"Still, another thing, my child," she went on
in a more confident voice. "This is thy native
land,--and the old man who was just sitting
here at my side was--my father."

And there, in the shadow of the birch-trees,
in the summer stillness of that hour, she told
him the story of her love, of her flight, and of
the misery of these long, toilsome five and
twenty years.

Late in the afternoon, Brita and her son were
seen returning to the farm-house. A calm, subdued
happiness beamed from the mother's countenance;
she was again at peace with the world
and herself, and her heart was as light as in the
days of her early youth. But her bodily
strength had given out, and her limbs almost
refused to support her. The strain upon her
nerves and the constant effort had hitherto
enabled her to keep up, but now, when that
strain was removed, exhausted nature claimed
its right. The next day--she could not leave
her bed, and with every hour her strength
failed. A physician was sent for. He gave
medicine, but no hope. He shook his head
gravely, as he went, and both mother and son
knew what that meant.