Toward evening, Bjarne Blakstad was
summoned, and came at once. Thomas left the
room, as the old man entered, and what passed
in that hour between father and daughter, only
God knows. When the door was again opened,
Brita's eyes shone with a strange brilliancy, and
Bjarne lay on his knees before the bed, pressing
her hand convulsively between both of his.

"This is my son, father," said she, in a
language which her son did not understand; and a
faint smile of motherly pride and happiness
flitted over her pale features. "I would give
him to thee in return for what thou hast lost;
but God has laid his future in another land."

Bjarne rose, grasped his grandson's hand, and
pressed it; and two heavy tears ran down his
furrowed cheeks. "Alas," murmured he, "my
son, that we should meet thus."

There they stood, bound together by the
bonds of blood, but, alas, there lay a world
between them.

All night they sat together at the dying
woman's bedside. Not a word was spoken.
Toward morning, as the sun stole into the darkened
chamber, Brita murmured their names, and
they laid their hands in hers.