Her knees were
resting on a tombstone, and she saw many of the same kind about her. She
read the names engraven on the stones; they were all Swedish, correct
and well-known. "Oh," she said to herself with a sigh, "I have not a
name like others! My names have been many, borrowed,--and oh, often
changed. I did not get one to be my very own! If only I had one like
other people! Nobody has written me down in a book as I have heard it
said others are written down. Nobody asks about me. I have nothing to do
with anybody! Poor Azouras," she whispered low to herself. She
wept much.

There was no one else who said "poor Azouras Tintomara!" but it was as
if an inner, higher, invisible being felt sorry for the outer, bodily,
visible being, both one and the same person in her. She wept bitterly
over herself.

"God is dead," she thought, and looked up at the large altar-piece
again. "But I am a human being; I must live." And she wept more
heartily, more bitterly....

The afternoon passed, and the hour for vespers struck. The bells in the
tower began to lift their solemn voices, and keys rattled in the lock.
Then the heathen girl sprang up, and, much like a thin vanishing mist,
disappeared from the altar. She hid in her corner again. It seemed to
her that she had been forward, and had taken liberties in the choir of
the church to which she had no right; and that in the congregation
coming in now, she saw persons who had a right to everything.

Nevertheless, when the harmonious tones of the organ began to mix with
the fragrant summer air in the church, Azouras stood radiant, and she
felt quickly how the weight lifted from her breast. Was it because of
the tears she had shed? Or did an unknown helper at this moment scatter
the fear in her heart?

She felt no more that it would be dangerous to leave the church; she
stole away, before vespers were over, came out into the churchyard and
turned off to the northern gate.

GOD'S WAR

His mighty weapon drawing,
God smites the world he loves;
Thus, worthy of him growing,
She his reflection proves.
God's war like lightning striking,
The heart's deep core lays bare,
Which fair grows to his liking
Who is supremely fair.

Escapes no weakness shame,
No hid, ignoble feeling;
But when his thunder pealing
Enkindles life's deep flame,
And water clear upwelleth,
Flowing unto its goal,
God's