what it was. She would fain have
turned away, but she could not: grasping her father's arm and pressing
it hard, she gazed with blank, frightened eyes at the white face, the
lines of which Death had so strangely emphasized. The snow-flakes which
hung in his hair had touched him with their sudden age, as if to bridge
the gulf between youth and death. And still he was beautiful--the clear
brow, the peaceful, happy indolence, the frozen smile which death had
perpetuated. Smiling, he had departed from the earth which had no place
for him, and smiling entered the realm where, among the many mansions,
there is, perhaps, also one for a gentle, simple-hearted enthusiast.

THE STORY OF AN OUTCAST.

THERE was an ancient feud between the families; and Bjarne Blakstad
was not the man to make it up, neither was Hedin Ullern. So they looked
askance at each other whenever they met on the highway, and the one
took care not to cross the other's path. But on Sundays, when the
church-bells called the parishioners together, they could not very well
avoid seeing each other on the church-yard; and then, one day, many
years ago, when the sermon had happened to touch Bjarne's heart, he had
nodded to Hedin and said: "Fine weather to-day;" and Hedin had returned
the nod and answered: "True is that." "Now I have done my duty before
God and men," thought Bjarne, "and it is his turn to take the next
step." "The fellow is proud," said Hedin to himself, "and he wants to
show off his generosity. But I know the wolf by his skin, even if he has
learned to bleat like a ewe-lamb."

What the feud really was about, they had both nearly forgotten. All they
knew was that some thirty years ago there had been a quarrel between the
pastor and the parish about the right of carrying arms to the church.
And then Bjarne's father had been the spokesman of the parish, while
Hedin's grandsire had been a staunch defender of the pastor. There was a
rumor, too, that they had had a fierce encounter somewhere in the woods,
and that the one had stabbed the other with a knife; but whether that
was really true, no one could tell.

Bjarne was tall and grave, like the weather-beaten fir-trees in his
mast-forest. He had a large clean-shaven face, narrow lips, and small
fierce eyes. He seldom laughed, and when he did, his laugh seemed even
fiercer than his frown. He wore his hair long, as his fathers had
done, and dressed in the styles of two centuries ago; his breeches w