no opinion whatever. If Halfdan attempted to set them right,
they at once grew excited and declamatory; their opinions were based
upon conviction and a charming ignorance of facts, and they were not to
be moved. They knew all about Tweed and the Tammany Ring, and believed
them to be representative citizens of New York, if not of the United
States; but of Charles Sumner and Carl Schurz they had never heard.
Halfdan, who, in spite of his misfortunes in the land of his adoption,
cherished a very tender feeling for it, was often so thoroughly aroused
at the foolish prejudices which everywhere met him, that his torpidity
gradually thawed away, and he began to look more like his former self.

Toward autumn he received an invitation to visit a country clergyman in
the North, a distant relative of his father's, and there whiled away
his time, fishing and shooting, until winter came. But as Christmas drew
near, and the day wrestled feebly with the all-conquering night, the old
sorrow revived. In the darkness which now brooded over land and sea,
the thoughts needed no longer be on guard against themselves; they could
roam far and wide as they listed. Where was Edith now, the sweet, the
wonderful Edith? Was there yet the same dancing light in her beautiful
eyes, the same golden sheen in her hair, the same merry ring in her
voice? And had she not said that when he was content to be only her
friend, he might return to her, and she would receive him in the old
joyous and confiding way? Surely there was no life to him apart from
her: why should he not be her friend? Only a glimpse of her lovely
face--ah, it was worth a lifetime; it would consecrate an age of misery,
a glimpse of Edith's face. Thus ran his fancies day by day, and the
night only lent a deeper intensity to the yearnings of the day. He
walked about as in a dream, seeing nothing, heeding nothing, while this
one strong desire--to see Edith once more--throbbed and throbbed with a
slow, feverish perseverance within him. Edith--Edith, the very name had
a strange, potent fascination. Every thought whispered "Edith,"--his
pulse beat "Edith,"--and his heart repeated the beloved name. It was his
pulse-beat,--his heartbeat,--his life-beat.

And one morning as he stood absently looking at his fingers against the
light--and they seemed strangely wan and transparent--the thought at
last took shape. It rushed upon him with such vehemence, that he could
no more resist it. So he bade th