ort you in your great sorrow to know that
there is a resting-place here for you, and that I am at your service--to
travel with you, to come to you, to do whatever you wish!--Yours
unalterably, ALICE."

She knew who had sent Alice intimation.

Joergen, too, telegraphed. "If I could be of the slightest service or
comfort to you I would come at once. I am broken-hearted."

The same touching, reverential sympathy was shown on the occasion of the
funeral, which was hastened on Mary's account, and took place three days
after the deaths. Amongst the countless wreaths, the most beautiful of
all was Alice's. It was taken up to Mary--she wished to see it. The
whole house was fragrant with flowers on that winter day, their sweet
breath a message of love to those who slept there.

Mary did not go downstairs; she refused to see the coffins, or the
flowers, or any of the preparations that had been made for the
entertainment of friends who came from a distance.

More people came than the house could hold, and at the chapel there was
a still larger gathering.

The clergyman asked if he might go upstairs and see Miss Krog. Mary sent
him her best thanks, but declined the visit.

Immediately afterwards little Nanna came to ask if she would see Uncle
Klaus. The old man had sent her a very touching telegram, in which he
asked if he could not be of service to her in any way. And his wreath
was so magnificent that, after hearing the servants' description of it,
Mary had made them bring it, too, for her to look at.

She now answered: Yes. And in came the tall man, in deep mourning,
gasping as if he had difficulty in breathing. No sooner did he see Mary
standing by the bed, a figure of ivory draped in black, than he sank on
to the first chair he could reach, and burst into loud weeping. The
sound resembled what is heard when the mainspring of a large clock
breaks, and the whole machinery unreels itself. It was the weeping of a
man who had not wept since he was a child--a sound alarmed at itself. He
did not look up.

But he had an errand, so much Mary understood. He tried twice to speak,
but the attempt only increased the violence of the weeping fit. Then,
motioning despairingly, he rose and left the room. He did not shut the
door, and she heard him sobbing as he went along the passage and
downstairs, to go straight home.

Mary was deeply touched. She knew that her father had been the old man's
best, perhaps his only friend. But she