loved her, and that she thought well of him. Their conversations were
mostly on serious, but deeply interesting subjects. Signe, in common
with her cousin and Mr. Janson, had religious views of her own, which
were peculiar, at least to Rupert. Nothing more than the common
doctrines of the Christian denominations had Rupert ever heard. Signe
knew her Bible well, and she could find wonderful things within its
lids, teachings which were new to Rupert, but which opened to him a
future, a bright, glorious future, full of possibilities. Besides, they
explained to him many of the mysteries of life and answered many of its
hard questions.

Thus one evening--it was Friday, and he lingered longer on that
evening--Mr. and Mrs. Janson were visiting neighbors, and Rupert and
Signe were alone. They sat by the kitchen stove, and the blazing pine
wood made a lamp unnecessary. Signe had received a letter from home
which she had translated to Rupert. Her father had long since forgiven
her. The few dollars she sent home now and then multiplied to quite a
few _kroner_ by the time they reached Norway, and they helped the
struggling family. After old country topics had been exhausted, the
conversation had drifted to religious themes, and especially to the
doctrine expressed in the song "O my Father;" but they now sat silently
looking into the fire. Their chairs were not far apart, and it was an
easy matter for Rupert to lay his hand over Signe's fingers that rested
on the arm of her chair and draw them closely into his big palm.

"Signe," he said, "if we ever lived as intelligent beings in a
pre-existent state--and I now can not doubt it,--we two knew each other
there. Perhaps we were the closest friends, and I have just been letting
my imagination run wild in contemplating the possibilities."