"What are you weeping for, childie?" repeated the voice. She looked up at him, and said that she and "some other boys" had been trying to get the apples in Pedro Ohlsen's garden; but Pedro and the policeman had come after them, and ;" but she called to mind that her mother had shaken her faith in the shooting, so she dared not tell that part of the story --she gave a long deep sigh to make up for it. "Is it possible," cried he, "that a child of your age could think of committing so great a sin ?” Petra stared at him; she knew well enough that it was a sin, but she had always been used to being told so by hearing herself called "You imp of the devil! you black-haired little fiend!" Now, somehow, she felt ashamed. "How is it you don't go to school and learn God's Commandments to us about what is good and what is evil?" She stood tugging at her frock, as she made shift to answer that her mother did not want her to go to school. "You cannot even read, I suppose?" he said, "Yes," replied she, she could read. He took out a little book and gave it her. She opened it, turned it over, and then looked at the cover. "I can't read such fine print," she said. But he would not let her off so, and straightway she became most marvelously stupid: her eyes and lips drooped, and all her limbs seemed to hang loose. "T-h-e the, L-o-r-d Lord, G-o-d God, the Lord God, s-a-i-d said, the Lord God said to M-M-M-" "Good gracious!" he broke in, "you can't even read! And you ten or eleven years old! Wouldn't you be glad to be able to read?" She managed to jerk out that she would be glad enough. "Come with me, then; we must set to work at once." She moved away a little, to look into the house. "Yes, go and tell your mother about it," he said; and just then Gunlaug passed the door. Seeing the child talking with a stranger, she came out on to the flagstones. "He wants to teach me to read, mother," said the child, looking at her with doubtful eyes. . The mother made no answer, but set both her arms akimbo, and looked at Ocdegaard. "Your child is very ignorant," said he. "You cannot answer it before God or man for letting her go on so." "Who are you?" returned Gunlaug, sharply. "Hans Oedegaard, son of your priest." Her face cleared a little, for she had heard nothing but good of him. "When I was at home before," he went on, "I noticed this child. To-day my attention has been called to her afresh. She must no longer accustom herself to doing only what is bad." "What is that to you?" said the mother's face plainly enough, but he continued quietly : 66 Surely you would like her to learn something?" "No!" A slight flush passed over his face as he asked: — "Why not?" "Are folks any the better for learning?"—she had only had one experience of it, but she stuck fast to that. "I am astonished that any one can ask such a question. "Yes, of course; I know you are. I know people are none the better for it ;" and she moved to the steps, to put an end to such ridiculous talk. But he planted himself right in her way. "Here is a duty," said he, "which you shall not pass by. You are a most injudicious mother." Gunlaug measured him from head to foot. "Who has told you," said she, “what I am?” "You-you yourself; just now; or else you must have seen that your child was going on the way to ruin." Gunlaug turned, and her eye met his; she saw he was in earnest in what he had said, and she began to feel afraid of him. She had always had to do with seamen and tradesfolk; talk such as his she had never heard. "What do you want to do with my child?" she asked. "Teach her what is right for her soul's welfare, and see what is to be made of her.' "My child shall be just what I want." "No indeed she shan't! she shall be what God wants.” Gunlaug was at a loss what to answer. to him and said: "What do you mean by that?" She drew nearer "I mean," he replied, "she ought to learn whatever her powers allow; for God has given them her for that." Gunlaug now drew close up to him. "Am I not to decide what is best for her-I, the child's mother?" she asked, as if really wishing to be informed. "That you shall; but you must act on the advice of those who know better than you. You must do the Lord's will." Gunlaug stood still for a moment. "What if she learns too much?" she said at last—"a poor woman's child," she added, looking tenderly at her daughter. "If she learns too much for her own rank, she will thereby have attained another," he said. She grasped his meaning at once, and looking more and more fondly at her child, she said (as if to herself): — "That is not the question," he returned gently; "the question is, what is right?" A strange expression came into her keen eyes; she looked at him piercingly, but there was so much earnestness in his voice, his words, and his face, that Gunlaug felt herself conquered. She went up to the child, and laid her hands on her head, but she spoke not a word. "I shall read with her from now till the time when she is confirmed," he said, hoping to make things easier for Gunlaug. "I wish to take charge of the child." "And do you want to take her away from me?" He hesitated, and looked at her inquiringly. "Of course, you know far better than I," she said, speaking with difficulty; "but if it hadn't been for what you said about the Lord" here she stopped. She had been smoothing down her daughter's hair, and now she took off her own kerchief and bound it round Petra's neck. Thus, in no other way, did she say the child was to go with him; but she hastened back into the house, as if she could not bear to see it. Oedegaard began suddenly to feel afraid of what, in his youthful zeal, he had done. The child, for her part, felt afraid of him, for he was the first person who had ever got the best of her mother. And so, with mutual fears, they went to their first lesson. Day by day, as it seemed to him, her cleverness and knowledge increased; and it often happened that their conversation seemed, of its own accord, to take one peculiar bent. He would bring before her eyes characters from the Bible or from history, in such a way as to point out to her the call that God had given them. He would tell her of Saul leading his wild life, or of the young David tending his father's flocks, till Samuel came and laid on him the hands of the Lord. But greatest of all was the Call when the Lord walked upon earth, tarried among the fisherfolk, and called them to His work. And the humble fishermen arose and followed after Him to suffering -yea, even to Death; for the feeling of the holy Call bears men up through all tribulation. The thought of this took such hold of her that she could not refrain from asking him about her own "Call." He looked steadfastly at her; she grew red beneath his gaze; and then he answered that through work every man finds out his vocation: that that might be insignificant and unimportant, but that it existed for every one. Then a great zeal came upon her; it drove her to work with all her might; it entered into her games, and it made her wan and thin. Strange longings for adventure came over her. Oh! to cut short her hair, dress like a boy, and go out to take part in the struggle! But when one day her teacher told her that her hair would be so pretty if only she would take a little care of it, she got fond of her long tresses, and for their sake sacrificed her chance of a heroine's fame. After this, to be a girl became a more precious thing to her than ever, and henceforth her work went peacefully on, with the ever-changing dreams of girlhood floating around her. BINGEN ON THE RHINE. BY CAROLINE NORTON. [MRS. NORTON (Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Sheridan), English poet and novelist, was the granddaughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, and was born in London, in 1808. In 1827 she married the Hon. George Chapple Norton, but the union proved an unfortunate one and a separation followed a few years later. She died June 14, 1877, shortly after her second marriage, to Sir W. Stirling-Maxwell. Among Mrs. Norton's works are the poems "Sorrows of Rosalie" and "The Undying One," and the novels "Lost and Saved," "Stuart of Dunleath,” and “Old Sir Douglas."] A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while the life blood ebbed away, "Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around, To hear the mournful story in the pleasant vineyard ground, "Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword! And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage wall at Bingen-calm Bingen on the Rhine! "Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops come marching home again, with glad and gallant tread; But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to die! And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name To listen to him kindly, without regret and shame; And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine), For the honor of old Bingen - dear Bingen on the Rhine! "There's another - not a sister. In the happy days gone by You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye; Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning, O friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning! Tell her the last night of my life (for, ere the moon be risen, I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine |