when he appeared to know her, and articulating his name in a low and
almost inaudible voice.

On the evening of the third day the poor youth regained his
consciousness. He recognised his family again, and spoke kindly to them.
He saw that they were pale and weary, and besought them incessantly to
go to rest. The Assessor, who was present, united earnestly in this
request, and assured them that, according to all appearances, Henrik
would now enjoy an easy sleep, and that he himself would watch by him
through the night. The father and daughters retired to rest; but when
they endeavoured to persuade the mother, she only waved with her hand,
whilst a mournful smile seemed to say, "It is of no use whatever to talk
to me about it."

"I may remain with you, Henrik?" said she, beseechingly.

He smiled, took her hand, and laid it on his breast; and in the same
moment closing his eyes, a calm refreshing sleep stole over him. The
Assessor sate silently beside them, and observed them both: it was not
long, however, before he was obliged to leave them, being summoned
suddenly to some one who was dangerously ill. He left them with the
promise to return in the course of the night. Munter was called in the
city the night-physician, because there was no one like him who appeared
earnestly willing to give his help by night as by day.

The mother breathed deeply when she saw herself alone with her son. She
folded her hands, and raised her eyes to heaven with an expression which
through the whole of the foregoing days had been foreign to them. It was
no longer restless, almost murmuring anxiety; it was a mournful, yet at
the same time, deep, perfect, nay, almost loving resignation. She bent
over her son, and spoke in a low voice out of the depths of her
affectionate heart.

"Go, my sweet boy, go! I will no longer hold thee back, since it is
painful to thee! May the deliverer come! Thy mother will no longer
contend with him to retain thee! May he come as a friendly angel and
make an end of thy sufferings! I--will then be satisfied! Go then, my
first-born, my summer-child; go, and if there may never more come a
summer to the heart of thy mother--still go! that thou mayst have rest!
Did I make thy cradle sweet, my child! so would I not embitter by my
lamentations thy death-bed! Blessed be thou! Blessed be He also who gave
thee to me, and who now takes thee from me to a better home! Some time,
my son, I shall come home to thee; go thou b