* * * * *

At the time that Nanna had started forth as a guide to the youthful
stranger, old Mr. Lonner was seated near the side of his bed in his
private apartment. Although weighed down by age and the grief that had
oppressed his early life, he nevertheless possessed that gentleness and
sociability, which had ever been the characteristic traits of his life.
His flowing white locks fell around his countenance, from which the
traces of manly beauty had not been entirely eradicated, and as he
smoked his pipe with an air of dignified pleasure, he would occasionally
glance towards a young matron, who, seated in a large arm chair, was
reading aloud a letter to him.

The letter bore the postmark of Goteborg, and was written by the old
man's eldest son, Ragnar Lonner, the husband of the matron. He was mate
of a trading vessel, and three months before had bidden farewell to his
wife and family. As she continued reading the letter, three children who
had been playing, commenced a little dispute about the proprietorship of
a large apple. In an opposite corner Carl had stationed himself. He was
a full grown youth with a face bearing an expression of mingled
silliness and wisdom.--As he glanced from under his long hair, first at
the bed-quilt, then at the quarrelling children, he paid close attention
to all that his sister-in-law was reading aloud. Carl was not the
simpleton people considered him, although his highest ambition appeared
to consist in erecting dirt houses and making mud-pies.

"Magde," said the old man, casting a glance of affection upon the
vivacious Magdalena. "You had better read that letter again. Ragnar is a
son who has his heart in the right place."