Litchfield enquirer., 1875-04-08
s5 LFrom Scrihner's Monthly.l f
 TRULS. THE MAAaELESS

sn0 I0 tn0 great mansion. lie dld not know who his father was: she was the daughter of Grim of Skogli, and she was the only daughter he had. They were car ried to baptism on the same day, and he
 was called Truls, because they had to call him something; she received the name o1 Borghild, because that had been the name of every eldest-born daughter in the fam fly for thirty generations. They both cri- ed when the pastor poured the water on their heads; his mother hushed him, blush ed, and looked timidly around her; but the woman who carried Borgnild lifted her high up in her arms so that every body could see her, and the pastor smiled benlgnly, and the parishioners said they had never seen so beautiful child. That was the way in which they began life he as child of sin, she as the daughter of mighty race.
 They grew up together. She had round cheeks and merry eyes. and her lips were redder than the red rose. He was of slen- der growth, his face was thin and pale, and his eyes had a strange, benumbed gaze, as if they were puzzling themselves with some sad, lifelong riddle which they never hoped to solve. On the strand where they played the billows came and went. aud they murmured faintly with a sound of infinite remoteness. Borghild laughed aloud, clapped her hands and threw stones out into the water, while he sat pale and silent, and saw the great white-winged sea. birds sailing through the blue ocean of the sky. lti .s-
 How would you like to live down there Tn the deep green water?" she asked him one day, as they sat watching the cider ducks which swam and dived, and stood on their heads among the sea-weeds.
 '1 should like it very well. }" he answer ed, eff you would follow me-"
 ''No, won't follow you," she cried. ''It is cold and wet down in the water. And should spoil the ribbons on my new boddice. But when I grow up and get big, and can braid my hair, then I shall row with the young lads to the church yonder on the headland, and there the old pastor will marry me, and shall wear the big silver crown which my mother wore when she was married"
 "And may I go with you?" asked he, timidly.
 "Yes, you may steer my boat and be my heImsman, Or-you may be bride groom, if you would like that better.
 ''Yes, think should rather be your bridegroom" and he gave her a long, strange look which almost frightened her.
 The years slipped by, and before Borg hlld knew 1t, she had grown into woman hood. The down on Tru1s's cheeks be- came rougher, and he, too, began to sus- pect that he was no longer a boy. When the sun was late and the breeze murmur- ed Tn the great, dark-crowned pines, they often met by chance, at the we'll, on the strand, or on the saeter- green. And the oftener they met the more they found to talk about; to be sure, it was she who did the talking, and he looked at her with his large wondering eyes and listened. She told him of the lamb which had tumbled down over 8 steep ptecipice and still was uphnEt. of the hahY, ,whQ npllad tha P nsst= all ceremony, or of the lumberman, Lars, who drank the kerosene his wife gave him for brandy, and never kney the difference. But. when the milk maids passed by, she would suddenly forget what she had been saying, and then they sat gazing at each other in silence. Once she told him of the lads who danced with her at the party at Houg; and she thought she noticed a deeper color on his face, and that he clinched both his fists and-thrust them into his pockets. That set her thinking, and the more she thought. the more cur. ious she grew. He played the violin we'll; suppose she should ask him to come and fiddle at the party her father was to give at the end of the harvest. She resolved to do 1t, and he, not knowing what moved her. gave his promise eagerly. It struck her, afterward, that she had done wicked thing, but, like most girls, she had not the heart to wrestle with an uncomfortable thought; she shook it of and began to hum snatch of an old song: "O'er the pillows the feet-footed storm-wind , rode,
 The biliows blue are the merman's abode,
 So strangely that harp was sounding"
 The memory of old times came back to her, the memory of the morning, long years ago, when they sat together on the strand. and he said: ''I think I should rather be your bridegroom, Borghild. |"
 The memory was sweet, but it was bit ter too; and the bitterness rose and filled her heart. She threw her head back proud ly, and laughed strange, hollow laugh. IA bastard's bride, ha, hal A fine tale were that for the parish gossips'' A yell low butterfly lighted on her arm, and with fierce frown on her face she caught it between her fingers. Then she looked pityingly on the dead wings, as they lay in her hand, and murmured between her teeth: "Poor thing! Why did you come in my way, unbidden?'
 The harvest was rich, and the harvest party was to keep pace with the harvest The broad Skogi mansion was festively lighted (for it was already late in Septem- ber); the tall, straight tallow candles, stuck in many-armed candlesticks, shone dimly through sort of misty halo, and only suffused the dusk with faint glim- mering of light. And every time a guest entered, the flames of the candles flicker ed and twisted themselves with the wind, struggling to keep erect. And Borghild' s courage, too rose and fell with the flicker ing motion of a flame which wrestled with the wind. Whenever the latch clicked she lifted her eyes and looked for Truls, and one moment she wished that she might never ses his face again, and in the next she sent an eager glance toward the door Presently he came, threw his fiddle on 8 bench, and with reckless air walked up to her and held out his hand. She hesitat- cd to return his greeting. but when she saw the deep lines of suffering in his face, heR heart went forward with greAt tend- eHness toward him, tenderness such as one feels for child who is sick, and suf- fers without hope of healing. She laid her hand in his, and there it lay for while hstlessly; for neither dared trust the joy which the sight of the other 'enkindled But when she tried to draw her hand sway he caught it quickly. and with a sudden fervor of voice he said: h s Fss sThe-sight of you, Bofghild, stills the hunger which is raging in my soul. Be- ware that you do not play with a life, Borg hild even though it be worthless one. 2i There was something so hepelessly sad in his words, that they stung her to the quick. They laid bare hidden deep in her hearts and she sl1rank back at the sight of her own vileness. How could she repair theinjuFyshe had done him? How could she heal the wound she had infiict- edf1A number of guests came up to greet her and among them Syvert Stein, a bold looking young man, who, during that summer. had a square face, strong feat ures, and huge crop of towy hair. His race was far-famed for wit and daring
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