Chapter V: Book II: Lotta Hedman (1)

ONE day toward the end of September 1915 a train came down from Norrland to the south. In a third-class compartment sat a young woman, very simply and decently dressed in black, with a black hat almost devoid of trimmings. She was talking to her fellow travellers. She was not afraid of raising her voice at times, and the voice in itself being somewhat shrill, she could be heard by all those near. It was soon evident that this was the first time she had travelled on the railway. And the strangeness of it all, coming out into the world and meeting strange, kindly people, seemed to have lifted her to a sort of ecstasy. All that she had been unable to find outlet for during years of life in a confined situation broke out now. She talked unceasingly, and always of herself. She was loth to lose an opportunity of letting people know who she was, and what strange message she had to bring.

"And I'm just one that's never studied at all, beyond the Bible," said she. "My head's not heavy with knowledge. Not all confused with doctrines of error. I am as an unwritten page; as the white scroll on which God Himself writes His own thoughts. And I was born far away in Lapland, and live in a little settlement, and every day I go to work at a box factory, and I'm all alone and poor, and neither husband nor child. And nobody asks whether I live or die, and nobody comes to see after me if I'm ill, and there's no one there at home that I can talk to about what's most of all to me. And I know well enough that people make fun of me behind my back, and I'm already getting shy of going about among people."

A kindly old lady sitting opposite, who had entered into conversation with her at first, and got her to speak, now laid a hand on her knee, as if to calm her, but she went on, as if driven by an irresistible inner force.

"And all my days Death has been after me like a ravening wolf. His strivings after me have been manifold. He tried to compass me about while I was yet in my mother's womb. He sent forth a madman to frighten my mother, and I was born into the world too early, and a weak and wretched thing at birth. And once he tried to drown me when I was bathing, and once, out in the forest, he let a tree fall on me, and once he sent a serpent to bite me in the foot when I was out picking berries, and once he threw me down from a scaffold on a building. And he's plagued me with sickness beyond counting."

It was not only her opposite neighbour that listened to her now. A peasant and his wife, sitting next to her, followed her words with the greatest attention. The tone and the choice of words reminded them of mission meetings, and they put on an almost pious expression.

"And in the days of my youth," went on the girl--she could not have been more than twenty-six or twenty-seven at the most--"I stretched forth my arms to God, and asked Him why He suffered Death to persecute me with sickness and wounds, but now, these last few years, I have ceased to ask. I know now that the Evil One strove to strike me down because it was God's purpose to speak through me; yes, out of my mouth God should set a barrier against the raging of the Enemy."

She paused for breath, and looked round, but finding only kindly looks and attention among the rest, she went on again:

"And I have wondered in myself why I should live so far away in the north, and why I should always walk the same little streets and never see anything of the glories of the world. Why have I been granted so little understanding to make my way and manage for myself, and why have I so little pleasure on that which pleases others? Why does the foreman at the factory never say a kindly word to me, however hard I work? Why should it be so hard for me to get milk, and why should I live in a little room where no one else would be?

"But now I have ceased from wondering of these things, for now I know that it is God that has made all waste and miserable about me. And I may be glad that He has not sent me out into the forests, or into the mountains, or sent me to live in a Lapp tent, and wander about with reindeer in the wilderness. I must be thankful that He has suffered me to dwell in a place where others besides myself have their homes."

It was not only the three sitting nearest who now gave heed to the young woman's words. One or two of those farthest off stood up to listen. "What was it?" some asked. Or, "Who was it carrying on like that for all the carriage to hear? Some of those Salvation Army people?"

"For it is God's will that my thoughts should be for Him alone," went on the woman in black. "It is His will that I should think and consider much; that I should interpret Daniel and make clear Ezekiel, and draw forth wisdom from the Revelations. And in the evenings, when others are dancing and feasting, Lotta Hedman sits with her Bible, sits searching after knowledge of God, and things are clear to her which no other in the world can understand."

A thrill of wonder went through all those who heard, and the speaker did not fail to notice it. The attention she had awakened egged her on; even if she had wished, she could not stop now till she had finished. Her long-closed lips moved now with or against her will.

"And in the winter nights, when the clock strikes twelve, and one and all Sweden has gone to rest, and the great white land lies stretched in the calm of sleep, I sit in a poor little room, a room so mean that no other would ever live there, and I see God's finger pointing to words and figures in Holy Writ. And then it is revealed to me how it shall be with all the others, all those who lie sleeping through the winter night. A revelation to me, poor and despised as I am, yet given to no other, to none among the learned and the worldly-wise."

Her voice rose yet shriller; the woman sitting opposite laid one hand again with a kindly touch on her knee. A conductor, making his round through the train, stopped to listen, wondering if one of the passengers had been suddenly seized with a fit of madness.

"And all that I have seen and learned, I have written down in plain words, and sealed and sent it to the King. To the great palace in Stockholm, a letter from the poor factory girl at Stenbroträsk, from one that the boys run after in the street, hunting and snarling like Lapp dogs after a wild she-wolf.

"And I have waited for many days for an answer from the King, but there has come no answer from the King. And I have written my letter all again, and sent it to the papers, and the papers would have nothing to do with my letter, but sent it back.

"And then I was greatly distressed, for my letter is more important than many things. For I know when the Great War is to end, and I know that after it shall come the great Destruction, when Nature shall lay waste the earth, but that after the Great Destruction shall come the bright Millennium. And I know that a third part of all mankind on earth shall perish in the Great War, and a third shall perish in the Great Destruction, but the last third shall be left alive in the Great Millennium, which is the Kingdom of the Lord on Earth."

The words, flung out with violent force, pierced many of the listeners like cold steel, and they shivered with dread. A few years earlier, such a speech would have been received with derision, but this was the second year of the World War, when all hearts were filled to the utmost with horror and expectation. Even in Sweden, no one could feel safe from day to day, but wondered what the Russians were about up at Haparanda.

"These things and much more--all are in my letter to the King. And I wrote to him and told him how he should act so that he and all in Sweden should escape the coming time of wrath, and how they might come to share in the Millennium of God.

"But I have prayed to God for help, and asked Him how my letter could be made known to the world, since no one will help me. And God has given me His commands, and told me what remained for me to do. For there is a great sin to be atoned for before my letter can be sent abroad and made known to all men. And it is to atone for my sin that I am going south to-day."

The excitement in the carriage was at its height. Here was one who claimed to know what all longed to know: when the war was to end. A voice from someone among those farthest off was heard asking her:

"When is the war to end?"

And many others took up the cry: "When is it to end? If you know, tell us, tell us now."

It seemed as if the end of all those horrors and perils that weighed down mankind were suddenly brought within view. Perhaps before long there might yet come a time when the murdering out in the great world was at an end; when men could think once more of other matters than of war; could live without suffering day and night from the thought of old women mourning, terrified fugitives, prisoners dying slowly in their captivity.

Peasants thought of the days when they would no longer have to send their sons and hired men to guard the still precarious neutrality of their country; small tradesmen, who had done flourishing business at the beginning of the war, but were now threatened with dearth of all commodities; workmen, who saw themselves face to face with increased cost of living and scarcity of the bare necessaries of life--all asked with one voice: "When is it to end? When is all this misery to cease?"

But the prophetess from Stenbroträsk did not seem to have expected such an effect of her words.

"It is all in my letter," she cried. "It shall be made known when I have atoned for my sin, and God lets my words be published abroad throughout the world."

There was a perceptible loss of interest among the listeners; evidently this woman knew no more than anyone else. Most of those who had risen sat down again.

And the end of her speech, the few words she uttered afterward were scarcely heard by any save the kindly woman sitting opposite, who had first spoken to her.

"And I have no time to write except at night," said the girl--"at night, when work is over, and then my fingers are stiff and unwilling, and I am not quick at writing properly. They talk differently in our parts. It makes me very tired, all the writing.

"And I live in poverty and wretchedness," she went on. "Poor and ill and alone, and living in a place where no one else would ever live, and I tremble to think of all that must come."

She had marked well enough that no one seemed to care any longer for her words. Her voice grew fainter, and there was a dreamy look in her eyes. At last she spoke only in a whisper, and lowered her glance. None but those nearest could hear what she said.

"But I pray to God to spare me, that I may live to be one among the purified host. I pray that I may be counted among that last third, and that I, who have been chosen to proclaim its coming when all despised me, may share in the Millennium of the Lord, and stand among the elect and see this earth resplendent in the glory of righteousness."

THE WONDERFUL MUSIC

THE long train from the north rolled on unceasingly from station to station. Those in the compartment where Lotta Hedman sat gradually got out: first the peasant and his wife, then the kindly woman who had got her to speak at first of who and what she was. Then there entered a man, who, by the look of him, might have been a lay preacher of some sort, and sat down in the comfortable corner. He had been in another part of the train before, and came now to find a better seat.

The newcomer at once entered into conversation with Lotta. He asked her whether any revelations had come to her before the time of the war, or if it was only since its beginning that she had been aware of her gift. He spoke in low tones, with a soft, gentle, and very winning voice, exhibiting the warmest interest, without either expressing doubt or faith. To others, his manner of speaking might seem irritating in its extreme humility, but Lotta Hedman was pleased to be addressed with some measure of respect, now that she had for the first time shown herself among strangers and revealed her calling.

"I should be glad indeed if you would tell me something about your visions," said the man. "It is too much to ask, perhaps, seeing that I am a stranger to you, but be sure I should feel it a great honour."

The young woman could not resist such an appeal, and began at once to tell about the first time she had noticed anything strange. But she spoke now with far greater calm than before. True, she raised her voice, and found also more listeners than the one directly addressed, but the man before her seemed unwittingly to exert a calming influence, and her eagerness was restrained.

"I was only fourteen at the time," she said, "and was just recovering from a serious illness that had been sent by my persecutor Death; I was very weak, and all my body felt as if it were withering and falling to nothing. But I did not live alone then, as I do now; I lived at home with my father and mother. And they were only poor peasant folk, but they cared for me in my weakness, and let me stay at home, instead of sending me out to service among strangers. And Mother asked no more of me than that I should help her with light work and errands, and read aloud a chapter of the Bible every day.

"There was no sawmill at Stenbroträsk in those days, and no box factory, and no workmen's dwellings, nor even the beginning of a settlement. All our side of the river there were no houses beyond a couple of small farmsteads. The church and the Deanery and the big farms were all over on the other side, just as they are now.

"Then, one Sunday evening, Mother told me to row over with some milk to the Deanery, for it was summer time, and everyone there had their cows out at a distance for months together, and they could not get milk nearer than from us.

"I got into the boat, and started to row across, and it was all so easy and light of a sudden. As if the heavy boat was turned to the lightest little thing, and the water changed to smooth, fine oil, and the oars to delicate wings. And everything was very quiet and still. The oars did not creak in the rowlocks, nor splash in the water, and there was no sound from either shore. Not so much as a cow-bell anywhere. No men and girls sitting talking on the banks, and all the swallows that always used to build in the high banks and were always fluttering and flying about outside their holes, they seemed to be gone all at once, and never a sign of them.

"And when I had rowed across, and taken the milk and started up to walk to the Deanery, it wasn't hard walking at all, though it was uphill all the way, and I had the sun right in my face. The sun didn't seem hot in the least, and the milk wasn't heavy at all.

"And I thought to myself they must be waiting eagerly for me, and it must mean something good for me somehow; for I had never found it so easy to get over there before.

"And then when I came into the kitchen, it was all quiet there too, and not a soul to be seen that I could give the milk to, so I had to stay waiting at the door.

"And then, almost as soon as I came in, I heard someone playing in one of the rooms above, and I could hear it so clearly I almost fancied it must be in the same room where I stood. And it was so beautiful, I was glad the housekeeper and the maid were not there, so I could stay quietly and listen. I was in no hurry to go now--I could have stood there the whole night and not wanted to go.

"At that time I'd never heard any sort of music but a harmonica and the old church organ at Stenbroträsk, and I wondered so much what fine instrument it could be that was playing now. And it wasn't any sort of tune I knew. Just long-drawn tones like a strong soughing of the wind, and full of sound, and so clear, it felt as if they stroked my cheek so gently, passing by.

"And I had such lovely, splendid thoughts as I listened. I felt as if I were freed from earth, and half-way up to God's heaven.

"Then someone came into the kitchen, and suddenly the wonderful music stopped.

"When the housekeeper had poured off the milk, she set out something to eat for me on the table, and told me to sit down. They had had a funeral that day, she said; it was the old lady that was dead, the Dean's mother, and they had had guests to dinner. And I was to have a little of the good things, she said.

"And because she was so kind and nice, I took courage, and asked who it could be that had played so beautifully up above.

"But the housekeeper, she was so astonished, she could hardly speak.

"'What's that you're saying, child? You can't have heard anybody playing up above. The piano's at the other end of the house, and we can't hear it out in the kitchen. And you can think for yourself there's no one likely to be playing music here the day old mistress is laid to rest!'

"Then nobody said anything for a time. I knew, of course, that I had heard what I had heard, but I didn't like to contradict.

"And the housekeeper, she sort of thought it over to herself a little, and then she began again trying to put me right.

"'It's old mistress's room that's here above the kitchen,' she said, 'and the last place in the world any one would ever think of playing music this day.'

"The tears came into my eyes then, for I knew she thought I had been telling untruth. And I felt like running away at once, only it would look so strange to run off before I'd finished what she'd given me.

"And then, what do you think? Just as I was sitting there wishing myself a hundred miles off, the door opens, and the Dean himself looks in and asks hadn't they heard the bell for evening prayers?

"And they were abashed at that and made excuses.

"'It's Lotta Hedman there; she frightened us so we forgot everything else. She says she came into the kitchen a little while back, when there was nobody here, and hears someone playing music up above. And we can't make it out, for we know surely enough there's no one here would play a note the day of the funeral.'

"And I, poor thing, being pointed out like that, I didn't know what to do with myself. I set down my knife and fork and pushed away my plate, and was just getting ready to run out of the door.

"'Music?' says the Dean. 'Now let us all give thanks to God. This is a wonderful act of grace indeed. I knew well that my dear mother would send a greeting if it were in her power. She would not leave me for all eternity without a sign to be a guidance to me living on in darkness and uncertainty.'

"And he came up to me and laid his hand on my head.

"'So you are one of the chosen,' he said. 'One of those appointed to bring tidings from the dead to the living. Well, well, it may be that God Himself will speak one day through you on earth.'

"And he said no more, only turned my face upward and looked deep into my eyes, and sighed, and went away.

"But when I rowed back across the water, I sat thinking of all that had happened that day. And I felt that in some strange way I was changed now, and could never be the same again.

"And that was the first time anything wonderful ever happened to me; the first time I found that I was appointed to see and hear things that are hidden from the wise and learned.

"And already I believed I was to be one of the prophets of the Lord, such as I had read of in Holy Writ. I believed I should one day utter forth words that should endure as long at heaven and earth. I believed I was to be exalted among mankind, and never dreamed that I should come to be only a poor working girl in a factory."

SIGRUN

THE stranger thanked Lotta Hedman sincerely for her story.

"I am more than glad that I happened to be in the train to-day," he said. "Ah, if we could only hear the heavenly music oftener! Then the world would be different in many ways."

With this remark he drew back into his corner. He pulled his hat down over his eyes, but Lotta Hedman felt sure that he had not done so in order to sleep, but to think at ease over what he had heard.

After a little she felt a powerful desire to speak with him again. "Talk to him of Sigrun. Ask his advice about your journey," said a voice within her very clearly. "But why should I speak of Sigrun to one who is a stranger to her and to me?" she protested to herself. Nevertheless, in a moment the desire was there again. "Speak to him of Sigrun! Look at him, now that his hat has slipped aside. A good man who has suffered much. And of a humble heart. Whoever he meets, however fallen and deep in sin, he holds them for greater than himself. To such a man one can speak of anything. Tell him of Sigrun!"

"No, Lotta Hedman, be careful! You are not at home in Stenbroträsk now, where you know everyone. How do you know this man is as good as you say? Perhaps he is even now laughing at you in his thoughts."

The train rolled on and on, from station to station. People got out and others entered. At a great junction where several lines met, all the passengers in the third-class carriage got out, except Lotta Hedman and the stranger sitting opposite.

Hardly were they alone when the man sat straight up in his seat, put his hat in the rack above, and began to speak.

He was kind and wise, cheerful, and, above all, gentle and humble in manner. It was this gentleness that marked him, so that people could not look at him for five minutes without longing to tell him all their troubles.

"That man would understand my weakness"--so thought all who met with him. "It would be good to speak with him. He would understand how hard it is for me."

And it was not long before Lotta Hedman broke off in the middle of a conversation about the box factory and work in Stenbroträsk.

"I should like to ask you about something," she said. "I am in trouble, and you know I live all alone and have no one to ask. Perhaps you could give me good advice."

"Do not say you want me to advise you," said the man. "I am surely but ill-fitted to advise. But tell me, at least, what it is that troubles you. You speak well, and this is a long journey. I am going all the way to Dalsland myself. It will be a couple of days before I get home."

"Well, it was this way. Once I had a friend. She was the eldest daughter of the Dean at Stenbroträsk. We were both going to be confirmed, and went to classes together."

Her voice choked a moment, and her eyes reddened.

"I never cared so much for anyone on earth as I did for her," she went on, after struggling a moment with her emotion.

The man sat quite still, making no attempt to hurry or assist her. He looked, indeed, somewhat embarrassed.

"Let me tell you how it was she first came to speak to me. Then you will understand what she was like."

"Do," he said. "That will be best. And take your time. We have all the day before us."

"Well, it was when we were going to the confirmation classes, and one morning, in the interval, some of us, a dozen, perhaps, were standing in a corner of the churchyard talking about a piece in the catechism. I remember one of the boys said he was sure God loved mankind, for He had made us, and so, of course, He must be pleased with His own work.

"Now the few of us standing there together, we were the youngest at the classes, and poor folk's children, all of us. The others, who were better and finer than the rest of us, walked up and down outside the church in little groups, and now and then stopped to gather round the Dean's daughter; she was going to be confirmed that year too. She was beautiful to look at, and there was something about her that drew people to her. You could hardly help looking over to where she was.

"But we others, we knew, of course, that we couldn't expect her to take any notice of us, and so we had to be content with standing in a corner talking about the catechism.

"'If we were all like her,' I said to the others, 'then God might well be pleased with us all.'

"It was the Dean's daughter we were thinking of, and then we all turned and stood looking at her.

"She had the loveliest soft brown hair, all curling at the temples and falling in soft waves over the brow and neck. A longish face, with thin cheeks and long eyelashes, and eyes like a deep well to look down in. And she seemed to be made somehow of finer stuff than the rest of us. Like some berries you can see through. She was rather tall, and walked with her head a little drooping to one side, and it seemed to us that suited her, with her looks and manner altogether."

The listener bent forward suddenly, covering his eyes with his hand. The vision of a dearly loved face rose up before him. He saw it now as it had appeared to him that day at sea, when beauty after beauty passed before their eyes. So strangely young and questioning.

"Sigrun was her name," said Lotta Hedman. "And it was an uncommon name, but that was not the only thing uncommon about her.

"Just on that day, watching her as she stood there, in the sunlight outside the church, I understood why it was one could not help looking at her.

"True, she was a human being like the rest of us. With eyes and nose and mouth as anyone else, and born in the Deanery at Stenbroträsk, and her parents ordinary people like everyone else's. But that could not deceive any with eyes to see. Sigrun was of another sort than ordinary people; she was from another world." The man, still sitting with his head resting on his hand, nodded involuntarily. That was the very word. From another world--a bird of passage that had lost its way, separated from its fellows, and somehow come among another flock not of its kind.

"For there _are_ other worlds," said Lotta Hedman. "Many worlds besides the one we live in. And Sigrun was from one of them. But perhaps you cannot understand?"

"Yes," said the man, "I understand. I have met someone myself once who was from another world. At least, I think I understand," he added, as if fearing he had spoken too confidently.

"And I slipped away into a corner under the belfry," went on Lotta Hedman, covering her eyes. "I wanted to think over what this meant; that Sigrun was different from all the rest.

"If she were from another world, then surely she must be able to see that I was one of the chosen, appointed one day to speak the words of God. And would she not want to speak to me herself? She who was better than all the rest, would she not be better able to judge and choose than they?

"But I was not left alone with my thought for long. The others came up, all of them from our corner, that did not dare to go up to _her_; they came and gathered round me.

"'Here's Lotta Hedman sitting crying, because Sigrun won't look at her,' said one.

"'Of course she won't--Sigrun to look at one like you, indeed, such a sight!' said another, and tried to make me see it the same way.

"'Look at your hair--sticking out all round your head like a wild bush.'

"And I sat still and let them go on. 'If it was only that,' I thought to myself. 'But it's because Sigrun is from another world, and that's worse than all the rest.'

"'And such a figure you've got,' said the others. 'No shape at all. You can never get your clothes to sit properly like others do. And your eyes are sharp and hard, and you've a voice like a raven....'

"Now I hadn't been crying before, but then I felt the tears coming, because the others were all so harsh and unkind, when they tried to comfort me.

"But then all of a sudden it seemed as if a warm, gentle light filled the air in front of me--like sunlight in a room on a cold winter's day.

"A cool, soft hand drew my hands away from my face, and when I looked up it was Sigrun standing there, and smiling at me, and asking if I would row her across in my boat later on, when we had finished lessons for the day.

"And though I knew that the others must have told her that I was only a poor girl, and always ill besides; though I knew it was only for pity's sake she asked me, still I felt so happy, so happy. Oh, you can never understand how wonderful it was to feel, and I loved her from that moment."

"And I loved her from that moment," repeated the listener to himself, and felt once more the touch of a woman's lips on his face, and a little merry laugh. "Though I knew it was only for pity's sake," he whispered to himself--"though I knew well it was only for pity's sake.

"Sigrun," he murmured half aloud, "why should you come back to me like this to-day? I thought I had sent you away for ever. Why do you come back now?"

Lotta Hedman went on with her story. "But that afternoon, when we were rowing across, she asked me, Sigrun, if it was I that had heard the wonderful music in the Deanery on the day of the funeral, and asked me to tell her all about it. And I told her that and more. All the other things I had seen and heard, I told her everything, and told her, too, that I believed I was to be a seer and a prophet of God. And she did not laugh at me. Only said quite humbly that she never saw such things herself, but her dearest wish was to be a nurse. Not for ordinary people, ill with this or that, but for those stricken by the plague, or leprosy. Or if that could not be done, then she would go and care for witless folk, or teach the blind to read or deaf-mutes to talk. Her greatest sorrow, she said, was that she feared her father and mother would not let her go away to such work.

"I can remember even now," said Lotta Hedman, "how beautiful she was when she spoke of that."

The man sitting opposite looked up a moment, and his eyes shone. "Your story is a great delight to me," he said. "Far more than you know."

"It is very good of you to say so," said Lotta Hedman. "I thought you would have been tired of it long ago."

"Do not think that," said he. "That girl--the Dean's daughter from Stenbroträsk--you might talk to me of her all the rest of the way, and I should not be tired of hearing. And then I suppose you were friends after the day you went out in the boat together?"

"Yes," said Lotta Hedman; "we were good friends--that is true. We went out in the boat nearly every evening, as long as the lessons lasted. Sigrun liked to sit in a boat and just drift up and down, not going anywhere, but just drifting. She did not care for steamers nor for railways, and did not care for driving with horses, but she loved to drift about in a little boat. And the thing she longed for most of all was the sea."

The man sitting opposite bowed his head once more and covered his eyes. "True," he thought to himself. "She longed to see the sea. She told me that. How she had longed for it ever since she was a child of fifteen. But it was given to me to show her that. At least, I have done one good thing in my life."

Lotta Hedman did not need much encouragement from a listener; she went on, undisturbed, with her story.

"Then I thought, as soon as the confirmation classes were over, we should never see each other again, but all that summer after, Sigrun came down to the shore nearly every day, and we rowed up and down the river for hours together. And so it went on, summer after summer; it was the happiest time in all my life."

The man sighed. "Why have you come back, Sigrun?" he whispered to himself. "You, so young and good, so beautiful and unspoiled, why do you come back to me now? I have tried to think of you as a woman ageing, a mother of children, a loving and affectionate wife. Why do you come now in all the freshness of youth?"

"And now I must tell you the end of that friendship," said Lotta Hedman.

"After it had lasted four years, I was sitting at home one Sunday afternoon in spring, looking at a big red-painted farmhouse that grew up outside the east window. One wing showed out after another, and I was wondering what sort of a house it could be, and why it was being built up so grandly just that evening.

"It was getting late, and nearing twilight already. Father and mother had been to church that morning, and were sitting on either side of the hearth, smoking and talking. But I sat at the window, watching the house grow up against the grey evening sky.

"It was a red house on two floors, set high on a hill with a lot of old apple trees on the slope in front, and on one side of the orchard I could see a cowshed and barn, and on the other, stables and outhouses and a big stone store-cellar with one little room built over.

"Close by the store-cellar was a tree, of a sort I did not know. It was all knotty and rough, with a thick trunk and wide-spreading branches, and looked ever so old--there was something misshapen and threatening about it.

"Father and mother, sitting by the hearth, sat without speaking now--just thinking together. They knew each other so well.

"'It's a pity about Lotta,' said mother. And father answered at once without asking what she meant, that it was a pity, surely. He'd been thinking of the same thing, you know.

"But I thought to myself that they did not know at all, really--for how could it be a pity about me in any way, as long as I had all my visions and voices to be happy with?

"And the big farmhouse stood there clear and plain as ever. It looked as if I could just walk in at any moment through the gate and talk to the people indoors. I could see tools and things lying about in the yard, and the bucket by the well, and the dog-kennel and the pigeon-loft, and I could see it was a fine big place, but something old and out of date about it.

"It was all very still and quiet and forsaken. Not a soul, not a beast of any kind was moving anywhere.

"And then I saw something that was more surprising than all the rest. There was a stone wall round the farm and buildings and yard, between them and the fields, and in the middle a gate. And one of the gateposts stood up straight and firm, but the other was grey and almost rotted through, and would have tumbled down if it hadn't been for a whole lot of struts and supports round it.

"Just as I caught sight of that old gatepost, I felt a shiver through me. And I knew that there was something I was afraid of, and did not want to see any more.

"I put my hands before my eyes, and turned away from the window; it would not go away. Next time I looked out, there it was, just as before, a splendid place to see, standing out against the black hills behind. And looking at a place like that in reality, you would surely think it must be rich and powerful people that lived there. Everything was well kept, except that one gatepost.

"And I tried not to look at it, because it made me afraid, but just as I turned my eyes away from it, I saw that there was someone in the house after all. Someone sitting at the window of the little room above the cellar, almost opposite the gatepost, and looking down at it.

"It was an old woman, with a stern but beautiful face, and white hair set up under a cap--I had never seen anyone wear a cap like that before. She sat quite still, with folded hands, and her eyes fixed on the post. Sitting there like a stone, just looking and looking at it all the time.

"Now I felt more afraid of her than of the post itself, and I turned away from the window, and tried to make her go away, by thinking of Sigrun.

"I thought what good friends we had been, and still were. There was nothing that could separate us. The winter before, Sigrun had been away, to visit some relatives in the south, and stayed with them for several months, but when she came back, we were just as good friends as before.

"I never needed to do more than just call for Sigrun to make all darkness vanish away. But it did not help me this time. When I turned to the window again, there was the farmhouse, just as before, and the old woman still staring darkly and fixedly down at the same spot.

"Father and mother, sitting by the hearth, were talking the same way as before.

"'Yes, it will be hard for Lotta,' said mother. 'But she's young, and young folks soon forget.'

"'Yes, that's true. As long as you're young,' said father.

"And then they sighed, and puffed away at their pipes.

"Heavy thoughts weighed on me now. I felt that father and mother were right, and that something cruel was going to happen to me.

"Then I tried again. I thought of Sigrun, as she had been, when she came to me a few months back and told me that she was engaged to a clergyman she had met while she had been away staying with her friends.

"She had been so happy at the thought of marrying a priest. It was just the thing for her, as a clergyman's daughter. And he had a living of his own already, and his own congregation, though he was only a little over thirty. It was only a small place, but then he was not to be there long. With his powers, he would certainly end as a bishop.

"So, really, it was a fine thing that he had a home of his own already, and they could get married in the autumn.

"I was a little astonished at first, for I had always thought she was going to be a nurse, but she said it was just the same when you married a priest. Better, indeed, for now she would have a whole congregation to help and look after.

"I thought over all this, and looked out again, thinking it would be better now. But it was only worse, for now the old woman stood up, and I could see her face. And it was dark with anger and hate, and she lifted a clenched hand and shook it toward me, pointing with the other hand toward the gatepost. It was just as if she had said, if I dared to touch it, it would be the worse for me.

"She was terrible to look at, and I was frightened, but at the same time, she was so pitifully old and helpless, I felt like crying with pity for her.

"But then, just as she raised her hand, the whole thing disappeared. All--farmhouse and gatepost and the old woman herself. As if there had never been anything there at all. And oh, I felt such a relief.

"Why should I be anxious, just because Sigrun had her lover staying on a visit for a day or so? And why should mother and father be anxious about me, just because they had seen him in church that day?

"And then at last I saw a couple of heads appear on the river bank. And I was so glad, and called out to mother and father:

"'That's Sigrun, I'm sure, coming to show me her lover. Come and look, if it isn't right--the two there coming down toward the river?'

"Then mother made haste to put away her pipe and move all the chairs about and wipe up a few drops of water spilt on the floor.

"But father came over to me by the window, and we stood looking out at the two. And now I saw the man for the first time, walking there with Sigrun on his arm. He was not so very tall, but strongly built--a broad-shouldered, powerful man. And handsome, with a fine head. I could not see anything to find fault with, unless it were that he was short-sighted and wore glasses.

"When they came in, they looked proud and happy. And I was pleased, too, with Sigrun's lover, and glad they had come to see me. He looked as if he could take care of his wife, whatever might happen. As long as she had him to support her, surely she could never be unhappy or discouraged.

"The priest spoke kindly to father and mother. But when he came to speak to me, he blinked his eyes a little behind his glasses, and looked at me with a sort of smile.

"'Aha,' said he, 'so this is the great seer, the wise young woman from Stenbroträsk. I'm quite afraid of her. She can see through people, of course, and what if she were dissatisfied with me!'

"And he laughed, and Sigrun too, and father smiled a little.

"It was as if I was just something to laugh at and make fun of.

"I went all red at first, with the blood rushing to my face. Then I felt I turned all stiff and hard. And I could not understand how anyone could talk so openly about the thing that was my holiest secret. And how could Sigrun ever have betrayed me, and told her lover, when I had told her just because I could trust her?"

Lotta Hedman's voice rose to a shriller tone, just as when she had spoken of her hard and lonely life. The pain of her thoughts rang in her words.

The man before her looked up with a sad smile.

"You might surely have known it must be so," he said. "Sigrun had given herself to him with all her soul, with all her thoughts, and all she had ever known."

"That was so, perhaps," said the other, "but it was cruel to me to feel. Mother tried to answer for me, for she knew I could not say anything myself then.

"'She has but a foolish mother, has my girl,' said mother. 'But the Lord has heard my prayers. He has given me a daughter that sees and understands more than most.'

"I felt how brave it was of mother to speak out. I could have gone down on my knees and thanked her, but she was silent, she too, when the priest gave her one sharp look through his eyeglasses, and began talking with a thick and heavy voice, all important, as if he might have been standing in the pulpit.

"'We've need to be ever watchful, those of us who are Christians,' he said, 'lest we should fall back into heathen ways. And whosoever seeks to penetrate into the unknown is trying, as it were, to go their own way instead of the way that is Christ Jesus. Beware of setting up other gods; of setting up oneself as God.'

"And he preached like that for a long while. And nobody in the room dared to say a word against him now. And where was all that I had seen and heard before? It all seemed blown away in a breath, the moment that man came into the house. And I had to sit there, helpless, without a word, and hear him preaching and correcting me in front of Sigrun and mother and father.

"I looked over at Sigrun, and there she was sitting, looking up at her lover all humbly and admiring. And I could see she was pleased that he was trying to lead me into the right way. And she, too, felt now just as he did, that all we had had to talk of together before was something wicked and harmful. He was speaking for my good, and all I had to do was to turn from my erring ways and try to be like everyone else.

"I was so miserable; it was so cruel. I would rather have died than sit there and see Sigrun turn away from me like that."

The listener looked up once more.

"Yet it was good, surely, that she had no other thought, no thought of her own, but only his thoughts," he said. "That is the beautiful thing about her."

Lotta Hedman went on without heeding.

"They stayed some time, not talking to me alone, you understand, but to mother and father too. And all that the priest man said was kind and sensible in a way; he knew how to speak. When he dropped out of the preaching tone, his voice was cheerful and bright. It was easy to understand that Sigrun was fond of him.

"I did not say a word as long as he was there, and Sigrun looked at me every now and then with a sort of surprise, and at last she asked me was I ill? But I only shook my head. She didn't seem to think anything but that I ought to be quite happy about it all.

"It was a relief when at last they were gone. But then a thing happened. Sigrun had forgotten her gloves, and came back by herself to fetch them."

The man sitting listening had changed countenance. "What right have you," he asked himself, "to sit and listen to all this talk of Sigrun? Take care! Longing will return, sorrow will return, and love wake afresh. It will be just as it was six years ago, when you sat on the rocks dreaming of love. Day after day, dreaming of her."

"And then," Lotta Hedman went on--"then she asked me if I did not think her lover was wonderful and splendid; had I ever believed there was such a man in the world? And when I still said nothing, she lost patience altogether.

"'Whatever is the matter with you to-day?' she asked. 'What makes you silent and hard all at once? I thought it would do you good to talk to a priest. And he was so eager to see you himself, and I've told him so much about you, and how strange you were. And what will he think now?'

"I sat quite still until she was out of the door. But then I ran after her.

"'Oh! Sigrun, don't marry him!' I cried. 'He will make you miserable.' And Sigrun looked at me all astonished, and I said again, 'He will kill your soul, as he has killed mine!'

"Then Sigrun drew herself up.

"'Now you are wicked and unkind,' she said, 'to speak like that just because someone says things that do not please you to hear.'

"And then she went away for good.

"And I was glad that mother and father did not say anything, did not try to comfort me or explain things. I went out into the kitchen, all cold as it was, and sat down and cried. Cried for hours together. Crying for our beautiful friendship, and for my own soul that had been taken away and could never come back; I felt myself wronged and betrayed; and for the first time in my life I tasted that bitter fruit."

Lotta Hedman had lowered her voice, just as when she had ended her long speech about the letter to the King and the Millennium. Her face showed deep suffering; she felt the agony of humiliation.

HÅNGER

OH, BUT Lotta Hedman was glad to tell her story. It was a delight to be able to speak of Sigrun.

And she tried so hard to speak properly, and not in her country dialect; tried to speak as seriously as a book of devotion. And she was grateful to her listener, who sat there still, following all she said, with a patience that seemed as if it would never end.

"And now there is only one thing more I have to tell you before you can give me the advice I want," she said.

"Do not put yourself out in any way at all," he said. "Talk as you please; we have time enough before us."

Lotta Hedman dropped back immediately into the tone of the story-teller.

"Well, then, it was in the autumn of that same year," she began again, "and it had just come on to rain so heavily that we were obliged to hurry back into the house, father and mother and myself, or we should have been drenched to the skin.

"And we had hardly got indoors when the door opened and a couple of big, burly men came rushing in. They asked quite nicely if they might stay till the rain was over. And father bade them welcome, and mother and I set out each our chair for them by the door.

"And one of them was talkative, and asked father if he thought they could get work at the new sawmills they were building at Stenbroträsk. But the other man was very quiet, and said nothing, only sat staring out of the east window all the time.

"And the rain was pouring against that window with full force. There was such a stream of water down the panes you could hardly see out.