tly, and it
distresses me. How strong-minded and powerful Stjernhoek is! I wish I
were able to resemble him! But it is impossible, I feel myself such a
mere nothing beside him! And yet, when I am alone, either with my books,
or out in the free air with the trees, the rocks, the waters, the winds
around me, and with heaven above, thoughts arise in me, feelings take
possession of me, nameless sweet feelings, and then expressions and
words speak in me which affect me deeply, and give me inexpressible
delight; then all that is great and good in humanity is so present with
me; then I have a foretaste of harmony in everything, of God in
everything; and it seems to me as if words thronged themselves to my
lips to sing forth the gloriousness of that which I perceive. In such
moments I feel something great within me, and I fancy that my songs
would find an echo in every heart. Yes, it is thus that I feel
sometimes; but when I see Stjernhoek all is vanished, and I feel so
little, so poor, I am compelled to believe that I am a dreamer and a
fool!"

"My good youth," said the mother, "you mistake yourself. Your gifts and
Stjernhoek's are so dissimilar: but if you employ your talents with
sincerity and earnestness, they will in their turn bring forth fruit. I
confess to you, Henrik, that it was, and still is, one of my most lively
wishes that one of my children might become distinguished in the fields
of literature. Literature has furnished to me my most beautiful
enjoyments; and in my younger years I myself was not without my ambition
in this way. I see in you my own powers more richly blossoming. I myself
bloom forth in them, my Henrik, and in my hopes of you. Ah! might I live
to the day in which I saw you honoured by your native land; in which I
saw your father proud of his son, and I myself able to gladden my heart
with the fruit of your genius, your work--oh, then I would gladly die!"

Enthusiastic fire flamed in Henrik's looks and on his cheeks, as whilst,
embracing his mother, he said, "No, you shall live, mother, to be
honoured on account of your son. He promises that you shall have joy in
him!"

The sunbeam which just then streamed into the room fell upon Henrik's
beautiful hair, which shone like gold. The mother saw it--saw silently a
prophesying in it, and a sun-bright smile diffused itself over her
countenance.

* * * * *

Petrea read the "Magic King." She ought properly to have read i