ming out of the house,
accompanied by the priest's wife, who seemed to be the only person to
whom he had said farewell.

"Present my greetings to my old teacher," he called down from the
cariole, as he grasped the hand of the mistress of the house. "Tell
him--tell him nothing!" and with this he whipped up his horse so
suddenly that the "skyds" boy came near being left behind.

The priest's wife made some remarks about his surely being very unhappy,
as she stood watching him drive away. While the ladies were still at the
door, a woman came walking up the road toward them. She nodded and
smiled at the mistress of the house as she passed on her way to the
kitchen.

"You made your sale?"

"Yes."

"I thought so from your looks."

Then turning to Roennaug the priest's wife said,--

"This woman, you may well believe, made Magnhild happy this morning."

"How so?"

"Why, she stopped here with her work on her way to the dealer, who makes
purchases for a merchant in town. Just as she stepped inside Magnhild
came down into the kitchen. When the woman caught sight of her, she
eagerly addressed her--she is a great talker--and she began to cry and
to talk, to talk and to cry, telling how poor she had been and how well
off both she and her children now were. Magnhild, you know, for many
years taught an Industrial School up in these mountains, and this woman
was one of her aptest pupils. This hand-work, I can assure you, has
spread rapidly here; there are scarcely any poor people to be found in
our parish now."

"But Magnhild--was she glad?"

"She certainly must have been glad, for soon afterward we heard her
singing. And the last time she was here--about four or five years
ago--we could not persuade her to go near the piano."

Roennaug now greeted Miss Roland, who was coming toward her with the
child. A little later, as she was going through the passage to the
sitting-room, the sounds of music once more floated out toward her. The
priest's daughters were at the piano, singing a duet with feeble voices,
one of which was more quavering than the other. They were drawling
out,--

"All rests in God's paternal hand."

The door stood open. One of the girls sat at the piano, the other stood
at its side. Magnhild sat facing them, leaning against the piano.

Peace radiated from the little hymn, because they who sang it were at
peace. The small, yellow-haired heads above the stiff collars did not
make a single movement, t