streams of nourishment the wide-stretched violet eyes probably gained clear perception. For they learned to look eagerly for these evidences of the presence and the ministry of the good peasant woman, who had been engaged to perform the office of wet nurse and foster-mother to the little Ophelia, daughter of the Lord Polonius, and of the Lady Udra. There were extensive gardens belonging to the nobleman's house, and in these the good nurse Battilda would carry her baby-charge up and down, during the more genial hours of the day, while by the side of child and nurse gambled the young boy, Laertes. When the violet eyes learned to distinguish objects upon which they rested, they grew fond of dwelling upon the lively brother, of following his antics, of watching his sports, and then baby would crow and spring and leap in the nurse's arms with sympathetic delight at his active movements. When the sun faded from the gravel paths and the shadows lengthened, and the watchful nurse knew that the mists and dews of evening were stealing on to take the place of the earlier afternoon warmth, she would carry her nursling indoors, and lull it to sleep upon her lap, and hush it against her bosom, crooning ends of old world ditties, and scraps of antique ballads such as she knew. The Lady Udra's attendant, Craca, one day saw fit to call the rustic nurse to account for the subject of one of these songs which struck her town-bread notions as something lacking in the matter of decorum. Has thou now a cradle-song, or proper nursery rhyme, good Batilda, to chant to my lady's baby? The songs thou choosest for the child's lullaby are none of the most seemly for the purpose to my poor thinking. "'I choose them not,' answered the peasant. "'My stock of songs, God what, is none so large that I may pick and choose? I'm feigned to sing such as I know. I care not for the sense so that the sound serves to lull my little one. It matters not for the meaning which is none to her, so that the tune helps her to keep quiet and to close her eyes. "'There's no knowing how soon a babe may catch a meaning,' said the lady's maid, tossing her head. "'Meanings—especially naughty meanings—are sooner caught than you and your country-rudeness might suppose, good Mistress Batilda. There's no telling how early a child may spy out wickedness in words. They're so cute in listening, and pretending not to understand, and all the while making out a deal that they oughtn't. There's much more of that going on than you'd think, Mistress Batilda.' "'I'm a surety. Children are not the only ones to spy out wickedness and catch naughty meanings, where no harm's intended, and then making a pretence of over-innocence. The more's the pity,' replied the nurse. "'But as for my poor foolish old songs, I can't think they'd do mischief to any one that isn't set upon seeing more in a man's mend, let alone a sucking babe that makes out not of the words but the chime and the rhyme they make.' "'No harm. No mischief,' exclaimed Crocker. "'Why, there's that tawdry nonsense you sing about St. Valentine's Day. I should like to know what you make out of that, good Mistress Batilda.' "'I leave it to you to make out what you have a fancy for from in Mistress Crocker,' said the nurse quietly. "'I can only say, as I said before, no need to mind the words of my song, so that the tune soothes my baby. No call to take heed of the matter, so that the murmur pleases her. It's no matter to me, and certainly no matter to the child that can't make matter out of it.' "'What stupid animals these country folks are,' muttered the waiting-maid. "'A little better than swine, in their brutish ignorance of what's what, and in their obstinance sticking to what they've once said. "'Let them that like to fared out filth find what they have a mind to in my old songs,' said the nurse to herself. "'Only don't let them go and give their nasty notions to my innocent child. Who, if ever she should chance to catch up the words by and by, from hearing me repeat them, would only do so like a prattling, starling, for the sake of the sound, and without a thought of any bad meaning?' Before the little affiliate could run any risk of learning either words or meaning of the foster mother's songs, in as much as it was before she could speak, the good battilda's office of wet nurse ceased. She returned to her peasant family, her native country home, while Ophelia's own mother, the lady Udra, gladly took the charge of her little girl upon herself. She had hitherto neglected to fulfil the most important maternal duty solely from the physical cause of disability. Not long, however, did she enjoy this new delight of cherishing and watching the infant growth of her child. Ophelia was yet a little toddling thing, when her father, the Lord Polonius, received an appointment as ambassador in Paris, and was compelled to quit the Danish court for an uncertain period. So distinguished an honour as this official dignity conferred upon him by his sovereign, was a matter of high self-congratulation to the ambitious courtier, and he determined to fulfil his mission with such pomp, with such unsparing profusion of outlay, as should best prove how worthy he was, of the office for which he had been selected. He resolved that as the representative of royalty, his travelling appointment should be princely in their richness, their magnitude, and for the like reason his household and retinue, when established in the French capital, should be of even regal magnificence. In order the better to carry out his views of making his embassy as complete assemblance of royalty as might be, he determined that his wife should accompany him, remarking that a court without a queen, an embassy without an ambassador, was shorn of half their splendour and influence. His lady, dreading the lengthened separation from her children which this would involve, made an attempt to dissuade him from the arrangement, begging to be left behind in Elsinor with her young son and daughter, until such time as they should be old enough to travel with her, when they could all three join him in Paris together. But Polonius gave several weighty reasons why this could not be done, alleging that the first impression was the most important, that he was convinced greater effect was produced by the presence of a lady, that it attracted other ladies, that the more ladies attracted and attached, the better, inasmuch as the influence of woman's wit and woman's beauty, had ever been acknowledged to be some of the most potent agencies in a court atmosphere. Together with several others, sage and worldly observations in support of his views, and ending with an intimation that, in short, it was his will she should go with him at first and at once. Without further opposition, therefore, to her husband's will, the lady Udra prepared to obey by making arrangements for the suitable placing of her children during their parents' absence. For laertes the boy, there was the protection of his uncle, a wealthy old bachelor and retired general, who found the seclusion and repose of his armchair to be the sole refuge for which his wounds and their consequent infirmity had left him fitted. For the little Ophelia, her mother determined she should be confined to the care of her former nurse, Batilda. She resolved to risk the want of refinement in the peasant home, for the sake of its simple food, its pure air, its kindly hearty foster care. She trusted to the child's extreme youth, scarce beyond babyhood, for security that she should not acquire coarse habits, or imbibe unseemly notions. She hoped herself to return to Denmark before the time when it was necessary to begin the inculcation of principle, the inspiring of ideas, the formation of heart and mind. Meantime she thought health of body, vigor of frame, activity of limb, the main things to be secured for her child, and this she thought could be best done by sending the little girl to the cottage of Sigurd and his wife, Batilda. She knew they had children, although they had lost the youngest, the one whose early death had procured Ophelia the wet nurse's services of the peasant, and she thought with them, her own child would be brought up in health and hardyhood, in exercise and open air pursuits, and in kindly affection, even if somewhat roughly and unrefinedly nurtured. The Lady Udre determined to place her child herself in the arms of its foster mother. She ordered her litter, and set forth on her short journey, consoling herself with the thought that she should at least see the spot in which she was about to leave her youngest darling, where she might picture her to herself hereafter, during the long, tedious period of absence. She did her utmost to combat the sorrowful feelings, the half-defined fears that beset her as the thought of that absence pressed upon her. She strove to dwell upon none but cheerful thoughts and hopeful fancies for the future, that the present moment might remain unclouded in the remembrance of her little girl, who sat beside her, looking at her face, and asking her questions of the new places and strange objects among which they were passing. She exerted herself to entertain the child, that no suspicion of her own grief might interfere to mar the pleasure and enjoyment of this first journey, so full of delight and curiosity and interest to the little one. At length the excitement, the constant demand upon her attention, the many hours passed in the open air which made its way through the curtain of the litter, caused the little affiliate to fall into a profound sleep. Then the Lady allowed herself to drop back among the cushions, and give way to her emotions at the thought of the parting that was so soon to come between her and her child. Weeping and in silence, the poor mother travelled the remainder of the way, praying earnestly. All that she saw at the cottage of Battilda confirmed her in the previous conviction she had felt, that its advantages would outweigh its disadvantages. It was a clean, wholesome place. Its inhabitants were homely but kindly, and the Lady Udra felt that her child would be healthfully and affectionately tended. The two great requisites at her age. She found, too, that the little Ophelia's chief companion would be Jutha, the only daughter of the peasant couple, a young girl of some fifteen or sixteen years of age, of the most winning appearance, gentle-mannered, sweet-tempered, and extremely beautiful. This afforded peculiar comfort to the Lady Mother, as she knew how attracted children are by beauty, and how happy their existence is made by gentleness and even temper, in those who have charge of them. To Jutha, therefore, she especially recommended the care and tendance of her babe, knowing how superfluous it was to bespeak more of that which already so lavishly flowed and devoted affection towards it, on the part of the good nurse. And then the mother, assisted by these two, who were in future to supply her place, laid the sleeping babe in the rude wooden cot, and took a weeping farewell of her treasure. Let not the hot tears fall on the babe, my lady," whispered the foster mother. They'll disturb her, and they drop upon her face. A mother's tears are not to be felt without bail and smart, even by one so young. Besides, parting tears bring no good luck. There no blessed shower to sprinkle your babe with. Let her have a kiss and a smile, and you can muster one, my lady, as a keepsake for the child, until you come back to give her kisses and smiles the whole day long, as plenty as lips can give them. An earnest pressure of the nurse's arm told how well the kindly intent of her words was understood by the lady. By a strong effort she succeeded in mastering her grief sufficiently to bestow a better omen to caress upon her child. The last kiss she gave it, as it still lay in a deep sleep, was almost cheerful, for she cast her eye up, hopefully, and commended her little one to heavenly guardianship. Over the face of the babe, as it slumbered, crept a soft, answering smile. And then the mother, accepting the angelic token, turned silently away, and stepped into a litter, more serene at heart than she could have hoped. For some hours after her mother had left her, the unconscious aphelia slumbered on. The journey, the passing through the air, caused her to sleep soundly, and there she remained, perfectly still, drawing soft, regular breathings, with one hand beneath the peachy cheek, the other lying plump and dimpled and white on the coarse coverlet. The rough wooden cot in which she lay had been the resting place of all the peasant babes born there in succession. It was rudely fashioned but strong and safe, raised away from the ground upon high legs, which prevented the hostile approach of any wandering cat or other more formidable animal. It was spurnished with bedding, coarse and homely, but clean and sweet-scented from the open bleaching. And by the care of Jutha, whose pride it was to see it always kept neat and nice, a pretty object in the family-sitting-room. As Sigurd and his two eldest sons, Harold and Ivar, came in from their daily labor at Eventide, they went and peeped at the little stranger who had become their inmate. Sigurd said some kind words to his wife Fatilda, of his being glad she had the little lady babe to take the place of the one she had lost, and that it would do them both good to see the cot filled once more. The two tall lads, who looked like friendly ogres, or good-humoured giants, looked at the sleeping child as if she had been a young bird, or a half-hidden spring-flower nestling beneath a hedge. What a bit of a thing she be! She looks as easy to be blown away, easy to be looked through as sweet and as blooming as a handful of rose-leaves, don't she?" Quoth Harold. I, she do, said Ivar. She scarce looks like a baby such as you or I once was. What a pretty creature it is! The family sat down to their evening meal, while Fatilda showed her husband the purse of money in the presents the Lady Udra had given them, to take charge of her child, told him of the engagement she had made to forward them each month a sum for its maintenance, that the lady wished them to increase their own comforts at the same time, and that in consequence she, Fatilda, had provided an extra supper for them to make a sort of feast in celebration of her own little lady babes coming among them. Meanwhile the infant Ophelia continued to sleep on. But as one of the good-humored giants happened to forget himself and give a louder laugh than he had hitherto done, the sound disturbed her. She turned and opened her eyes and lay awake. She was none of those fretful children, who the very first thing they uniformly do upon waking from sleep is to roar. On the contrary, she lay silent and still for a moment or two, and then raising herself softly against the side of the cot, rubbed her eyes and looked over. Unfortunately it was a strange scene, she beheld, quite different from anything that had ever met them before. Instead of the spacious apartment lighted by silver sconces and hung with rich tapestries, there was a raftered low room, a rough deal table, round which sat some uncouth figures on wooden chairs, eating by the light of a single oil-fed iron lamp. There was an elderly man with a weather-beaten face and grisly locks. There was an elderly woman, whose face seemed known to the child who was staring at them. There were two very tall young men with bushy beards, rough hair and good-natured faces. There was a boy with large, hairy hands, a fell of chalk hair upon his head, shaggy eyebrows from beneath which gleamed a restless pair of grey eyes, and a huge bare throat that swelled and moved, and showed the big morsels which he was shoveling into his mouth as they made their way along the gullet to the stomach. The staring baby's eyes after dwelling some time with a kind of uncomfortable awe upon this object, saw lastly that there was another figure at the table, that of a young girl, beautiful and pleasant to look upon. The little Ophelia was still silently gazing upon all this, when the hairy boy gave a grin, mutely writhing his face, and then he pointed stealthily towards the cot, saying in a low growl, singularly harsh and discordant, though not loud, to see. Little court-lady's awake. "'My baby, awake, and I not notice it?' exclaimed Battilda, about to hurry towards the cot, in fear that the child would cry and be startled at finding itself among strangers. "'Let her be a bit,' said Sigurd, laying his hand on his wife's arm, and let's see what she'll do. She don't seem a bit scared like at all us new faces. On the contrary, the child seemed entertained, and continued to look from one to another, cutting her hand on the side of the cot, and humming a little song to herself. They all watching her the while with quiet, amused glances. By and by she drew a long breath, looked around, and said, "'Mama!' Battilda and Jutha now both went towards her, doing their best to distract her attention from the thought, which had at length evidently struck her. With the facile spirits of childhood this was no difficult task. She was brought over to the table to take her first rustic meal of bread and milk, which she did with much relish. Despite the absence of the gold service which had hitherto administered her refection, and with much apparent contentment, leaning against the familiar bosom of her nurse, frolicking and making acquaintance with the smiling beauty of Jutha, and graciously allowing the burly peasant Sigurd to curl her miniature hand on his great big horny forefinger. In short, the little lady babe seemed at once to take to her foster family, and make herself at home with them. CHAPTER II After this inaugural meal, however, when Battilda, as a matter of course, had taken charge of her nursing, Jutha contrived to secure the exclusive care of the child from that time forth. She had it to sleep with her in her own little bed, the wooden cot serving for a day-couch merely. She fed it, she washed and dressed it, she amused it, she danced and tossed it, she held it on her knee when she sat, she carried it about with her when she went out. She dedicated herself entirely to its comfort and happiness, and made it in return her own joy and delight. She would have been its servant if such willing ministry as hers could be called servitude. She would have been its slave if such voluntary bondage as hers could be slavery. As it was, she was the little creature's fond, devoted girl-mother. She had that peculiar affection which young girls have for a baby, the childish, fondling, protective feeling, mingled with a sense of power, as towards a doll, or a plaything possession. The tender, thoughtful solicitude, the instinct of motherly feeling, as towards a little being dependent on her for life and welfare. On the morning after Ophelia's arrival at the cottage, she was sitting on the young girl's knee, in that half-drowsy state of quiet which is apt to succeed a violent game of romps. Tired with laughter, panting with exertion, she lay back to enjoy complete rest and silence, while her eyes fell dreamily upon a figure on the other side of the room. It was that of the hairy, loutish boy. He was lying, half crouching, half kneeling in a recess in the wall opposite, killing flies. As the insects buzzed and flitted to and fro, he eyed them from beneath his shaggy brows, with snorting eagerness and tongue outlawing, ever and anon taking aim with his hairy paw, and at each successful dab that sent a crushed and mangled fly to swell the heap which already lay there, the lout gave a grin. Sometimes he would chop among the mound of dead, with a knife that lay beside him. Sometimes he would seize one of the living ones by the wing, or the leg, and hold it between finger and thumb, watching its buzzing struggles and grinning at its futile flutterings. Then let it go again, to pounce upon and deal it its death-blow. The child lay looking at him in a sort of bewitched inability to remove her eyes from an object that filled her with uneasy wonder, while Jutha, accustomed to the uncouth cruelty of her idiot brother, Ulf, had not perceived that the child's attention was fixed upon him. Presently Batilda's voice sounded from and in a room, desiring Jutha to come and help her with some household matter that she had in hand. Jutha placed the little Ophelia softly on the floor, put some playthings near her, and Bat her sit still for a few minutes till she came back. The child sat, with her eyes unmoved from the fly-killer. Presently he turned and spied her. He gave one of his silent grins. "'Are you one of the elf-folk?' he said. No answer." "'Or the trolls?' asked he again. "'No answer.' "'You're little enough, and pretty enough. But I remember you're the little court-lady.' He continued to stare down upon her, grinning, as she kept her eyes fixed upon him. "'Come to the bear,' he exclaimed presently in his discordant tones. "'Come here and shake hands with me.' "'No answer but a shake of the head, as she eyed the huge paw held out to her. "'Come to the bear, I tell ye,' growled he. "'A shanty ye, only hug ye. Come to the bear.' "'No,' desperately, with a more vehement shake of the head. "'What if I threw this at ye, and knocked off your legs like one of them?' said he, pointing with his knife to the heap of dead and dying flies stripped of their legs and wings. Ophelia gave a startled scream. In ran Jutha and her mother. Little court-lady's proud, and won't shake hands with Ulf the bear.' He said, lolling out his tongue and grinning. "'What have you been about, brute?' said Battilda, frightening my baby, I shouldn't wonder. Take care how you ever do that, once for all mind, or I'll beat you as long as I can stand over you.' "'And that ain't long now,' grint he, "'I get bigger and beyond your strength. You hurt your own hands more than you do my shoulders when you thump me now.' "'You limb,' said his mother, shaking her fist at him. "'But mind my words. You dare not frighten my baby, and if you ever do it'll be the worst for you. She's the great Lord Polonius child sent here to be taken care of, not to be harmed or frighted, and he'll punish you if I can't should his child be hurt. I didn't want to hurt her. I wanted to hug her, and she wouldn't let me. Touch her at all, Ulf, dear, to hurt or to hug her,' said his sister Jutha. "'She don't know that our bears' hugs are harmless. She don't know that you're called in sport, Ulf, the bear. Let her get used to you before you try to make friends with her. She got used to me before she'd come to me from mother, you know, last night. "'You always make me do what you will, Jutha,' grunted Ulf. "'But I don't mind pleasing you. You please me, and give the bear things he likes. Eat food. Good eating!' Sigurd's cottage was situated in a pleasant spot, one of the most fertile in all the island. It overlooked a green valley, embosomed in swelling hills, and towards the northeast it was screened by a thick and lofty forest of primeval trees. The soil in the immediate neighbourhood of the cottage was favourable to vegetation, but among the hills it was rocky and sandy, more in keeping with the prevailing character of Danish ground. The air was generally temperate, though moist, being subject to mists. Which in the more inclement seasons became dense fogs, and in the winter there were fierce winds with frequent snow, hail, and sleet. But during the summer and autumn months the climate was far from ungenial, and Jutha took care that her charge should then enjoy as much of the open air as possible. They would go forth at quite early morning, and with some food in Jutha's basket would ramble abroad all day long. Sometimes they made exploring expeditions among the hills, now stopping to sit among the craggy rocks, now loitering in some curious cavern or grotto, watching the plashings and oozing of the water that made its way through crevice and fisher, down dropping amid the moss and lichens, and long stalactites, and bright spars that be hung the roof and sides. Sometimes they would wander in the green depths of the forest, and sit on the moss grown gnarled roots of some old oak or elm-tree, or beneath a spreading beach, or tall feathery ash, while the young girl mother would bid the child mark the shape of the leaf and branch and bark and bow, of rugged trunk and smooth bowl, until she learned to know tree from tree, and to amuse herself by distinguishing one kind from another. Jutha would point out, with rustic taste, the luxuriant masses of foliage that enriched the monarch oak, the noble strength and amplitude of its sturdy body, the vigorous growth of its giant arms, the strange grotesque forms into which its ramifications spread, insinuous and angular branches, the deep indentation of its leaves, the curious cup and smooth fruit of its acorns, the mottled red and white of its apples, the pearly berries of its parasite mistletoe. She would show her the straight, smooth-rinded stem of the beech-tree, and how the pointed, glossy leaves grew in palmated branches, and flat, fan-like sprays ever up inclined, like huge, sylvan hands raised heavenward. She told her which was the stately elm, with its graceful height and amplitude of leaf and bow. She taught her to know the towering ash, with its light-waving plumes of green, the birch, with its pencile sweeps of slender twigs be hung with small round leaves, the alder and elder, with their close dwarf clusters, the firs and pines with their upright stems, brown-coned and sober in the sullen season, emerald-tufted and cheerful in springtime, the sallow with its downy catkins, the willow with its sad drooping tresses mirrored in the stream. She would take her to bowery thickets in the wood, where the pansy in the columbine grew wild, and they would peep among the grass, for shy, lurking violets, and pile up their basket with bright daisies, and bring home roots of rosemary, fennel and roux, for the herb corner of their garden. Sometimes Jutha would lead the little one as far as the seashore, where they would pick up shells, as they strayed along the smooth sand, and when the billows came tumbling in, crested with foam, rolling over one another in huge, monstrous frolic, like lion-whelps at play, and when the sea breeze blew freshly, and the spray flew over the rocks, bounding and tossing and breaking against them, flinging itself wildly apart and abroad in silver showers, as it caught the gleaming sunlight. The young girl would tell the child how these vast waters of the sea, that now looked so bright and gay, grew dark and threatening and angry when the stormy winds of the north lashed them into fury. She told her of the adventurous men who put forth in search of the fish that abounded on these shores. She told her how they braved the dangers of shoals, sunk in rocks, banks of quicksand and whirlpools to gain a bare livelihood, and how sometimes their boats were sucked in and buried beneath the waves that now looked so buoyant and sparkling. Then murky, tumultuous, menacing, fraught with danger and doom. For a few moments the little Ophelia would stand with her eyes fixed upon the wide expanse of sea, surging and heaving and swelling before her, while a feeling of awe would creep over her at the thought of a watery death, of the well-ming billows, of the down-sinking struggle, of the stifled breath, of the stopped sight and hearing, of all the heart despair of those poor-drowning souls of whom she heard tell, the brave fishermen. Then with the true happy ease of childish spirits, incapable of long dwelling upon a mournful idea, she would turn once more to her shell collection, admiring their pretty colours and curious shapes, and putting some of the larger ones to her ear that she might listen to the sea roaring within them, as it were distant, yet close beside her. These rambles abroad with Jutha were the pleasantest periods of the little Ophelia's sojourn among her foster family. When she was at the cottage itself, she was dull, uncomfortable, uneasy, with a vague feeling of disquietude and timidity, almost amounting to a sense of harm and danger. She felt herself strange and apart among so many people know why suited to her. After the first interest and curiosity excited by the vision of the little lady among them, Sigurd and his two elder sons, Harold and Ivar, took little notice of her beyond a passing nod, or a good-humoured grin when they were at home, which was not often or for long. They rose before it was well nigh light, and were out and off to work by daybreak, taking with them the means for their noontide meal, and returning to the cottage only in time for the supper, which immediately preceded their retiring to rest. Batilda was ever occupied with household drudgery, in which she frequently enlisted the services of Jutha, so that neither from the nurse or her daughter could the child obtain much companionship when within the house. She was thus thrown entirely upon her own resources, and these were few or none for procuring entertainment, never having learned to play or to amuse herself from any child of her own age. Children from each other learn the sports, as well as gain the ideas proper to their time of life, and it is seldom that a solitary little one either thinks, acts, or amuses itself like those who have been brought up in the society of others. She would for the most part, when at the cottage, sit still, watching Ulf, the idiot boy, with a sort of helpless, fascinated, involuntary attention. She had never been prevailed upon by his attempted advances towards an intimacy between them, any more than on the first morning when she had observed his hideous sport, and he had sought to lure her towards him to be hugged. But although she would never go close to him, or suffer him to approach her, yet she seemed to derive a sort of desperate pleasure and uncomfortable gratification, a strange, half-excited, half-dreading enjoyment in hovering about his vicinity, watching fearfully and wonderingly his uncouth ways. She looked tremblingly loathe at the very time she gazed upon him, shrinking and diverse while she hung about near his haunts, but it seemed as if she could not refrain from noting what possessed such mingled attraction and repulsion for her. She was with a kind of dismayed interest that she would stand aloof, silently, or sit perfectly still and motionless, to watch with fixed eyes and suspended breath the ugly odious Ulf. Once he was squatting near the hearth with a huge foot clasped in each of his large hairy hands, his chin resting between his knees, his leering, bloodshot eyes staring greedily towards a string of small birds which were dangling to roast by the wood embers. Have some," said he abruptly turning to the child as he became aware of her presence, they'll soon be done. The little Ophelia shook her head, but they're nice, I can tell ya. They're nice to sing, but they're nicer to eat. And he smacked his great broad lips that were drawn wide from ear to ear. Ophelia shuddered. Hark! how they frizzle! said he, and his large flapping ears moved and shifted as he spoke. Sniff! how savoury they smell! And the black pristly nozzles gape and expanded while the blood rushed into his face as was its won't when he felt pleasure, and all the lines of his countenance were contorted writhing to and fro as he gave his peculiar silent grin. Suddenly he clutched the roast in his fist and exclaiming, They're done! They're done! held it out towards the little girl, repeating, Have some! You'd better! while his eyes gloated beneath his shaggy brows at her and at the Viennes. Isn't it too hot for you to hold? asked the little Ophelia, as if she couldn't help putting the question, from wonder to see him grasp the burning food. Ha! Ha! The bears paused too tough to be scalded, and I like my victuals hot. He'd off, thrusting one of the birds into his mouth whole, crunching it through, bones and all, and then bolting it at one gulp. As the child listened to the noise he made, his fangs champing into the bones and mangled flesh, and looked at the savage greed with which he crammed, she thought he seemed some wild beast ravening his prey. There was something cruel and malicious in this idiot boy's mode of doing even simpler things than eating singing birds or killing flies, which gave an air of horrible meaning in the little girl's eyes to his acts. She saw him once tearing up a rose, and it seemed a tyranny and a barbarity as if inflicted on a sentient creature. Leaf after leaf fell as if they were rent limbs. When he held up the bear stalk, the stripped calyx and yellow center looking like a skeleton, and he twitched out the golden stamens as though they were eyelashes, or teeth. He appeared to take a ferocious delight in ripping up and destroying flowers, and would pluck off the winged petals from sweet peas as if he loved to deprive them of their seeming power of fairy flight. The vindictive satisfaction with which he exercised this power upon things of beauty and fragility, and the air of triumph with which he gloated over his work of ravage as he leered at her after each feat of the kind, made the little girl always feel somehow as if she were herself the bird, or the fly, or the rose, or whatsoever other object might chance to be the victim of Ulf's destructive propensity, and yet he expresses liking for her, not enmity, but it seems to her as if his liking were destruction. More than ever she shrinks from his approaches, yet still she cannot resist watching him, dread and disgust she feels, but with all a strange irresistible excitement which impels her to look upon what she fears and loathes. However this is only when bad weather keeps her indoors. When the sky is clear, and neither snow falls nor wind howls, nor mists hover, nor rain showers threaten, the little Ophelia coaxes Jutha abroad, and again they sally forth together for a long ramble through forest, field, or valley, among the rocks or along the sea shore. And then the young girl amuses the child with telling her quaint tales, and singing her old ballads, such as she has heard from her mother. There is one strange legend of a princess, who is shut up by the king her father in a high strong tower, to be safe from the bold seeking of an adventurous young knight who loved her well, but who had no other inheritance than his good sword and his brave spirit, to entitle him to match with one of so high degree. No wise daunted by the difficulty of obtaining his mistress, the knight-lover set forth for the strong tower, resolved to try a fortune and his own valour might not avail to rescue her thence. His road lay through a wild district where the storm-guards have their dwelling. He encountered successively Snorro, the divinity who holds the snow, hail, and sleet at his command. Froar! He who scatters the crisp and sparkling rhyme upon the branches of trees, hangs frost diamonds upon the leaves and weeds and upon every blade of grass, and bedrops the eaves of houses and roofs of cottages and mouths of caverns with long, slender, down-pending icicles. Dron-drawer! He who bids the cataracts take their rushing leaps over crag and fell, and the mountain torrents their roaring tumultuous course through rift and gully, sweeping all before them. And lastly he met Dum Brunderod, the mighty ruler of the thunder, the dread wielder of the destroying bolts, the speeder of the fatal lightning-stroke. But not all the tears of the storm-guards, not even the flashing glance and fire-darting nostrils of the thunder-ruler, who rolled angrily and threateningly by in his war chariot, casting furious glances, and hurling scoffing words at the daring mortal who ventured thither, could cause the brave heart of the night to blench one jot in its stout courage and determination. He restored the fierce glance, and gave back defiant words and reply to the storm-guards' contemptuous ones, saying that all the tears of earth, air, fire, water, of the sky above and of the dark regions below would vainly strive to conquer his resolution or to extinguish his love. That so long as life and limb were uninjured, his spirit would remain unvanquished, persisting still in its purpose to win his mistress or die in the attempt. The storm-guards burst into a loud peal of mirth, that shook the surrounding hills. They could not but laugh to hear the puny mortal declare his small, mighty will in opposition to theirs. The hearty laugh exploded with a crash that sent a thousand echoes roaring through upland and valley, while dumb Brunderod swore that the human pygmy was a fine fellow of his inches, and showed his spirit to becoming a better race, that for his part he knew how to allow for these fiery natures, hasty in their anger, prompt in their deeds, indomitable in their will, inevitable in their undertakings. He vowed that so far from resenting the night's defiance of his and his brother's storm-guards' power, that he applauded his ardour of courage and of love, and that it deserved the assistance it should receive. At first the night thought this promise of friendly aid and protection was strangely evinced, for there suddenly arose a tempest of such violence that it seemed threatening to carry all before it to destruction, himself included. A hurricane of wind tore up trees by their roots and scattered them far and wide. The torrents and cataracts pelted down the hills, as if they would have inundated the whole face of the plain. The heavens poured forth a deluge of snow, rain, sleet and hail all at once, while incessant claps of thunder rent the air, and sheets of lightning glared fearful illumination upon all this scene of gale and tempest. But when at length the night succeeded in forcing his way through the storm-blast, he found that it had done its master's work of beneficent help right well. For upon reaching the strong high tower he saw it leveled to the ground by a friendly thunderbolt, which had struck it, leaving his mistress unharmed, who stepped forth from the ruins, flung herself into his arms, and fled with him that instant to a far distant country where they lived happily thenceforth, safe from royal tyranny. There was another story of Juthus, which told of a wicked steward, who, left in his master's castle with charge to watch and guard from harm the Lord's only child, a passing fair daughter, proved false to his function of protector, stole the lady away from her home, and would feign of forced her into a marriage with his own unworthy self. But the unhappy maiden, resolved to die rather than suffer the degradation of such a union, flung herself from the window of the high chamber in which the false steward had confined her, and so untimely perished. Then the Lord, her father, returning home to his castle, and hearing how it had been despoiled by the miscreant in whom he had confided, ceased not until he had discovered his wronger, whom he caused to be tried for his heinous offenses, and sentenced to death. In consideration of his treacherous breach of trust, and the death his deed had caused, the false steward was broken on a wheel, and died in cruel torture. CHAPTER II One fine noon day when the heat of the sun had compelled Jutha and the little girl to seek the shade of the forest depths, Ophelia interrupted the story, then telling, by exclaiming suddenly, Look, Jutha, see there! Jutha looked in the direction of the child's pointing finger, and saw to her surprise a milk-white horse, saddled and bridled, coming leisurely along beneath the trees, cropping the grass, and looking as if he had strayed from his fastenings. The beautiful creature! exclaimed Jutha, rising from the sea to Ophelia and she occupied on the spreading root of a tree. What costly housings it has! It looks like a fairy-horse, the steed of some of those gallant princes in the stories! And it is gentle, too! See how it lets me lay my hand upon its bridle and pat its neck! It is well-trained, and belongs to some noble master, doubtless. But who can he be? And where? The young girl held the rain, and looked about her in perplexity. While the white horse tossed its arching neck, nearly jerking the curb from her hand, pawed the ground and nade shrill and loud. Look, Jutha! Once more exclaimed the child. There among the trees on that mossy slope! Do you see? He is sleeping! said Jutha in a hushed answer, and soundly, too, not even the naing of his good horse can disturb him. The girl and the child crept a little nearer to the figure they saw lying there. It was that of a man, in a rich hunting-dress. His plumed hat had been placed so as to shade his eyes during sleep, but it had fallen partly aside, and showed a face finely shaped, with features marked and handsome. One hand supported his head, but the other, ungloved, was white, bore more than one jeweled ring, and lay carelessly near the half-open bosom of his vest, as if it had slipped then since slumber. A fit owner for such a gallant beast! murmured Jutha, as she turned to pat once again the neck of the steed, for the docile creature had suffered the young girl to retain his reign, and to draw him after her to the spot where his master lay. Sure! A prince! No less! Such a prince as they tell of in the wondrous tales I have heard! How passing beautiful he is! What can he be? Where can he have come from? From Fairyland. Or from the court, surely, added she as she looked again upon the handsome stranger. Are there such princes at the court? whispered Aphelia. I came from the court, they say, but I remember none such princes there. I remember no one but my own papa, my dear mother, my brother Laertes, and those but faintly. You were little more than a baby when you left them to come hither. It can hardly be that you should remember them, said Jutha. But I do, though only dimly, as if they were a long way off in the distance. And so they are, added the little Aphelia musingly. They are across the wide, wide sea, far away from me. But perhaps one day I shall see my own mama again. I remember how she looked well when she leaned her face close to mine as we sat together journeying here, and how sweet her voice sounded, and how soft her arm and her side felt as she hugged me close round against her. I wish I could have her to hug me close again. I wish she would come. I want to see her. I want my own mama. And the child looked and spoke plaintively, impatiently. Hush, dear child! said Jutha soothingly. Look at this brave stranger! See how bright and handsome his clothing! Look what a goodly, beautyous face he hath! He is as glorious to behold as the king's son who had a fairy for his godmother. Whether it was the plaintive tone of the child, or the animated one of her companion, which penetrated the drowsed senses of the sleeper, they were together sufficient to awaken him. He opened his eyes and beheld the two young girls standing there opposite to him, with his coarser between them, the bridal rain in the elder's hand. I have brought your horse, sir," said she, dropping her simple curtsy. He was straying. And a fair damsel to bring ere and night his palfery could not be found in all the realm of enchantment. Said the stranger, springing to his feet and receiving the bridal from her. Surely I have wandered upon charmed ground, and you are one of its denizens. A plain country maiden, none other, sir, and this her mother's nurse-charge," said Jutha, curtsying once again, and presenting the little Ophelia. Still a charmer, an earthly charmer, if you will, yet no less bewitching," said the handsome stranger. Prithee, tell me thy name, pretty one, and I will tell thee mine. It is Eric. And mine is Jutha, sir, at your service. Nay, and thou volunteerst to serve me, to do my bidding, pretty Jutha, thou must call me by my name, as I call thee by thine. So thou wouldst pleasure me, thou wilt know more, say, sir. I would please you, indeed, sir—Eric, and I knew how. It pleasures me, believe me, to hear my own name spoken with an artless tongue, and with a blushing innocence of face like that I look upon. Truly thou seems to an opening rose, Jutha, and yonder quiet little thing, a close furled bud, that promises to be just such another flower of beauty as thyself, when she shall have reached thy age of bloom. In good faith, I may thank my Lady Fortune, who brought me weary from the chase, to cast myself down in an enchanted wood, that I might dream a waking dream such as this. You were— Hunting, then, sir Eric, said Jutha, when, as she spoke, a mounted horseman rode up, and addressing the stranger in a tone of respect that showed them to be servant and master, announced that the chase was concluded, adding that his majesty had noticed the Lord Eric's absence, and had desired some one to search the wood, and collect stragglers from the hunting-train as the royal party was now returning. "'Tis well, Trasco, ride thou on, I will speedily overtake thee, and tend his majesty,' said Lord Eric. Then, vaulting into the saddle, he raised his hat, kissed his hand, and saying, I must obey the king's command now, but I shall find a time to see more of my wood-nymphs.' Gave the spur to his horse, and was gone. There was an end of the storytelling for that day. Jutha could talk of nothing else during the rest of the ramble but of the noble stranger, of his handsome face and figure, of his gallant bearing, of his milk-white steed, of his unexpected appearance, and of his speedy departure. Perhaps it was because she had so thoroughly exhausted the subject, in thus discussing it with her young companion, or perhaps it was because they found on their arrival the thoughts of all at home engaged with other matters, but Tilda being busy scolding Ulf in preparing the evening meal, and the rest bent solely upon having the supper ready as soon as possible. Not certain it is that the encounter in the wood was never mentioned at the cottage by either Jutha or Ophelia. The young girl seemed satisfied with the interest it awakened in herself, and the child was of a quiet, retiring nature, which seldom induced her to communicate much with those around her. She was habitually silent, observant, rather than given to make remarks and words, contented to look on, to listen, to notice what was passing, and to let others speak and act while she held her peace. The nurse, but Tilda had long left her wholly to the care of Jutha. The good woman saw that the young girl and the child sufficed in companionship to each other. While she herself had ample employment in the care of her idiot son Ulf, whose gormandising propensities and mischievous pranks required her utmost vigilance. At one time he was found in the dairy, scooping the cream off the pans with the palms of his hand, and holding out some in his great hairy paw to the little Ophelia, who stood there as usual, half quakingly, half wonderingly, then supping it up himself, lest it should trickle and waste before she would advance. His mother cuffs him soundly, nay, gets a stick and belabors him as long as she has breath, but the loud only pretends to blubber. Haven't you done yet, mother? While by his sly grin he shows that her woman's arm fails to inflict any very severe chastisement. Cub, that thou art, thou shalt feel the weight of thy father's cudgel, and I kept thee at any more of thy pilfering tricks. At another time he was discovered in the storeroom, stealing the honey-combe that had just been collected from the beehives. Ophelia finds him there, lurking in a corner, sucking his paws with greedy joy gleaming in his eyes. They call me Ulf the bear, ha-ha, the bear's fond of honey, he said with a grin, as he swilled and licked the handfuls of streaming-chrome. Taste! It's luscious, nice! Taste some of the bear's honey! And with his usual uncouth wish for her to share, he held some towards the child. She shrank back. It isn't yours, best not touch it. Hush! Mother'll hear. But his mother had already heard. She fetched Sigurd, who happened that day to be at work upon something that wanted doing at the cottage, and in a few minutes more Ophelia stood scared and trembling at the terrible sounds that reached her ear, of the father's blows, of Ulf's cries, more like the howls of a wild beast than anything human. Among these rough cottage-people, more and more did the child feel herself alone in a part. Her shyness and sparing speech grew upon her. She was not unhappy, but she became grave. Strangely quiet and reserved for a little creature of her years, and so confirmed in her habit of silence that she might almost have passed for dumb. She might be said to feel her uncongenial position without understanding it. She did not comprehend what made her serious, but she was rarely disposed to cheerfulness. She did not know why she was disinclined to talk, but she seldom met with any inducement to open her lips, and insensibly she kept them closed. With her sweet, earnest eyes, her placid, though unsmiling countenance, and her still demeanor, she had a look of reflection, of pensiveness, that better becomes womanhood grown than childhood. Childhood should be free from heed, light-hearted, undreading, encouraged in its frankness, its confidence, its every hopeful, eager thought and word. Still however she had won resource, her one companion with whom she could assimilate and feel at ease. With Jutha, rambling abroad, she was never dull, never sad. With her her heart knew no heaviness, no misgiving, no loneliness. With her her spirits rose to gladness, and she was for the time unreservedly happy. She used to spring forth into the open air like a young bird, newly franchised, escaped from restraint, and soaring into its native element of buoyancy and freedom. With her hand in Jutha's, she would bound along, eager to take her fill of liberty, body, and mind. Her spirit, no less than her limb, seemed to revel in this season of unrestriction. For she then knew the joy that knows not how it is joyful. She felt the glee that asks not why it is glee. The joy and the glee of that age which should know no shadow of care. For some reason best known to herself, Jutha now invariably took the way towards the wood. Their former walks among the rocks or along the seashore were all abandoned, on some pertext or other, in favour of the path which led through the forest. And the little Ophelia, loving the mysterious grandeur of its high-arching trees, was well pleased it should be their constant resort. On one of the first mornings they returned there, they had strolled far into its woody recesses, Jutha as usual entertaining her young companion with tales and marvels, but her tone was hurried, her attention seemed elsewhere, and her look, expectant at first, grew every moment more thoughtful and vexed. Suddenly it brightened, and Ophelia, following the direction of her eyes, saw coming towards them the figure of Lord Eric on his milk-white horse. He threw himself from the saddle the moment he described them, and eagerly approached. He seemed overjoyed to meet his nymphs of the wood, and sauntered long by their side, leading his horse by the bridle, talking, and laughing animatedly. He shared their grassy seat when they stopped to rest from the noontide heat. He shared the contents of their basket when they produced their noontide meal, declaring he had never tasted day-tier fair. He gave himself up to the spirit of the forest ramble, as though he could wish no pleasanter enjoyment. Morning after morning he returned to make one in the wood-party, and never had the hours thus spent seem to fly by so lightly. Certainly Jutha found it so, for the shadows of evening would steal upon them with warning to return home ere she could well believe it to be afternoon. The little Ophelia was less charmed with this addition to their society. She cared not that the stranger should come. She had always found sufficient delight in listening to Jutha, in walking and wandering with her. And though this gentleman was a very sprightly companion, and talked gaily and good-humoredly, yet as his conversation was chiefly addressed to Jutha, and was often carried on in a voice that scarce reached beyond her ear, it soon became productive of little entertainment to the child. Gradually it grew to be exclusively confined to the two others, and the little girl was left to entertain herself as best she might, with her own thoughts or her own resources. She by degrees perceived that they were too much occupied with each other to be able to give much attention to her. She had hither too been accustomed to have every question answered, every enquiry satisfied. Her friend Jutha had till now been always ready to furnish her with replies, and even to supply her with fresh store of amusement from her own talk. It was otherwise since this stranger had intruded upon their pleasant wood rambles. Jutha had now no look, no word, but for him. But then she herself seemed so contented that her child friend could not altogether find it in her heart to regret what made Jutha so evidently, so radiantly happy. She had never seen her look so full of joy, so full of spirit. Her eyes sparkled, her color rose, her voice had exultation in its tone as she took her way with aphelia to these rambles in the wood, where they were sure to be joined by their new acquaintance. Once on meeting him the child saw his face assume a vexed look as it rested upon her. He turned to Jutha, and pointing to a nose-gay she wore in her bodice, he said, Why bring flowers? I can gather you some fresh here. Leave them at home, I beseech you another time. Especially the rose buds. He said the last words with emphasis, though he dropped his voice as he uttered them. But Jutha answered simply as she drew the flowers from her bosom. I brought them for you. I thought you would like some of our garden blossoms. They are but wild flowers that grow here in the wood. He took them from her offered hand. I love wild flowers—wood flowers, best of all. Yet I thank thee that thou thoughtst of Eric in gathering these, said he in his low-breathed tones. Still, can't thou not still farther pleasure him, by omitting to bring with thee the green unopened bud? Thou knowest, the blowing rose with its rich beauty of color and fragrance, is the one he could look upon, never tiring, to the exclusion of every flower else. He glanced for an instant at Ophelia, as he pronounced one part of this speech, with a look which she had before noted in his face, and which had told her plainly enough that he not only ceased to include her in the conversation he addressed to his nymphs of the wood, but that he would be heartily glad to have her out of hearing, nay, to be rid of her presence altogether. The child thought to herself, he wishes me away, but till I see that Jutha does also I shall not go. I wish he were away. Jutha and I were very happy together till he came. I know what he means about the rose-bud, but till I find Jutha wants me out of hearing, I shan't stir. So far from Jutha wishing her to leave them, Ophelia could hear that she was resisting Lord Eric's urgently repeated request, that she would send the garden rose-bud to gather wild ones, with such sentences as, I dare not indeed, my lord, my mother gives her to my care. I must not let her stray out of sight. He seemed still to plead against these objections, to overrule them by asking what harm could come to her charge in this quiet, solitary place, adding, Send her from us. I cannot speak to you as openly as I would, sweet Jutha, with that child listening to every word I utter. I want to speak to you fully, entirely. What can you have to say to me, my lord, that she may not hear? You can have not to tell me that." Jutha's voice trembled, and a bright color stole into her face. And in a voice that strove for more firmness, but which still hesitated, she went on. Were I to send her away, she would be sure to come back in fewer moments than your lordship thinks. She does not like to be from me long. For however few moments, for however short a space, I would have you to myself were it but for one instant. Do not refuse me, Jutha. The young girl seemed still to hesitate, and the child could hear him mutter some reproach about want of confidence and not trusting him, which seemed to have more effect in moving Jutha than anything he had yet said. She stopped, hung her head, and faltered something in reply. Lord Eric led her to a seat on the turf beneath a goodly beach-tree. Then turning to Ophelia, he said in his most persuasive tone of gaity and good humor, as he unfastened the knot of a bright silken scarf which hung across his shoulder, Here, take this, my little maid, I give it thee for a sash, and thou wilt go gather me all the gay crow-flowers, king-cups, and daffy down-dillies thou canst find in the forest, to make a chaplet for this queen of the woods, thy fair friend, Jutha. I don't want the sash, said the little Ophelia, drawing back as he attempted to put it round her. Nor do you want the flowers. You want me to go away, out of hearing, while you tell Jutha some secret do you have for her. I do not care to do what you wish, because you tried to make me believe the pretence of the flowers and the sash. Instead of asking me at once to leave you. But I do care to please Jutha, and if she tells me she wishes to listen to your secret without my hearing, I will go away at once. Jutha said nothing, but there was the bright color in her cheek which Ophelia could see, though the young girl still hung her head. Jutha is curious to learn the secret you have to tell her. I can see she is, said the child, peeping under her friend's drooping face. I'll go, then, and I'll stay away a long while that you may have your talk out freely. The young girl made a faint attempt to detain her, but it was unperceived by Ophelia, who walked straight away among the trees, bent upon relieving them of her presence. Once out of sight and hearing of her late companions, the child strode on more leisurely, now pulling some stray twig or blossom that caught her eye as she rambled along, now stopping to peer into some briary tangle of close underwood, some leafy break or thicket where she fancied she would spy a bird's nest. Now halting to watch some scrambling squirrel that would dart up the barky trunk of a high tree, till he reached the topmost bow, whence he would slyly peep down at her in triumphant security, and still as she wandered on, trying to amuse her thoughts thus, they would ever and anon recur to the question of what could be the secret the gentleman had to tell Jutha. It why should I ponder farther upon it? It is clear they do not wish I should know it, or they would not have sent me out of the way while it was telling. If I endeavour to find it out by guessing, it is almost as bad as trying to do so by listening. I won't guess any more. I won't even think about it. I'll see if I can find the beautiful white horse, and amuse myself by feeding him." And many times after this, Ophelia was glad to find in the noble horse a source of entertainment during her solitary rambles. For her walks in the forest were all solitary now. Whatever might be the secret Lord Eric had to tell, it was evidently not to be told in one conversation. For time after time he made pretext to send Ophelia away, while he and Jutha talked alone. And the child, finding that her friend no longer sought to detain her by her side, left them together undisturbed. Though she herself could not feel so happy, separated thus frequently from her kind girl companion, with whom she had formerly spent such pleasant hours, yet so long as Jutha seemed the happier by the arrangement, Ophelia could fancy that it contented herself. But after a time Jutha's look of joy faded. Her spirits that at first seemed almost too exuberant as if they must needs express the secret gladness she hoarded at heart in bright looks and a mirthful tone of voice that finding speech too sober would often break forth into bursts of song, varied frequently. The air of inward ecstasy and conscious rapture involuntarily betraying itself in a thousand vivacious gestures was exchanged for an appearance of anxiety and uneasiness. There were moments when her joyful looks rekindled, her exuberance of gaiety returned, but it was fitfully, her spirits fluctuated, she was alternately at height of glee or lost in thought. She would still in her cheerful moments break out into snatches of the song which was her favourite at this time. For Bonnie, sweet Robin, is all my joy. Being with an eager look and exulting expression of voice, but there was solicitude mingled with the eagerness, there was forced mirth in the tone of exultation. These periods of cheerfulness grew rarer and less lasting. They were more often replaced by fits of thoughtfulness and brooding anxiety. The sparkling bright up look gave way to a downcast expression, or when the eye was raised it was with a beseeching appeal in its tearful sadness. CHAPTER IV The altered manner of the young girl escaped the notice of the cottage inmates, but the child observed the change in her friend and sorrowed wonderingly. Once returning to the bank where she had left Jutha seated in one of her saddest moods, Ophelia found her restored to sudden gaiety. Lord Eric had arrived while the child was away, and was talking cheeringly and encouragingly to his companion, while one of his arms was thrown about her, holding her close to him. Jutha withdrew from the clasping arm as the child approached, looking bashful and embarrassed, but at the same time so happy and so much her bright former self, that Ophelia in her innocent affection for her friend, could not help hoping that their forest acquaintance might always come and console Jutha with his kindness of word and manner when she should be out of spirits. But time goes on, and the young girl's dejection increases. Ophelia finds her one evening, sitting by the rivulet, ringing her hands and sobbing. The child soothes her fondly, asking what grieves her. Jutha attempts to deny that she had been weeping, but Ophelia replies, You bathe your eyes in the water of the stream that I may not see the tears, but I know that you have been crying. Tell me what makes you cry, Jutha. Jutha only shook her head, trying to stifle a sob that would be heard. If you care not to tell your grief to such a little thing as I am, who can comfort you with no help or counsel? Why not tell your mother what grieves you? I often wish I could tell my own mama what I think and feel. Tell our good mother if anything grieves you, Jutha. Nothing grieves me. I can't tell her. Faulted the young girl. Then tell our friend of the wood, your friend, Lord Eric. He seems kind and fond of you, Jutha. So long as he is fond of me, so long as he is my friend, nothing can grieve me, said Jutha. But nothing does grieve me. Come, what are we talking of grief? Let us return home, and I'll tell you a story by the way. I shall like that. It is long since I heard one of your stories, Jutha. I shall love to hear one again. Jutha rejoiced to find that she had succeeded, as she had hoped to do, in turning the child's attention from herself to the promised tale. But though Ophelia looked up in her friend's face with the eagerness of expectation, it did not prevent her from noting, with the sorrowing acuteness of loving perception, the many tokens of altered mean to be read there. She remembered Jutha's brilliant colour, her beautiful face with its sunny look of health and liveliness, her easy, alert gait, the spotless nicety of her neat-fitting garments, and those so young a child, Ophelia perceived the contrast they presented with the thin white cheeks, the hollow eyes, the slouching heaviness of person and carriage, the disordered dress, the general air of depression and self-abandonment. The change, although so great, had been so gradual, that the parents and brothers of Jutha, in their obtuseness of perception and care of other matters, had still not observed it. But it had long attracted Ophelia's eye, and now it smote upon her heart with more painful force than ever. "'How the wind howls! What a dreary autumn evening it is,' said Jutha, looking round her at the darkening sky. "'See how the leaves whirl and fall! The trees will all be bare soon. And then comes the winter—cold, cold winter. No more forest walks when the trees are bare. They bore him bare-faced on the beer. That's not the song I'm thinking of,' she muttered. "'You think of sad songs now, Jutha,' said the child. "'Where are your merry ones?' "'Where, indeed—gone—all gone. He is gone—he is gone, and we cast away moan. Aye, that is it!' And she began to chant in a mournful voice. And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead. Go to thy deathbed. He never will come again.' "'Who is dead, Jutha? You frighten me,' said the child. "'No one is dead,' said the young girl quickly. Who said he was dead? They say dead and gone, but we may be gone without being dead, may it be little one.' She spoke in a sharp, abrupt tone as if she would feign have made it sound justingly. Then she hurried on. "'Do you hear the owl-hoot? See yonder she flies, with her flappy wings and mealy feathers. I'll tell you a story about Dame Owl. I promised you a story, you know. Listen.' "'I am listening, Jutha.' The young girl told her the legend as she had heard it. She told her that when he who had pity in his heart for the various wretch that crawls, for the dying thief, for the airing-sinner, even for her who sins were many. When he who taught divine pity and charity above all things, walked the earth in human shape, and suffered human privation in the plenitude of his merciful sympathy with poor humanity, it once upon a time befell, that he hungered by the way, and seeing a shop where bread was baking, entered beneath the roof and asked for some to eat. The mistress of the shop was about to put a piece of dough into the oven to bake, but her daughter, pitiless of heart, declaring that the piece was too large, reduced it to a mere morsel. This was no sooner done, than the dough began to swell and increase, until an amazement at its miraculously growing size, that the baker's daughter screamed out like an owlet, "'Who, who, who, who?' Then he who had craved food held forth his hand, and in the place where she who lacked charity had stood screaming, there was a void. But against the window beating its wings, hooting and struggling to get out, was a huge, mealy-feathered owl. It forced away through, took flight, and was seen no more, accepting when some night-wanderer disguised the ill-oamened bird skulking in the twilight wood, or obscure grove, and then he murmurs a prayer, to be delivered from the sin of uncharitableness, as he thinks of the transformed baker's daughter. That evening on their return to the cottage, it seemed to Ophelia that those at home first became aware of the change in her friend Jutha, which she had so long perceived and lamented. But it also strangely struck her that instead of this discovery awakening kindness and compassion towards the sufferer, it appeared to excite rather anger, reproach, and even invectives. Their voices were raised in a confusion of questions, threats, and expressions of wonder, with which they assailed the young girl, in an incoherent clamour, from which the child could make out nothing clearly. The mother bemoaned her own and her daughter's fate. The father murmured deep curses. The two elder brothers strode angrily to and fro with menacing looks, ground teeth, and clenched hands. The idiot boys, that gibbering and croaking a harsh wailing cry in one corner, adding to the general discordance. Jutha had flung herself upon a chair in the midst, upon the back of which she leaned, burying her face in her arms. From time to time she uttered convulsive sighs. Heavy sobs burst from her, each seeming to rend her frame asunder. But else she preserved a sullen, despairing silence, as soul replied to the clamorous inquiry that surrounded her. Ophelia crept away softly to bed, unable to make out the meaning of this distressful scene, and marveling much why they should show displeasure instead of sorrow at Jutha's illness, why they should seem to resent rather than to compassionate, why they should overwhelm her with reproaches in the midst of her unhappiness, instead of seeking to comfort and console. For some time she lay pondering on these things, full of concern and wonder, wishing Jutha to come to bed, that she might assure her of her sympathy at least, and longing to see if caresses and loving words of pity and tenderness might not avail to lessen her poor friend's grief. But the hours crept on, and the little one's affectionate anxiety yielded to drowsiness. She slept. But it was an uneasy sleep, full of dreams, and haunting ideas of wretchedness and perplexity. From this slumber she awoke strugglingly, and with a beating heart. It was pitch dark. She felt that many hours had elapsed, and that it was the dead of night. She stretched out her arms to feel for Jutha at her side. But no Jutha was there. In alarm she started up. What could have kept her away? Was she worse? Was she unable to move? Was she still in the midst of that confusion of angry voices? The child listened. All seemed still below. What then could prevent Jutha from coming up to her room, to lie down and to get the rest she so much needed? In alarm for her friend, in an irresistible desire to learn how she was and what detained her, Ophelia stole out of bed, and groped her way downstairs. On reaching the door of the sitting-room, she saw a bright streak from the crevice at the bottom, which showed her there was light in the room. She felt for the latch above her head, and succeeded in finding and unfastening it. She pushed open the door, but the blaze of light from within suddenly contrasted with the obscurity from which she had emerged, made her pause. She stood on the threshold, gazing in. Trying to distinguish the object the room contained. On the large table, which occupied the centre of the apartment, lay something extended which was covered with a white cloth. At one end were ranged as many iron lamps as the cottage household afforded, burning in a semi-circular row. Amazed at this strange sight, the child advanced. And with an uncontrollable impulse, walked straight up to the table, and raised the end of the white cloth, nearest to the lamps. The light fell upon the object beneath. Old and shuddering, the child looked upon that which was so familiar, yet so strange. Could that indeed be the face of Jutha? That white, still, rigid thing, with those breathless, motionless lips, and those eyelids that looked fixed rather than closed. And what was that, lying upon her breast and circled by her arm? A little, little face. A baby's face. It looked so transparent, so waxen, so pretty, though so strangely image-like, that the child involuntarily stretched forth her finger and touched its cheek. The icy cold shot with a sharp thrill to her heart, and she screamed aloud as she turned to Jutha's face, and flung herself upon it with wild kisses and tears. Batilda, hearing the cry, came running in. She used her best efforts to calm the morning in a frighted child, carrying her up to bed, lying down by her side, folding her in her arms and speaking fondlingly and soothingly to her until she dropped to sleep. But it was long ere this was accomplished, and for many successive nights the nurse had to sleep in the room with her charge, that she might be won to rest. The shock she had received was severe, and long left its effects upon her sensitive organization. Naturally gentle, she became timid, she shrank about, scared and trembling, fearful of she hardly knew what, but feeling unassured, doubtful, full of a vague uneasiness and alarm. Ulf's hideousness shows more horribly than ever in her eyes. He seems to her some fiend-like creature as he crouches there, drawing the flaps of his ears over till the tops reach beneath his chin, pulling his nether lip down and turning it inside out till it lies stretched and spread, displaying his cankered gums and his yellow and black teeth, some flat like tombstones, some long, narrow and sharp like the fangs of a dog. His manner to herself puzzles and torments her, for it is capricious, and varies accordingly as he meets her alone or with others. When the family are present he treats her roughly, speaks of her jeeringly as the little princess or the little court-lady, and twits her with pride, complaining of her silence as haughty, her keeping him at a distance as arrogant and insolent. Then, however, by any chance they are by themselves, he becomes cajoling and tries all means to affect his purpose of approaching her or getting her to come to him. He spares neither fair words, weadling tricks or shy devices to lure her within reach of his paws, but neither fawning nor stratagem succeed. Now more than ever she resists his advances and contrives to elude his contact. The former curiosity which had mingled with her disgust at this idiot boy, letting her to observe his uncouth ways, yielded entirely to the loathing she felt for him, and she now dreaded and avoided him as sedulously as she had once watched him. Upon one occasion, however, her vigilance in preventing his coming near her was frustrated. He was close upon her before she was aware. She had been wandering out towards the wood. It was winter now, and the frost hung its glittering fretwork upon bush and briar. She had been thinking how cheerless and desolate all seemed, in despite of the brilliancy of the white tracings round, since her companion Jutha was lost to her, and could never more come thither, to share her admiration of winter frost, spring buds, the rich luxuriance of summer leaves and blossoms, or the mellow hues of autumn. She had been pondering upon the mystery of her friend's change of spirits, her sadness, her illness, her death, and then, as there were no flowers to be found in that sullen season, she gathered a branch of wild rose which bore its winter fruitage of scarlet haws and bright profusion, that she might place upon Jutha's grave the best semblance that might be of a tributary garland. The child repaired with her offering to the quiet nook where she knew her friend was laid, and there, tired with her walk, oppressed with sad thoughts and numbdened to lethargy by the cold, she threw herself upon the low mound and slept. Not many minutes after she was perceived lying there, by Ulf, who crept stealthily towards her. Its little cord lady, and fast asleep, he muttered with a grin. No airs now, the bear shan't be balked of his hug this time. He leaned down over her. The hot breath reached her face, like the rank fumes of a charcoal furnace it seems to stifle her with his tainted oppression. She struggled and woke. To find that lowly visage hanging just above hers, instinctively to ward off its fearful approach, she clutched at the nearest thing at hand. It was the branch of wild rose, which beside its scarlet berries was thickly studded with thorns, and this she thrust with all her force against the impending face. The sharp appeal was effectual, the lout drew back, smarting and bleeding. The rose is prickly as well as pretty, he said, with a leer of idiot slinus, but we'll see if we can't pluck away its thorns and smell its sweetness in spite of them. But in raising his hand to free himself from the obnoxious branch which had rendered her such good service, Ulf gave the child an opportunity of slipping from his grasp. She was not slow to avail herself of the advantage, but dexterously pulling her skirts from beneath his knee, which in his rude eagerness he had set fast upon them, she succeeded in raising herself away from him, scrambling to her feet, and setting off to run at her utmost speed. It would have availed her but little had he pursued her, but it happened that she had not got many paces before she was joined by Petilda, who had come out to look for her, and Ulf at the sight of his mother slunk away, like a cur that fears detection. That night Ophelia lay awake, a prey to fancies and terrors that would not let her close her eyes. Petilda, after sharing her bed for many nights, thinking that the child had by this time recovered from the late shock, had left her to return to her own room after seeing her softly drop off into her first sleep. But from this the little girl had suddenly started, broad awake, trembling and agitated, the frightful dream she had been dreaming of digging down into Jutha's grave with a mad desire to look upon her face once more, of finding it only to see it change into that of Ulf, who raising himself from the coffin, groped among the mould, and drew forth a little baby's white arm which he felt as scratching and marring with briars. The horror of the sight awoke her. She struggled into a sitting posture, stared through the dim space, and found herself alone in that dreary room. She could just distinguish the blank square spot where the window was. There was deep snow upon the ground, which cast a sickly glare, the moon partially shining from amid haze and clouds. The familiar objects in the room looked shadowy and spectral in that uncertain light, and the child could get no assurance or steadying of her thoughts from looking upon them. At length it seemed to her that among them, there, yonder, at the farther end of the room she saw something move. It was dark, and stole along without noise, shapeless, indistinct, scarce scene but horribly present. She shuddered, and shrank beneath the bed-clothes. Her heart beat violently, and her head throbbed, so loud that she could have counted the thumps of each. She had a confused notion of trying to do this amid the distraction of hearing her teeth keep a bewildering countercurrent of strokes in a rapid timing of their own. Presently she clenched them firmly that she might listen to something that caught her ear beside the tumult of her own pulses. She thought she heard a muffled sound, as if something swept against the coverlet of her bed. In desperation she held her breath to listen the more acutely for what she so much dreaded to hear. Yes. Again the sound, as if something softly drawn along the side of the coverlet was repeated. And this time she felt the bed-clothes brushed by the passing substance. She would have shrieked aloud, but her parched throat refused to give utterance to the cry of terror that choked her. Could it be an animal? Was it anything alive? Or were there indeed wandering shapes of evil permitted to visit the earth in night and darkness as wild tales hinted? The child's dismay hurriedly pointed to such questions, but on a sudden her attention was attracted to quite a different source. There was a noise of trampling feet in the snow outside, a sound of many voices, aloud knocking at the door of the cottage, and upon her finding courage to look from beneath the bed-clothes. She could see the light of torches flashing and gleaming through the window. Then there came a stir in the house, a hurry below, hasty steps ascended the stairs, and in another moment the door of her room was flung open, and in the midst of the stream of light that poured in a figure appeared, which rushed forward to the bed where she lay, exclaiming, My child, my dear, dear, child, my little Ophelia! Mama! was the instinctive reply, as the child felt herself gathered into the soft security of a mother's bosom. In the confusion no one had remarked the cowering form of Oph who darted from a lurking place by the bedside and made his way out through the open door just as the others passed into the room. It was he who, in his brutish pertinacity of desire to obtain the hug he promised himself, had alarmed the child by prowling stealthily about her chamber in the dark. But now, no more fear, no more harm, she was surely happily sheltered. The Lady Udra could not sufficiently feast her eyes upon her daughter's face. Again she scanned every feature, noted every particular of look and expression, sought eagerly each mark of remembered appearance, and traced each vestige of growth and alteration. As she gazed, she became aware of the burning spot that glowed and deepened in the young cheek, the too bright sparkle of the eyes, the unnatural restlessness of the lips, which at length wore an almost vacant smile, while the fingers idly played among the long curls of her mother's hair drooping over her. In alarm the Lady caught her child's hand in hers, it was feverishly hot. I have been culpably unheedful, inconsiderate. I shall have my own rash selfishness to blame, should the surprise have been too much for my darling. Yet who would have expected such sensitiveness, such susceptibility in one so young? Dear child, mother's own treasure, mother's little tender one. Fondly, gently, she said about repairing the mischief she feared she had done. She shaded the light away from the two eager eyes. She coaxed them to close, to cease to look upon her, by clasping one of the hands in hers that the child might know she was still there. She lay down beside her, parting the hair back upon the heated forehead, giving her from time to time cooling drinks, and suggesting none but peaceful happy thoughts, in the low, soft talking she murmured the while in her ear. And thus the child fell into slumber, but for some hours it was a disturbed, uneasy one, giving the Lady many a pang of dread and self-approach. Violent startings, abrupt twitching of the limbs, talking in her sleep, muttered ends of songs and mournful tunes alternately alarmed the watcher. Once the little girl sprang suddenly up, trembling, and looking about her with a sacred eagerness of expectation, clinging convulsively to the arm stretched to receive her. But when she felt herself enfolded within a mother's embrace, when she found herself safe nestling against a mother's heart, cherished by a mother's affection, guarded by a mother's care, she yielded tranquilly, blissfully, to a sense of perfect repose. Lapped into that balmy atmosphere of maternity, she sank into profound rest. Holy Mother Love, nearest semblance vouchsafe to mortals of divine protection, benignest human symbol of God's mercy to man. There is a blessed influence, a sacred joy, a plenitude of satisfaction in the very presence of a mother, that plainer speaks the mysterious beatitude of heaven itself to earthly intelligence than odd else in existence. End of Part 4