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peace, only answering, when questioned as to the child's name, that she wished to call it Datya, after the other she had lost. But the pastor observed :

'She has been sent to bring the peace of God into your therefore, in order that His fatherly love may ever be present to your eye and ear, you should name her Godfreda, as I mean to name the daughter He gave to me last night Theodora, so that I may give her back again to Him.'

Walmot answered in surprise :

“You have had a child born to you last night! Strive your utmost, then, Pastor Remmert, that it

may thank

you

for its life; then will sunshine enter your home through its eyes and lips. Who attended your wife? Did she suffer much, and is she going on all well ?'

'It must be well with one who has borne a trial imposed by way of test. The attendant pain is transmuted into joyful acknowledgment of its gracious design. You will name this child Godfreda, then, in recognition of the mercy this night has also brought to you? Besides, by the rules of the Church, the right of choosing the name in a case like this rests with me.'

Walmot was silent for a moment, then she answered with indifference:

'Well, write, then, in your book whatever you please and think best; it does not alter the bird whether you call it lark or swallow.'

Quitting the parson's study, Walmot entered Deena's chamber to inquire after the state of the young mother. The two women knew very little of each other, and had as yet scarcely held any conversation together. Both being of Frisian origin, they might be expected naturally to have much in common, only the one was twice the other's age. The hair and features of Walmot very plainly showed this; and yet, as she stood there by the bedside, there was an expression on her face that made her almost look the younger. And it was not because she was at this moment strong and well, and the pastor's wife ill and weak—that would have made but a temporary difference —but the elder woman was like a tree with roots fixed deeply and firmly in the ground, that would abide in its own strength unchangeable amidst the changing years; while Deena resembled a climbing plant that shoots up rapidly in summer-time, but has no deep root in the ground, and needs a prop to save it from

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being bowed down by wind and rain. Walmot did not tarry long—she was eager to get home again ; but in passing by the pastor's study, she paused at the door. He lifted up his eyes expectantly :

Have you anything more to say to me?' She answered his meaning with a negative shake of her head, but then she added :

* I have been to see Deena; her eyes are neither like yours nor mine; they are much weaker than either. Take care of her, Pastor Remmert, lest she should have strength neither for hereafter nor for to-day.'

They looked steadfastly at each other. This time the pastor's eyes did not shrink from hers as he asked :

'Do you mean to charge me with want of affection ?'

Walmot only shook her head again, and, raising her hand, pointed to the distance far away.

'No, Pastor Remmert; but your love for men is up there above ; mine is down here below. They bear one name, are very closely related, and yet know each other not. May they never clash and become each other's foes !'

The eyes of the two now gazing at each other were allied, but yet so different. They both gleamed with a singularly rare and beautiful light. But Pastor Remmert's recalled the sheen of two night-stars reflecting the rays of some unseen sun; while those of Walmot shone with a radiance kindled from within. Pastor Remmert’s glittered like big but cold diamonds; Walmot's gave forth a cheering warmth. Both expressed forgetfulness of self; both were united in one aim, the knowledge of their fellow-creatures, in order to do them good. Only the one sought this blessing afar in the endless ages of eternity; the other now, close at hand, in every breath of human life.

Once more Walmot quitted Pastor Remmert's study. Setting off at a walk, it soon became a run. Bleak February, with a cold, misty air, still lay over the island; but in Walmot's ear the lark seemed already singing in heaven's blue sky, whilst her poor little cottage on yonder downs to her seemed bathed in golden sunshine.

Walmot was not now twenty, nor was it now springtime, but there was something within her that seemed to defy the laws of time, both with regard to nature and with regard to humanity; and through this inner power she created for herself a spring even in the winter-time, and maintained her youth in age.

6

As it was certain that Walmot’s newly-adopted daughter could not have received the rite of baptism, Pastor Remmert arranged for her to be baptized at the same time as his own infant. The ceremony accordingly took place on the second Sunday after the shipwreck, and the two youngest members of the island community were inscribed on the church register side by side as ‘Theodora Remmert' and 'Godfreda Roeluf.' The pastor wanted to put 'Walmot ' instead of the last name, and such would have been most in accordance with Walmot's own wishes ; but then it occurred to her that at some future day the girl might be reproached with having no father, and she at once resolutely gave up her own desire. The surname was an external matter of little consequence; it did not affect the true nature of the child, and it also bore some useful fruit, by confirming Roeluf Hemmen in the happy belief that he was really Datya’s father ; for thus Walmot had already named the child : it was a pet term which she could, at least, keep for herself. Even as the spring calls back again the little flowers out of the barren island soil, so did Walmot find in this babe a resurrection of the child she had lost. It seemed to her as though the former Datya gazed on her once more through the eyes of this little namesake, saw and sympathized with her, walking by her side through life longer than had actually been allowed; and what life had denied to Walmot, that she hoped to secure for this child, in whose happiness she would find her

Her sympathy with each natural impulse and relation was so warm and true that her heart beat responsive to every human call.

The villagers could not accustom themselves to the long, foreign-sounding baptismal names which had been inscribed by the pastor in the church register. It was easy by abbreviation to turn them into old Frisian names, and so the two children became known on the island as Teda and Freda. Some years passed, it is true, before the custom became fully established, not, indeed, until when the little girls had learned to run about alone and to share in the games of the other children on the downs. Before this they were but little known; dwellers on the eastern half of the island seldom visited Walmot's cottage, and although the parsonage had neighbours, still, the villagers never repaired thither unless in their inexperience they stood in need of worldly or of spiritual advice. But this led to no nearer social intercourse between the pastor and his flock.

own.

Remmert's

eyes looked far off and only with indifference on the mere earthly necessities of others as well as on those of his own household, and with the possession of her child his wife had lost her former interest in the concerns of the other inhabitants of the village. Year followed upon year; only the seasons changed upon the island world forgetting, by the world forgot'-all else remained unchanged the same.

CHAPTER XIII.

CAPTIVITY.

Both history and fiction tell us tales of prison walls, within which men have been immured in their early days never again to come forth. The prisoner enters the room by night, he never dreams that it is to be his prison for the whole length of his future life. A cold shiver passes over him as, in the darkness, he crosses the threshold; but daylight, he thinks, will come and will brighten up the gloomy cell.

And the dawn approaches—it grows into the full light of day—but within that cell all remains strangely dull and cold. The window lies to the north; it is overshadowed by a high stone wall that encircles the building, and not a ray of sunshine ever enters within. Only far away beyond the wall. there is a little strip of the green landscape visible, on which dance golden streaks that proclaim the sun is shining there. Thus one day follows another, until at last the anxious watcher becomes aware that he has been conveyed into a dungeonkeep. But yet, after all, the door must surely some day open for him, so he patiently waits on. All in vain. The snow and green leaves once more show that a whole year has passed away.

But, lo! a day comes at last when his still cherished hope is fulfilled ; the walls around him all at once sink down, and he is in the joyous summer world once more. He draws in large draughts of the warm, reviving air, and his heart throbs with the glorious happy consciousness of life. His late misery serves only to heighten the feeling of present bliss.

But as the night which follows the day passes by, and is

a

succeeded by another day, so the hapless prisoner finds himself once more within his gloomy walls. Had he, then, but dreamt ? Was it the mere nightmare of a fevered mind? Was it nothing but a caprice of his gaolers to give him this brief glimpse of sunshine? or had they done it only to let him feel more intensely the charm of life, so that the wretchedness of his dungeon might oppress him a thousandfold more?

It cannot be. Surely no human being could act so cruelly. Kind Providence would never suffer a creature who has done no wrong to be treated in such a way as that. And the hopes of the prisoner revive once more. Again day follows upon day, and still he hopes on. It is all in vain. With wearisome monotony the hours, the months pass by, ever the same, like water dripping-drip, drip, drip.

All at once there comes to him, as heaven sent, a comforter, a sweetener of life, a companion of his solitude. Over his window is a nest; a helpless, unfledged bird falls out of it on to his window-sill. His hand clasps the little flutterer, and draws it to his bosom. He has now, at least, a semblance of what he has so greatly longed for—he is no more alone. His thoughts, his feelings, have at last a living object to which they can cling. Carefully he feeds from his prison fare the wee little birdie; he guards it from the cold, from every danger, from all ill. He forgets his own condition, and is happy, for he has an object on which to lavish care and love, and from which he may win gratitude and love in return. And so he tends his little companion; notes with a glad eye how the feathers gradually appear; teaches it to use its untrained wings; catches it gently up, if he sees it ready to fall. And so under his watchful care the wings of the little bird gradually gain strength, and one day it rises boldly up and flies—right out of the window.

Full of alarm, the forsaken friend calls and tries to entice back his petted playfellow; but the well-known voice is unheeded. Days pass on in alternate hope and despair, but the wanderer never returns. Daily he may be seen outside, an indifferent stranger. The prisoner had fixed on him his whole soul that was athirst for love ; but the bird has no soul, and knows nought of gratitude or of love.

Once more the forsaken prisoner sits alone, and for the first time arrives at the conviction that he is without hope, shut in for the rest of his life. Overcome with horror, he starts up

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