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Ганс Христиан Андерсен
O. T., A Danish Romance

“For God’s sake, tell no one of that which you have seen! I am compelled to serve her—she is my sister! If you betray my secret I am lost to this world—I must die! It was not until this evening that I knew this to be the case! I will tell you all, but do not betray me! And do you prevent tomorrow any pursuit after her! O Louise! by the happiness of your own soul feel for the misery of mine! I shall destroy myself if you betray me!”

“O God!” stammered Louise. “I will do all—all! I will be silent! Conduct her hence, quick, that you may meet with no one!”

She seized Otto’s hand; he sank upon his knee before her, and looked like a marble image which expressed manly beauty and sorrow.

Louise bent herself with sisterly affection over him; tears flowed down her cheeks; her voice trembled, but it was tranquillizing, like the consolation of a good angel. With a glance full of confidence in her, Otto tore himself away. Sidsel followed him and said not a word.

He led her to the lowest story and opened for her, silently, a window, through which she could descend to the garden, and thence easily reach the avenue where German Heinrich waited for her. To have accompanied her any further was unnecessary; it would have been venturing too much without any adequate cause. She stood now upon the window-sill—Otto put a little money into her hand.

“The Lord is above us!” said he, in a solemn voice. “Never forget Him and endeavor to amend your life! All may yet be well!” He involuntarily pressed her hand in his. “Have God always in your thoughts!” said he.

“I shall get safely away, however,” said she, and descended into the garden; she nodded, and vanished behind the hedge.

Otto stood for a while and listened whether any noise was heard, or whether any dog barked. He feared for her safety. All was still.

Just as sometimes an old melody will suddenly awake in our remembrance and sound in our ear, so awoke now a holy text to his thoughts. “Lord, if I should take the wings of the morning, and should fly to the uttermost parts of the sea, thither thou wouldst lead me, and thy right hand would hold me fast! Thou art near to us! Thou canst accomplish and thou willest our well-being! Thou alone canst help us!”

In silence he breathed his prayer.

He returned to his chamber more composed in mind. Wilhelm seemed to sleep; but as Otto approached his bed he suddenly raised himself, and looked, inquiringly, around him.

“Who is there?” exclaimed he; “you are dressed! where have you been?” He was urgent in his inquiry.

Otto gave a joking reason.

“Let me have your hand!” said he. Otto gave it to him, he felt his pulse.

“Yes, quite correct!” said he; “the blood is yet in commotion. One sees plain enough that there is no concealing things! Here was I sleeping in all innocence, and you were running after adventures. You wicked bird!”

The thoughts worked rapidly in Otto’s soul. If Louise would only be silent, no one would dream of the possibility of his having part in Sidsel’s flight. He must allow Wilhelm quietly to have his joke.

“Was not I right?” asked Wilhelm.

“And if now you were so,” replied Otto, “will you tell it to any one?”

“Do you think that I could do such a thing?” replied Wilhelm; “we are all of us only mortal creatures!”

Otto gave him his hand. “Be silent!” he said.

“Yes, certainly,” said Wilhelm; and, according to his custom, strengthened it with an oath. “Now I have sworn it,” said he; “but when there is an opportunity you must tell me more about it!”

“Yes, certainly,” said Otto, with a deep sigh. Before his friend he no longer stood pure and guiltless.

They slept. Otto’s sleep was only a hateful dream.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

 
“…Wie entzückend
Und süss es ist, in einer schönen Seele,
Verherrlicht uns zu fühlen, es zu wissen,
Das uns’re Fruede fremde Wangen röthet,
Und uns’re Angst in fremdem Busen zittert,
Das uns’re Leiden fremde Augen nässen.”
 

SCHILLER.

“How pale!” said Wilhelm the next morning to Otto. “Do you see, that is what people get by night-wandering?”

“How so?” inquired Otto.

Wilhelm made a jest of it.

“You have been dreaming that!” said Otto.

“How do you mean?” replied Wilhelm; “will you make me fancy that I have imagined it? I was really quite awake! we really talked about it; I was initiated in it. Actually I have a good mind to give you a moral lecture. If it had been me, how you would have preached!”

They were summoned to breakfast. Otto’s heart was ready to burst. What might he not have to hear? What must he say?

Sophie was much excited.

“Did you, gentlemen, hear anything last night?” she inquired. “Have you both slept?”

“Yes, certainly,” replied Wilhelm, and looked involuntarily at Otto.

“The bird is flown, however!” said she; “it has made its escape out of the dove-cote.”

“What bird?” asked Wilhelm.

“Sidsel!” replied she; “and, what is oddest in the whole affair is, that Louise has loosed her wings. Louise is quite up to the romantic. Think only! she went up in the night to the topmost story, unlocked the prison-tower, gave a moral lecture to Sidsel, and after that let her go! Then in the morning comes Louise to mamma, relates the whole affair, and says a many affecting things!”

“Yes, I do not understand it,” said the mother, addressing Louise. “How you could have had the courage to go up so late at night, and go up to her! But it was very beautiful of you! Let her escape! it is, as you say, best that she should. We should all of us have thought of that last evening!”

“I was so sorry for her!” said Louise; “and by chance it happened that I had a great many things to arrange after you were all in bed. Everything was so still in the house, it seemed to me as if I could hear Sidsel sigh; certainly it was only my own imagination, but I could do no other than pity her! she was so unfortunate! Thus I let her escape!”

“Are you gone mad?” inquired Wilhelm; “what a history is this? Did you go in the night up to the top of the house? That is an unseasonable compassion!”

“It was beautiful!” said Otto, bending himself involuntarily, and kissing Louise’s hand.

“Yes, that is water to his mill!” exclaimed Wilhelm. “I think nothing of such things!”

“We will not talk about it to anyone,” said the mother. “The steward shall not proceed any further in it. We have recovered the old silver tankard, and the losing that was my greatest trouble. We will thank God that we are well rid of her! Poor thing! she will come to an unfortunate end!”

“Are you still unwell, Mr. Thostrup?” said Sophie, and looked at him.

“I am a little feverish,” replied he. “I will take a very long walk, and then I shall be better.”

“You should take a few drops,” said the lady.

“O, he will come to himself yet!” said Wilhelm; “he must take exercise! His is not a dangerous illness.”

Otto went into the wood. It was to him a temple of God; his heart poured forth a hymn of thanksgiving. Louise had been his good angel. He felt of a truth that she would never betray his secret. His thoughts clung to her with confidence. “Are you still unwell?” Sophie had said. The tones of her voice alone had been like the fragrance of healing herbs; in her eye he had felt sympathy and—love. “O Sophie!” sighed he. Both sisters were so dear to him.

He entered the garden and went along the great avenue; here he met Louise. One might almost have imagined that she had sought for him: there was no one but her to be seen in the whole avenue.

Otto pressed her hand to his lips. “You have saved my life!” said he.

“Dear Thostrup!” answered she, “do not betray yourself. Yon have come happily out of the affair! Thank God! my little part in it has concealed the whole. For the rest I have a suspicion. Yes, I cannot avoid it. May not the whole be an error? It is possible that she is that which you said! Tell me all that you can let me know. From this seat we can see everybody who comes into the avenue. No one can hear us!”

“Yes, to you alone I can confide it!” said Otto; “to you will I tell it.”

He now related that which we know about the manufactory, which he called the house, in which German Heinrich had first seen him, and had tattooed his initials upon his shoulder; their later meeting in the park, and afterwards by St. Ander’s Cross.

Louise trembled; her glance rested sympathizingly upon Otto’s pale and handsome countenance. He showed her the letter which had been brought to him the last evening, and related to her what Heinrich had told him.

“It may be so,” said Louise; “but yet I have not been able to lose the idea all the morning that you have been deceived. Not one of her features resembles yours. Can brother and sister be so different as you and she? Yet, be the truth as it may, promise me not to think too much about it. There is a good Ruler above who can turn all things for the best.”

“These horrible circumstances,” said Otto, “have robbed me of the cheerfulness of my youth. They thrust themselves disturbingly into my whole future. Not to Wilhelm—no, not to any one have I been able to confide them. You know all! God knows that you were compelled to learn them. I leave myself entirely in your hands!”

He pressed her hand silently, and with the earnest glance of confidence and truth they looked at each other.

“I shall speedily leave my native country,” said Otto. “It may be forever. I should return with sorrow to a home where no happiness awaited me. I stand so entirely alone in the world!”

“But you have friends,” said Louise; “sincere friends. You must think with pleasure of returning home to Denmark. My mother loves you as if she were your own mother. Wilhelm and Sophie—yes, we will consider you as a brother.”

“And Sophie?” exclaimed Otto.

“Yes, can you doubt it?” inquired Louise.

“She knows me not as you know me; and if she did?”—He pressed his hands before his eyes and burst into tears. “You know all: you know more than I could tell her,” sighed he. “I am more unfortunate than you can believe. Never can I forget her—never!”

“For Heaven’s sake compose yourself!” said Louise rising. “Some one might come, and you would not be able to conceal your emotion. All may yet be well! Confide only in God in heaven!”

“Do not tell your sister that which I have told you. Do not tell any one. I have revealed to you every secret which my soul contains.”

“I will be to you a good sister,” said Louise, and pressed his hand.

They silently walked down the avenue.

The sisters slept in the same room.

At night, after Sophie had been an hour in bed, Louise entered the chamber.

“Thou art become a spirit of the night,” said Sophie. “Where hast thou been? Thou art not going up into the loft again to-night, thou strange girl? Had it been Wilhelm, Thostrup, or myself who had undertaken such a thing, it would have been quite natural; but thou”—

“Am I, then, so very different to you all?” inquired Louise. “I should resemble my sister less than even Mr. Thostrup resembles her. You two are so very different!”

“In our views, in our impulses, we very much resemble each other!” said Sophie.

“He is certainly not happy,” exclaimed Louise. “We can read it in his eyes.”

“Yes, but it is precisely that which makes him interesting!” said Sophie; “he is thus a handsome shadow-piece in everyday life.”

“Thou speakest about it so calmly,” said Louise, and bent over her sister, “I would almost believe that it was love.”

“Love!” exclaimed Sophie, raising herself up in bed, for now Louise’s words had become interesting to her; “whom dost thou think that he loves?”

“Thyself,” replied Louise, and seized her sister’s hand.

“Perhaps?” returned Sophie. “I also made fun of him! It certainly went on better when our cousin was here. Poor Thostrup!”

“And thou, Sophie,” inquired Louise, “dost thou return his love?”

“It is a regular confession that thou desirest,” replied she. “He is in love—that all young men are. Our cousin, I can tell thee, said many pretty things to me. Even the Kammerjunker flatters as well as he can, the good soul! I have now resolved with myself to be a reasonable girl. Believe me, however, Thostrup is in an ill humor!”

“If the Kammerjunker were to pay his addresses to you, would you accept him?” asked Louise, and seated herself upon her sister’s bed.

“What can make you think of such a thing?” inquired she. “Hast thou heard anything?—Thou makest me anxious! O Louise! I joke, I talk a deal; but for all that, believe me, I am not happy!”

They talked about the Kammerjunker, about Otto, and about the French cousin. It was late in the night. Large tears stood in Sophie’s eyes, but she laughed for all that, and ended with a quotation from Jean Paul.

Half an hour afterward she slept and dreamed; her round white arm lay upon the coverlet, and her lips moved with these words:

 
“With a smile as if an angel
Had just then kissed her mouth.”
 

Louise pressed her countenance on the soft pillow, and wept.

CHAPTER XXXIX

 
“A swarm of colors, noise and screaming,
Music and sights, past any dreaming,
The rattle of wheels going late and early,—
All draw the looker-on into the hurly-burly.”
 

TH. OVERSKOU.

A few days passed on. Otto heard nothing of German Heinrich or of his sister. Peter Cripple seemed not to be in their confidence. All that he knew was, that the letter which he had conveyed to Otto was to be unknown to any one beside. As regarded German Heinrich, he believed that he was now in another part of tire country; but that at St. Knud’s fair, in Odense, he would certainly find him.

In Otto’s soul there was an extraordinary combating. Louise’s words, that he had been deceived, gave birth to hopes, which, insignificant as the grain of mustard-seed, shot forth green leaves.

“May not,” thought he, “German Heinrich, to further his own plans, have made use of my fear? I must speak with him; he shall swear to me the truth.”

He compared in thought the unpleasing, coarse features of Sidsel, with the image which his memory faintly retained of his little sister. She seemed to him as a delicate creature with large eyes. He had not forgotten that the people about them had spoken of her as of “a kitten that they could hardly keep alive.” How then could she now be this square-built, singularly plain being, with the eyebrows growing together? “I must speak with Heinrich,” resolved he; “she cannot be my sister! so heavily as that God will not try me.”

By such thoughts as these his mind became much calmer. There were moments when the star of love mirrored itself in his life’s sea.

His love for Sophie was no longer a caged bird within his breast; its wings were at liberty; Louise saw its release; it was about to fly to its goal.

St. Knud’s fair was at hand, and on that account the family was about to set out for Odense. Eva was the only one who was to remain at home. It was her wish to do so.

“Odense is not worth the trouble of thy going to see,” said Sophie; “but in this way thou wilt never increase thy geographical knowledge. In the mean time, however, I shall bring thee a fairing—a husband of honey cake, ornamented with almonds.”

Wilhelm thought that she should enjoy the passing pleasure, and go with them; but Eva prayed to stay, and she had her will.

“There is a deal of pleasure in the world,” said Wilhelm, “if people will only enjoy it. If one day in Paris is a brilliant flower, a day at Odense fair is also a flower. It is a merry, charming world that we live in! I am almost ready to say with King Valdemar, that if I might keep—yes, I will say, the earth, then our Lord might willingly for me keep heaven: there it is much better than we deserve; and God knows whether we may not, in the other world, have longings after the old world down here!”

“After Odense fair?” asked Sophie ironically.

Otto stood wrapped in his own thoughts. This day, he felt, would be one of the most remarkable in his life. German Heinrich must give him an explanation. Sophie must do so likewise Could he indeed meet with success from them both? Would not sorrow and pain be his fairings?

The carriage rolled away.

From the various cross-roads came driving up the carriages of the gentry and the peasants; the one drove past the other; and as the French and English Channel collects ships from the Atlantic Ocean, so did the King’s Road those who drove in carriages, those who rode on horseback, and those who went on foot.

Behind most of the peasant-vehicles were tied a few horses, that went trotting on with them. Mamsells from the farms sat with large gloves on their red arms and hands. They held their umbrellas before their faces on account of the dust and the sun.

“The Kammerjunker’s people must have set off earlier than we,” said Sophie, “otherwise they would have called for us.”

Otto looked inquiringly at her. She thought on the Kammerjunker!

“We shall draw up by Faugde church,” said Sophie. “Mr. Thostrup can see Kingo’s²⁹ grave—can see where the sacred poet lies. Some true trumpeting angels, in whom one can rightly see how heavy the marble is, fly with the Bishop’s staff and hat within the chapel.”

Otto smiled, and she thought also about giving him pleasure.

The church was seen, the grave visited, and they rapidly rolled along the King’s Road toward Odense, the lofty tower of whose cathedral had hailed them at some miles’ distance.

We do not require alone from the portrait-painter that he should represent the person, but that he should represent him in his happiest moment. To the plain as well as to the inexpressive countenance must the painter give every beauty which it possesses. Every human being has moments in which something intellectual or characteristic presents itself. Nature, too, when we are presented only with the most barren landscape, has the same moments; light and shadow produce these effects. The poet must be like the painter; he must seize upon these moments in human life as the other in nature.

If the reader were a child who lived in Odense, it would require nothing more from him than that he should say the words, “St. Knud’s fair;” and this, illumined by the beams of the imagination of childhood, would stand before him in the most brilliant colors. Our description will be only a shadow; it will be that, perhaps, which the many will find it to be.

Already in the suburbs the crowd of people, and the outspread earthenware of the potters, which entirely covered the trottoir, announced that the fair was in full operation.

The carriage drove down from the bridge across the Odense River.

“See, how beautiful it is here!” exclaimed Wilhelm.

Between the gardens of the city and a space occupied as a bleaching ground lay the river. The magnificent church of St. Knud, with its lofty tower, terminated the view.

“What red house was that?” inquired Otto, when they had lost sight of it.

“That is the nunnery!” replied Louise, knowing what thought it was which had arisen in his mind.

“There stood in the ancient times the old bishop’s palace, where Beldenak lived!” said Sophie. “Just opposite to the river is the bell-well, where a bell flew out of St. Albani’s tower. The well is unfathomable. Whenever rich people in Odense die, it rings down below the water!”

“It is not a pleasant thought,” said Otto, “that it rings in the well when they must die.”

“One must not take it in that way now!” said Sophie, laughing, and turned the subject. “Odense has many lions,” continued she, “from a king’s garden with swans in it to a great theatre, which has this in common with La Scala and many Italian ones, that it is built upon the ruins of a convent.³⁰

“In Odense, aristocracy and democracy held out the longest,” said Wilhelm, smiling; “yet I remember, in my childhood, that when the nobles and the citizens met on the king’s birthday at the town-house ball, that we danced by ourselves.”

“Were not, then, the citizens strong enough to throw the giddy nobles out of the window?” inquired Otto.

“You forget, Mr. Thostrup, that you yourself are noble!” said Sophie. “I was really the goddess of fate who gave to you your genealogical tree.”

“You still remember that evening?” said Otto, with a gentle voice, and the thoughts floated as gayly in his mind as the crowd of people floated up and down in the streets through which they drove.

Somewhere about the middle of the city five streets met; and this point, which widens itself out into a little square, is called the Cross Street: here lay the hotel to which the family drove.

“Two hours and a quarter too late!” said the Kammerjunker, who came out to meet them on the steps. “Good weather for the fair, and good horses! I have already been out at the West-gate, and have bought two magnificent mares. One of them kicked out behind, and had nearly given me a blow on the breast, so that I might have said I had had my fairing! Jakoba is paying visits, drinking chocolate, and eating biscuits. Mamsell is out taking a view of things. Now you know our story.”

The ladies went to their chamber, the gentlemen remained in the saloon.

“Yes, here you shall see a city and a fair, Mr. Thostrup!” said the Kammerjunker, and slapped Otto on the shoulder.

“Odense was at one time my principal chief-city,” said Wilhelm; “and still St. Knud’s Church is the most magnificent I know. God knows whether St. Peter’s in Rome would make upon me, now that I am older, the impression which this made upon me as a child!”

“In St. Knud’s Church lies the Mamsell with the cats,” said the Kammerjunker.

“The bishop’s lady, you should say,” returned Wilhelm. “The legend relates, that there was a lady of a Bishop Mus who loved her cats to that degree that she left orders that they should be laid with her in the grave.³¹ We will afterward go and see them.”

“Yes, both the bishop’s lady and the cats,” said the Kammerjunker, “look like dried fish! Then you must also see the nunnery and the military library.”

“The Hospital and the House of Correction!” added Wilhelm.

The beating of a drum in the street drew them to the window. The city crier, in striped linsey-woolsey jacket and breeches, and with a yellow band across his shoulders, stood there, beat upon his drum, and proclaimed aloud from a written paper many wonderful things which were to be seen in the city.

“He beats a good drum,” said the Kammerjunker.

“It would certainly delight Rossini and Spontini to hear the fellow!” said Wilhelm. “In fact Odense would be, at New Year’s time, a city for these two composers. You must know that at that season drums and fifes are in their glory. They drum the New Year in. Seven or eight little drummers and fifers go from door to door, attended by children and old women; at that time they beat both the tattoo and the reveille. For this they get a few pence. When the New Year is drummed-in in the city they wander out into the country, and drum there for bacon and groats. The New Year’s drumming in lasts until about Easter.”

“And then we have new pastimes,” said the Kammerjunker.

“Then come the fishers from Stige,³² with a complete band, and carrying a boat upon their shoulders ornamented with a variety of flags. After that they lay a board between two boats, and upon this two of the youngest and the strongest have a wrestling-match, until one of them falls into the water. The last years they both have allowed themselves to tumble in. And this has been done in consequence of one young man who fell in being so stung by the jeers which his fall had occasioned that he left, that same day, the fishing village, after which no one saw him. But all the fun is gone now! In my boyhood the merriment was quite another thing. It was a fine sight when the corporation paraded with their ensign and harlequin on the top! And at Easter, when the butchers led about a bullock ornamented with ribbons and Easter-twigs, on the back of which was seated a little winged boy in a shirt. They had Turkish music, and carried flagons with them! See! all that have I outlived, and yet I am not so old. Baron Wilhelm must have seen the ornamented ox. Now all that is past and gone; people are got so refined! Neither is St. Knud’s fair that which it used to be.”

“For all that, I rejoice that it is not so!” said Wilhelm. “But we will go into the market and visit the Jutlanders, who are sitting there among the heath with their earthenware. You will stand a chance there, Mr. Thostrup, of meeting with an old acquaintance; only you must not have home-sickness when you smell the heather and hear the ringing of the clattering pots!”

The ladies now entered. Before paying any visits they determined upon making the round of the market. The Kammerjunker offered his arm to the mother. Otto saw this with secret gladness, and approached Sophie. She accepted him willingly as an attendant; they must indeed get into the throng.

As in the Middle Ages the various professions had their distinct streets and quarters, so had they also here. The street which led to the market place, and which in every-day life was called the “Shoemaker Street,” answered perfectly to its name. The shoemakers had ranged their tables side by side. These, and the rails which had been erected for the purpose, were hung over with all kinds of articles for the feet; the tables themselves were laden with heavy shoes and thick-soled boots. Behind these stood the skillful workman in his long Sunday coat, and with his well-brushed felt-hat upon his head.

Where the shoemakers’ quarter ended that of the hatters’ began, and with this one was in the middle of the great market-place, where tents and booths formed many parallel streets. The booth of galanterie wares, the goldsmith’s, and the confectioner’s, most of them constructed of canvas, some few of them of wood, were points of great attraction. Round about fluttered ribbons and handkerchiefs; round about were noise and bustle. Peasant-girls out of the same village went always in a row, seven or eight inseparables, with their hands fast locked in each other; it was impossible to break the chain; and if people tried to press through them, the whole flock rolled together in a heap.

Behind the booths there lay a great space filled with wooden shoes, coarse earthenware, turners’ and saddlers’ work. Upon tables were spread out toys, generally rudely made and coarsely painted. All around the children assayed their little trumpets, and turned about their playthings. The peasant-girls twirled and twisted both the work-boxes and themselves many a time before the bargain was completed. The air was heavy with all kinds of odors, and was spiced with the fragrance of honey-cake.

Here acquaintances met each other-some peasant-maidens, perhaps, who had been born in the same village, but since then had been separated.

“Good day!” exclaimed they, took each other by the hand, gave their arms a swing, and laughed.

“Farewell!”

That was the whole conversation: such a one went on in many places.

“That is the heather!” exclaimed Otto, as he approached the quarter where the Jutland potters had their station; “how refreshing is the odor!” said he, and stooping down seized a twig fresh and green, as if it had been plucked only yesterday.

“Aye, my Jesus though! is not that Mr. Otto!” exclaimed a female voice just beside him, and a young Jutland peasantwoman skipped across the pottery toward him. Otto knew her. It was the little Maria, the eelman’s daughter, who, as we may remember at Otto’s visit to the fisher’s, had removed to Ringkjoebing, and had hired herself for the hay and cornharvest—the brisk Maria, “the girl,” as her father called her. She had been betrothed in Ringkjoebing, and married to the rich earthenware dealer, and now had come across the salt-water to Odense fair, where she should meet with Mr. Otto.

“Her parents lived on my grandfather’s estate,” said Otto to Sophie, who observed with a smile the young wife’s delight in meeting with an acquaintance of her childhood. The husband was busily employed in selling his wares; he heard nothing of it.

“Nay, but how elegant and handsome you are become!” said the young wife: “but see, I knew you again for all that! Grandmother, you may believe me, thinks a deal about you! The old body, she is so brisk and lively; it does not trouble her a bit that she cannot see! You are the second acquaintance that I have met with in the fair. It’s wonderful how people come here from all parts of the world! The players are here too! You still remember the German Heinrich? Over there in the gray house, at the corner of the market, he is acting his comedy in the gateway.”

“I am glad that I have seen you!” said Otto, and nodded kindly. “Greet them at home, and the grandmother, for me!”

“Greet them also from me!” said Sophie smiling. “You, Mr. Thostrup, must for old acquaintance sake buy something. You ought also to give me a fairing: I wish for that great jug there!”

“Where are you staying!” cried Wilhelm, and came back, whilst the rest went forward.

“We would buy some earthenware,” said Sophie. “Souvenir de Jutland. The one there has a splendid picture on it!”

“You shall have it!” said Otto. “But if I requested a fairing from you, I beseech of you, might I say”—

“That it possibly might obtain its worth from my hand,” said Sophie, smiling. “I understand you very well—a sprig of heather? I shall steal!” said she to the young wife, as she took a little sprig of heath and stuck it into his buttonhole. “Greet the grandmother for me!”

Otto and Sophie went.

“That’s a very laughing body!” said the woman half aloud, as she looked after them; her glance followed Otto, she folded her hands—she was thinking, perhaps, on the days of her childhood.

At St. Knud’s church-yard Otto and Sophie overtook the others. They were going into the church. On the fair days this and all the tombs within it were open to the public.

From whichever side this church is contemplated from without, the magnificent old building has, especially from its lofty tower and spire, something imposing about it; the interior produces the same, nay, perhaps a greater effect. But as the principal entrance is through the armory, and the lesser one is from the side of the church, its full impression is not felt on entering it; nor is it until you arrive at the end of the great aisle that you are aware rightly of its grandeur. All there is great, beautiful, and light. The whole interior is white with gilding. Aloft on the high-vaulted roof there shine, and that from the old time, many golden stars. On both sides, high up, higher than the side-aisles of the church, are large Gothic windows, from which the light streams down. The side-aisles are adorned with old paintings, which represent whole families, women and children, all clad in canonicals, in long robes and large ruffs. In an ordinary way, the figures are all ranged according to age, the oldest first, and then down to the very least child, and stand with folded hands, and look piously with downcast eyes and faces all in one direction, until by length of time the colors have all faded away.