attacks of spasms, which, notwithstanding all remedies, appeared rather
to increase than otherwise. This disturbed the Judge so much the more,
as now, more than ever, he loved and valued his son. Since the night of
the fire it might be said that, for the first time, affection was warm
between father and son.

The Mahomedan says beautifully, that when the angel of death approaches
man, the shadow of his wings falls upon him from a distance. From the
beginning of his illness Henrik's soul appeared to be darkened by
unfriendly shadows, and the first serious outbreak of disease revealed
itself in depression and gloom. Oh! it was not easy for the young man,
richly gifted as he was with whatever could beautify life on earth,
standing as he did at the commencement of a path where fresh laurels and
the roses of love beckoned to him, it was not easy to turn his glance
from a future like this, to listen to the words which night and day his
beating heart whispered to him--"Thou wilt descend to thy grave! nor
will I cease knocking till the door of the tomb opens to thee!"

But to a mind like Henrik's the step from darkness to light was not
wide. There was that something in his soul which enables man to say to
the Lord of life and death--

The dreaded judgment-doom in thine own hand is writ,--
We kiss it; bow our heads, and silently submit.

Henrik had one day a long conversation with his skilful and anxious
physician Munter, who when he left him had tears in his eyes; but over
Henrik's countenance, on the contrary, when he returned to his family,
although he was paler than usual, was a peculiarly mild and solemn
repose, which seemed to diffuse itself through his whole being. From
this moment his temper of mind was changed. He was now mild and calm,
yet at the same time more joyous and amiable than ever. His eyes had an
indescribable clearness and beauty; the shadow had passed away from his
soul altogether.

But deeper and deeper lay the shadow over one person, who from the
beginning of Henrik's illness was no longer like herself--and that was
Henrik's mother. It is true that she worked and spoke as formerly, but a
gnawing anguish lived in her; she appeared absent from the passing
business of life; and every occupation which had not reference, in some
way or other, to her son, was indifferent or painful to her. The
daughters kept carefully from her any thing which might be disturbing to
her. She devoted herself almost