ark and
broken, pausing a moment as the sound of a scuffle and a woman's shrill
scream came from one of the rooms. "Do you wonder there's murder, an'
worse than murder, done in these holes? Oh, what would I give to tumble
them, the whole crop of the devil's own homes, straight into the river!"

"Hush," the doctor said. "Stay, Jerry, a few minutes. You may be wanted,
but there is not room for all in there."

As she spoke the door had opened, and a tall, gaunt woman in the
distinctive Swedish dress stood before us and mutely pointed us in. It
was hard to distinguish anything in the dim light of a flickering tallow
candle placed in a corner to screen it from the wind, which whistled
through cracks and forced the rain through the broken roof. On a pile of
rags lay three children, sleeping soundly. By the table sat a heavy
figure, the face bowed and hidden in the arms folded upon it, and on the
wretched bed lay the wasted figure of the girl whose life was passing in
the storm.

"Poor little Brita!" I said again, for as the doctor bent over her and
took her hand the eyes opened and a faint smile came to the sweet,
child-like face. Long braids of fair hair lay on the pillow, the eyes
were blue and clear, and the face, wearing now the strange gray shadow
of death, held a delicate beauty still, that with health and color would
have made one turn to look at it again wherever encountered. The mother
stood silent and despairing at the foot of the bed. The motionless
figure at the table did not stir. There was no fire or sign of comfort
in the naked room, and but the scantiest of covering on the bed.

The girl looked up faintly and put out her hand. "Pray," she said in a
whisper--"pray for the mother;" but even as she spoke she gasped, half
rose, then fell back, and was gone, the look of entreaty still in the
eyes. The doctor closed them gently, the poor eyes that would never need
to beg for help any more, and then the mother, still silent, came softly
and touched the girl's face, sinking down then by the side of the bed
and stroking the dead hands as if to bring back life.

The man had risen too and came slowly to her side. "I thank God she iss
gone away from all trouble," he said, "but oh, my doctor, it iss so
hard!"

"Hard!" the woman echoed and rose. "I will not hear of God: I hate God.
There iss no God, but only a deffil, who does all he vill. Brita iss
gone, and Lars and little Jan. Now it must be de oders, and den I kno