sappeared, and the ordinary ones soon
followed; indeed, there was no temptation to remain in the
market-place on such a night.

Gradually the crowd broke up, some of them venting their feelings by
hammering at the wall as they passed Madame Torvestad's corner.

Fennefos had seated himself among the Haugians in the sick chamber,
and addressed them again.

Henrietta's death had moved him deeply, and every word he uttered
thrilled with emotion and pity, finding its way to all the sorrowing
hearts.

All listened. Some wept in silence. Sarah alone sat with half-averted
face and unmoved features. Sometimes she turned towards him; but he
looked at her as he looked at the others, frankly and openly.

Her deep-set eyes penetrated him, as if with a wail of the deepest
despair. Now that she was about to be free, all was lost. Would he
not help her?

He would not; not as she wished.

He spoke to them as if he were already far away, and it seemed to
them as if they heard the much-loved preacher speaking words of peace
from distant lands. After this, he rose, and bid them "Good night"
and "Farewell."

A great and painful surprise ensued. Was he about to leave them
again? Would he deprive them of that peace of which he had just been
the messenger?

They gathered round him with entreaties and endearments, talked of
the storm and of the dreadful weather, adding: "You will hardly find
the way, Hans Nilsen, this pitch dark night."

But he answered them gently, with his mother's hymn.

"For He who stills the tempest
And calms the rolling sea,
Will lead thy footsteps safely,
And smooth a way for thee."

At the door he turned once more, looking affectionately on them all.
Coming lastly to Sarah, who stood close by him, he reached out his
hand to her for the last farewell. The old innocent friendship of
their youth reappeared in his look--at once so kindly and so frank,
yet full of sorrow and of heartfelt sympathy.

When the others followed him out in the passage, Sarah turned back,
took a light, and went upstairs. Here she broke down, weeping for
poor Henrietta, for herself, and for all the misery around her.

Nothing remained to her but that bright, pure look, in the
remembrance of which her grief lost the hardness which had beset her,
and her thoughts reverted to the old times, when she and Fennefos
were as brother and sister.

In this condition a couple of women found her, by the linen closet,
weeping