the snow, then suddenly started back, and as
she caught a glimpse of his face, she saw that
it was ghastly white. A terrible foreboding
seized her. She threw a shawl about her shoulders
and rushed down-stairs. In the hall she was
met by her father, who was just entering,
followed by four men, carrying something between
them. She well knew what it was. She would
fain have turned away, but she could not:
grasping her father's arm and pressing it hard,
she gazed with blank, frightened eyes at the
white face, the lines of which Death had so
strangely emphasized. The snow-flakes which
hung in his hair had touched him with their
sudden age, as if to bridge the gulf between youth
and death. And still he was beautiful--the
clear brow, the peaceful, happy indolence, the
frozen smile which death had perpetuated.
Smiling, he had departed from the earth which
had no place for him, and smiling entered the
realm where, among the many mansions, there is, perhaps,
also one for a gentle, simple-hearted enthusiast.



THE STORY OF AN OUTCAST.

THERE was an ancient feud between
the families; and Bjarne Blakstad was
not the man to make it up, neither was