he will
know--and if it is true, then I wish to die,--I could not live! Will you
take me to my father?"

The plaintive, pleading gentleness of her voice and look brought more
tears into Ulrika's eyes than had ever been forced there by her
devotional exercises,--and the miserable Valdemar, already
broken-hearted by his master's death, turned away and sobbingly cursed
his gods for this new and undeserved affliction. As the Italian
peasantry fall to abusing their saints in time of trouble, even so will
the few remaining believers in Norse legendary lore, upbraid their
fierce divinities with the most reckless hardihood when things go wrong.
There were times when Valdemar Svensen secretly quailed at the mere
thought of the wrath of Odin,--there were others when he was ready to
pluck the great god by the beard and beat him with the flat of his own
drawn sword. This was his humor at the present moment, as he averted his
gaze from the pitiful sight of his "King's" fair daughter all desolate
and woe-begone, her lovely face pale with anguish,--her sweet wits
wandering, and her whole demeanor that of one who is lost in some dark
forest, and is weary unto death. She studied Ulrika's rough visage
attentively, and presently noticed the tears on her cheeks.

"You are crying!" she said in a tone of grave surprise. "Why? It is
foolish to cry even when the heart aches. I have found that,--no one in
the world ever pities you! But perhaps you do not know the world,--ah!
it is very hard and cold;--all the people hide their feelings, and
pretend to be what they are not. It is difficult to live so,--and I am
tired!"

She rose from her chair, and stood up unsteadily, stretching out her
little cold white hands to Ulrika, who folded them in her own strong
coarse palms. "Yes--I am very tired!" she went on dreamily. "There seems
to be nothing that is true--all is false and unreal--I cannot
understand! But you seem kind,"--here her swaying figure tottered, and
Ulrika drew her more closely to herself--"I think I know you--you came
with me in the train, did you not? Yes--and the little baby smiled and
slept in my arms nearly all the way." A violent shuddering seized her,
and a quiver of agony passed over her face.

"Forgive me," she murmured, "I feel ill--very ill--and cold--but do not
mind--I think--I am--dying!" She could scarcely articulate these last
words--she sank forward, fainting, on Ulrika's breast, and that devout
disciple of Luther, f