woman, holding out the coin as she spoke.

"Very well," said he, hoarsely; "but sit on another bench. Will the
ladies and gentlemen please move closer together?" he begged of those on
the nearest benches. Whether his directions were followed or not, Martha
did not stir.

"The devil a bit will I move," said she.

"Let her stay where she is," whispered the lady.

"Not for any sum," replied the gallant old man. "These seats are
reserved for the highest aristocracy," and he took hold of the child.
But now Martha sprang up like one possessed.

"You Swedish troll!" cried she, "will you let my child alone?"

The crowd burst into stormy shouts of laughter, and encouraged thereby,
she continued: "Highest aristocracy? Pshaw! She is a--she, as well as
I." The word shall remain unwritten; but Martha looked significantly at
the lady. A volley of laughter, and then, as at the word of command, the
silence of the grave.

The lady had started up, proud and beautiful. She looked around for her
escort. She wished to leave. Tande was standing not very far off, with a
couple of travelers, who had begged to be presented to the well-known
composer. The lady's flaming eyes met his. He gazed back at her
intently. Every one was looking at him. But no one could penetrate his
gaze, any farther than they could have penetrated a polished steel ball.

And yet, however unfathomable those eyes, there was one thing they said
plainly enough: "Madame, I know you not!" And his refined, arched brow,
his delicately-chiseled nose, his tightly-compressed lips, his hollow
cheeks, aye, the glittering diamond studs in his shirt, the aristocratic
elegance of his attire, all said, "Touch me not!" Over his eyes were
drawn veil after veil.

It was all the work of a moment. The lady turned to Magnhild as though
to call on her to bear witness. And yet no! There was no one in the
world beside him and herself who could know how great was the offering
that now was burnt, how great the love he now flung from him.

Again the lady turned toward him a look, as brief as a flash of
lightning. What indignation, what a great cry of anguish, what a swarm
of memories, what pride, what contempt, did she not hurl at him.
Magnhild received the quivering remains as she turned to her to--aye,
what should she do now? Her face suddenly betrayed the most piteous
forlornness, and at the same time a touching appeal, as that of a child.
The tears rolled down her cheeks. Magnhild,