it were on another planet. The family feeling,
too, has ever been strong in the Norseman's
breast; he lives for his children, and seems to
live his life over again in them. It is his greatest
pride to be able to trace his blood back into the
days of Sverre and St. Olaf, and with the same
confidence he expects to see his race spread into
the future in the same soil where once it has
struck root. Then comes the storm from the
Western seas, wrestles with the sturdy trunk,
and breaks it; and the shattered branches fly to
all the four corners of the heavens. No wonder,
then, like a tree that has lost its crown, his
strength is broken and he expects but to
smoulder into the earth and die.

Bjarne Blakstad, like the sturdy old patriot
that he was, had always fiercely denounced the
America rage; and it was now the hope of his
daughters that, perhaps, he had stayed behind
to remind the restless ones among the youth of
their duty toward their land, or to frighten some
bold emigration agent who might have been too
loud in his declamations. But it was already
eight o'clock and Bjarne was not yet to be seen.
The night was dark and stormy; a cold sleet
fiercely lashed the window-panes, and the wind
roared in the chimney. Grimhild, the younger
sister, ran restlessly out and in and slammed the
doors after her. Brita sat tightly pressed up