first impulse was to send it all back, or to throw
it into the ocean; but she looked at her child and forbore.

A week passed, and Brita recovered. Of
Halvard she had heard nothing. One night, as
she lay in a half doze, she thought she had Seen
a pale, frightened face pressed up against the
window-pane, and staring fixedly at her and her
child; but, after all, it might have been merely
a dream. For her fevered fancy had in these
last days frequently beguiled her into similar
visions. She often thought of him, but, strangely
enough, no more with bitterness, but with
pity. Had he been strong enough to be wicked,
she could have hated him, but he was weak, and
she pitied him. Then it was that; one evening,
as she heard that the American vessel was to
sail at daybreak, she took her little boy and
wrapped him carefully in her own clothes, bade
farewell to the good fisherman and his wife, and
walked alone down to the strand. Huge clouds
of fantastic shapes chased each other desperately
along the horizon, and now and then the
slender new moon glanced forth from the deep
blue gulfs between. She chose a boat at random
and was about to unmoor it, when she saw the
figure of a man tread carefully over the stones
and hesitatingly approach her.

"Brita," came in a whisper from the strand.