she had kissed her child. "No, no tears. Why should there be any?"

And she sang:--

"Shed no tear! Oh shed no tear!
The flower will bloom another year.
Weep no more! Oh weep no more!
Young buds sleep in the root's white core."[3]

[3] Keats.

"This is our summer trip, Magnhild! The summer travels in Norway. Now
onward!"

But Magnhild bowed down and covered her face with her hands.

"All shall be well with you, Magnhild. Charles is so good! He will do
everything for you."

But here she heard Magnhild sob, and so she said no more.

The sunny day through which they rode onward, the fresh, aromatic
mountain air they inhaled, the sounds of jubilee which burst forth from
the forest, blending with childhood's memories, became too much for
Roennaug. She forgot Magnhild and began to sing again. Then she took the
child and chatted playfully with it and with Miss Roland. She was
surprised by Magnhild's asking:--

"Do you love your husband, Roennaug?"

"Do I love him? Why, when Mr. Charles Randon said to me: 'I will gladly
provide for your education, Roennaug; I hope you will let me have this
pleasure,'--well, I let him have the pleasure. When Mr. Charles said to
me: 'My dear Roennaug, I am much older than you; yet if you could consent
to be my wife, I am certain that I should be happy,'--well--and so I
made him happy. And when Mr. Charles said: 'My dear Roennaug, take good
care of our little Harry, so that I may find you all in Liverpool in
September, and your Norwegian friend with you,'--why, I determined that
he should find us all in Liverpool in September, and little Harry well
and hearty; and my Norwegian friend along, too!"--and she kissed the
child and set it to laughing.

They changed horses at the next post-station. Magnhild and Miss Roland
kept their seats in the carriage. Roennaug got out, partly to re-visit
familiar haunts, partly to make an entry in the register. That was her
duty, she said. Presently she came back, laughing, with the register.
Under the entry: "Two persons for the next station,"--indicating that
these two persons were too much absorbed to even trouble themselves with
the name of the next station,--were the following lines:--

"Love is all the budding flower,
Perfect blossom, fruit mature.
When breaking boughs no more endure,
Then "stop!" is shrieked to Winter's power.
Rather life to stop be driven;
No alternative is given!