"

Roennaug translated it for Betsy Roland, and now various conjectures were
expressed by them all, in both Norwegian and English. They agreed in
supposing the writers to be two lovers, on a journey, under peculiar
circumstances; but whether they were a newly-married couple, or merely
lovers; whether theirs was a runaway flight, or whether they were simply
actuated by exuberance of spirits over happily overcome obstacles,
or,--oh! there were manifold possibilities.

Roennaug wished to copy the verses, and Magnhild offered her a leaf from
her pocket-book. As this was produced a letter fell from it. Magnhild
was surprised, but she soon remembered that she had received the letter
by mail the evening before, an hour after her husband's arrival. Wholly
absorbed in her conflict with him, she had placed it for the time in her
pocket-book. She never received letters, so she could not imagine from
whom this could come. The two travelers from America did not notice that
the letter bore a foreign stamp, but Magnhild saw this at once. She tore
open the letter; it was written in a delicate hand, on fine paper, and
was quite long. It was headed "Munich," and the signature was--did she
read aright?--"Hans Tande." She folded the letter again, without knowing
what she was doing, while the hot blushes spread over face and neck. The
two others acted as though they had observed nothing; Roennaug busied
herself with copying the verses.

They drove rapidly on, and left Magnhild to her reflections. But her
embarrassment increased to such a degree that it became positive torture
to her to sit in the carriage with the others. She meekly begged to be
allowed to get out and walk a little distance. Roennaug smiled and
ordered the coachman to stop,--they had just reached a level plain where
the horses could rest a while. When the travelers had alighted, she took
Magnhild by the hand and led her toward a thicket a few steps behind
them.

"Come--go in there now and read your letter!" said she.

When Magnhild found herself alone in the wood she stood still. Her
agitation had compelled her to pause. She peered about her, as though
fearing even in this lonely spot the presence of people. The sun played
here and there on the yellow pine needles that were strewn about, on the
fallen decayed branches, on the dark green moss covering the stones, on
the heather in the glades. Around her all was profoundly still; from the
sunny margin of the wood there f