irst like a person bound, struggling to be free, then became
quieter, and at last, perfectly calm. Then Olaf knelt down, and with his
hand still on her prayed one of the most touching prayers I ever heard.
It was for patience.

When he rose Elsket was weeping, and she went and leant in his arms like
a child, and he kissed her as tenderly as if he had been her mother.

Next day, however, the same excited state recurred, and this time the
reading appeared to have less effect. She sewed busily, and insisted
that there must be a letter for her at L----. A violent fit of weeping
was followed by a paroxysm of coughing, and finally the old man, who had
sat quietly by her with his hand stroking her head, arose and said, "I
will go." She threw herself into his arms, rubbing her head against him
in sign of dumb affection, and in a little while grew calm. It was still
raining and quite late, only a little before sunset; but the old
man went out, and taking the path toward L---- was soon climbing the
mountain toward the Devil's Seat. Elsket sat up all night, but she was
as calm and as gentle as ever.

The next morning when Olaf returned she went out to meet him. Her look
was full of eager expectancy. I did not go out, but watched her from the
door. I saw Olaf shake his head, and heard her say bitterly, "It is so
hard to wait," and he said, gently, "Yes, it is, Elsket, but I will go
again," and then she came in weeping quietly, the old man following with
a tender look on his strong, weather-beaten face.

That day Elsket was taken ill. She had been trying to do a little work
in the field in the afternoon, when a sinking spell had come on. It
looked for a time as if the poor overdriven heart had knocked off work
for good and all. Strong remedies, however, left by Doctor John, set it
going again, and we got her to bed. She was still desperately feeble,
and Olaf sat up. I could not leave him, so we were sitting watching, he
one side the open platform fireplace in one corner, and I the other; he
smoking, anxious, silent, grim; I watching the expression on his gray
face. His eyes seemed set back deeper than ever under the shaggy gray
brows, and as the firelight fell on him he had the fierce, hopeless look
of a caged eagle. It was late in the night before he spoke, and then it
was half to himself and but half to me.

"I have fought it ten long years," he said, slowly.

Not willing to break the thread of his thought by speaking, I lit