"But this man, Atle Pilot, has come from so far away in this
dreadful cold," pleaded Guro, "and his son is so very bad, poor

thing; he's lying down in the boat, and he sighs and groans fit
to move a stone."

"Don't! Don't tell her that," interposed Agnes, motioning to the
girl to begone. "Don't you see it is hard enough for her

already?"
There was something in the air, as the two sisters descended the

stairs hand in hand, which foreboded calamity. The pastor had
given out from the pulpit last Sunday that he would positively

receive no invalids at his house; and he had solemnly" target="_blank" title="ad.严肃地，庄严地">solemnly charged
every one to refrain from bringing their sick to his daughter.

He had repeated this announcement again and again, and he was now
very much annoyed at his apparent powerlessness to protect his

child from further imposition. Loud and angry speech was heard
in his office, and a noise as if the furniture were being knocked

about. The two little girls remained standing on the stairs,
each gazing at the other's frightened face. Then there was a

great bang, and a stalwart, elderly sailor came tumbling head
foremost out into the hall. His cap was flung after him through

the crack of the door. Agnes saw for an instant her father's
face, red and excited; and in his bearing there was something

wild and strange, which was so different from his usual gentle
and dignified appearance. The sailor stood for a while

bewildered, leaning against the wall; then he stooped slowly and
picked up his cap. But the moment he caught sight of Carina his

embarrassment vanished, and his rough features were illuminated
with an intenseemotion.

"Come, little miss, and help me," he cried, in a hoarse,
imploring whisper. "Halvor, my son--he is the only one God gave

me--he is sick; he is going to die, miss, unless you take pity on
him."

"Where is he?" asked Carina.
"He's down in the boat, miss, at the pier. But I'll carry him up

to you, if you like. We have been rowing half the night in the
cold, and he is very low."

"No, no; you mustn't bring him here," said Agnes, seeing by
Carina's face that she was on the point of yielding. "Father

would be so angry."
"He may kill me if he likes," exclaimed the sailor, wildly. "It

doesn't matter to me. But Halvor he's the only one I have, miss,
and his mother died when he was born, and he is young, miss, and

he will have many years to live, if you'll only have mercy on
him."

"But, you know, I shouldn't dare, on papa's account, to have you
bring him here," began Carina, struggling with her tears.

"Ah, yes! Then you will go to him. God bless you for that!"
cried the poor man, with agonized eagerness. And interpreting

the assent he read in Carina's eye, he caught her up in his arms,
snatched a coat from a peg in the wall, and wrapping her in it,

tore open the door. Carina made no outcry, and was not in the
least afraid. She felt herself resting in two strong arms,

warmly wrapped and borne away at a great speed over the snow.
But Agnes, seeing her sister vanish in that sudden fashion, gave

a scream which called her father to the door.
"What has happened?" he asked. "Where is Carina?"

"That dreadful Atle Pilot took her and ran away with her."
"Ran away with her?" cried the pastor in alarm. "How? Where?"

"Down to the pier."
It was a few moments' work for the terrified father to burst open

the door, and with his velvet skull-cap on his head, and the
skirts of his dressing-gown flying wildly about him, rush down

toward the beach. He saw Atle Pilot scarcely fifty feet in
advance of him, and shouted to him at the top of his voice. But

the sailor only redoubled his speed, and darted out upon the
pier, hugging tightly to his breast the precious burden he

carried. So blindly did he rush ahead that the pastor expected
to see him plungeheadlong into the icy waves. But, as by a

miracle, he suddenly checked himself, and grasping with one hand
the flag-pole, swung around it, a foot or two above the black

water, and regained his foothold upon the planks. He stood for
an instant irresolute, staring down into a boat which lay moored

to the end of the pier. What he saw resembled a big bundle,
consisting of a sheepskin coat and a couple of horse blankets.

"Halvor," he cried, with a voice that shook with emotion, "I have
brought her."

There was presently a vague movement under the horse-blankets,
and after a minute's struggle a pale yellowish face became

visible. It was a young face--the face of a boy of fifteen or
sixteen. But, oh, what suffering was depicted in those sunken

eyes, those bloodless, cracked lips, and the shrunken yellow skin
which clung in premature wrinkles about the emaciated features!

An old and worn fur cap was pulled down over his ears, but from
under its rim a few strands of blond hair were hanging upon his

forehead.
Atle had just disentangled Carina from her wrappings, and was

about to descend the stairs to the water when a heavy hand seized
him by the shoulder, and a panting voice shouted in his ear:

"Give me back my child."
He paused, and turned his pathetically bewildered face toward the

pastor. "You wouldn't take him from me, parson," he stammered,
helplessly; "no, you wouldn't. He's the only one I've got."

"I don't take him from you," the parson thundered, wrathfully.
"But what right have you to come and steal my child, because

yours is ill?"
"When life is at stake, parson," said the pilot, imploringly,

"one gets muddled about right and wrong. I'll do your little
girl no harm. Only let her lay her blessed hands upon my poor

boy's head, and he will be well."
"I have told you no, man, and I must put a stop to this stupid

idolatry, which will ruin my child, and do you no good. Give her
back to me, I say, at once."

The pastor held out his hand to receive Carina, who stared at him
with large pleading eyes out of the grizzly wolf-skin coat.

"Be good to him, papa," she begged. "Only this once."
"No, child; no parleying now; come instantly."

And he seized her by main force, and tore her out of the pilot's
arms. But to his dying day he remembered the figure of the

heart-broken man, as he stood outlined against the dark horizon,
shaking his clinched fists against the sky, and crying out, in a

voice of despair:
"May God show you the same mercy on the Judgment Day as you have

shown to me!"
II.

Six miserable days passed. The weather was stormy, and tidings
of shipwreck and calamity filled the air. Scarcely a visitor

came to the parsonage who had not some tale of woe to relate.
The pastor, who was usually so gentle and cheerful, wore a dismal

face, and it was easy to see that something was weighing on his
mind.

"May God show you the same mercy on the Judgment Day as you have
shown to me!"

These words rang constantly in his ears by night and by day. Had
he not been right, according to the laws of God and man, in

defending his household against the assaults of ignorance and
superstition? Would he have been justified in sacrificing his

own child, even if he could thereby save another's? And,
moreover, was it not all a wild, heathenish delusion, which it