"Who does not love me," she finished.

A sudden shudder seemed to shake her whole frame,
and she drew herself more tightly up to him.

"Ah, no," she continued, after a while,
sinking back upon her seat. "It is a hopeless thing

to compel a reluctant heart. I will accept no
sacrifice from you. You owe me nothing, for

you have acted toward me honestly and uprightly,
and I shall be a stronger, or--at least--

a better woman for what you gave me--and--
for what you could not give me, even though

you would."
"But, Bertha," exclaimed he, looking mournfully

at her, "it is not true when you say that I
owe you nothing. Six years ago, when first I

wooed you, you could not return my love, and
you sent me out into the world, and even refused

to accept any pledge or promise for the future."
"And you returned," she responded, "a man,

such as my hope had pictured you; but, while I
had almost been standing still, you had outgrown

me, and outgrown your old self, and,
with your old self, outgrown its love for me,

for your love was not of your new self, but of
the old. Alas! it is a sad tale, but it is true."

She spoke gravely now, and with a steadier
voice, but her eyes hung upon his face with an

eager look of expectation, as if yearning to detect
there some gleam of hope, some contradiction

of the dismal truth. He read that look
aright, and it pierced him like a sharp sword.

He made a brave effort to respond to its appeal,
but his features seemed hard as stone, and he

could only cry out against his destiny, and
bewail his misfortune and hers.

Toward evening, Ralph was sitting in an
open boat, listening to the measured oar-strokes

of the boatmen who were rowing him out to the
nearest stopping-place of the steamer. The

mountains lifted their great placid heads up
among the sun-bathed clouds, and the fjord

opened its cool depths as if to make room for
their vast reflections. Ralph felt as if he were

floating in the midst of the blue infinite space,
and, with the strength which this feeling

inspired, he tried to face boldly the thought from
which he had but a moment ago shrunk as from

something hopelessly sad and perplexing.
And in that hour he looked fearlessly into the

gulf which separates the New World from the
Old. He had hoped to bridge it; but, alas! it

cannot be bridged.
A SCIENTIFIC VAGABOND.

I.
THE steamer which as far back as 1860

passed every week on its northward
way up along the coast of Norway,

was of a very sociable turn of mind. It
ran with much shrieking and needlessbluster in

and out the calm, winding fjords, paid unceremonious
little visits in every out-of-the-way nook

and bay, dropped now and then a black heap of
coal into the shining water, and sent thick volleys

of smoke and shrill little echoes careering
aimlessly among the mountains. It seemed, on

the whole, from an aesthetic point of view, an
objectionable phenomenon--a blot upon the perfect

summer day. By the inhabitants, however,
of these remote regions (with the exception

of a few obstinate individuals, who had at
first looked upon it as the sure herald of dooms-

day, and still were vaguely wondering what the
world was coming to,) it was regarded in a

very different light. This choleric little monster
was to them a friendly and welcome visitor,

which established their connection with the outside
world, and gave them a proud consciousness

of living in the very heart of civilization.
Therefore, on steamboat days they flocked en

masse down on the piers, and, with an ever-fresh
sense of novelty, greeted the approaching boat

with lively cheers, with firing of muskets and
waving of handkerchiefs. The men of condition,

as the judge, the sheriff, and the parson,
whose dignityforbade them to receive the

steamer in person, contented themselves with
watching it through an opera-glass from their

balconies; and if a high official was known to be
on board, they perhaps displayed the national

banner from their flag-poles, as a delicate
compliment to their superior.

But the Rev. Mr. Oddson, the parson of whom
I have to speak, had this day yielded to the

gentle urgings of his daughters (as, indeed, he
always did), and had with them boarded the

steamer to receive his nephew, Arnfinn Vording,
who was returning from the university for his

summer vacation. And now they had him
between them in their pretty white-painted par-

sonage boat, with the blue line along the
gunwale, beleaguering him with eager questions

about friends and relatives in the capital, chums,
university sports, and a medley of other things

interesting to young ladies who have a collegian
for a cousin. His uncle was charitable enough

to check his own curiosity about the nephew's
progress in the arts and sciences, and the result

of his recent examinations, till he should have
become fairly settled under his roof; and Arnfinn,

who, in spite of his natural brightness and
ready humor, was anything but a "dig," was

grateful for the respite.
The parsonage lay snugly nestled at the end

of the bay, shining contentedly through the
green foliage from a multitude of small sun-

smitten windows. Its pinkish whitewash, which
was peeling off from long exposure to the

weather, was in cheerfulcontrast to the broad
black surface of the roof, with its glazed tiles,

and the starlings' nests under the chimney-tops.
The thick-leaved maples and walnut-trees which

grew in random clusters about the walls seemed
loftily conscious of standing there for purposes

of protection; for, wherever their long-fingered
branches happened to graze the roof, it was

always with a touch, light, graceful, and airily
caressing. The irregularly paved yard was

inclosed on two sides by the main building, and on
the third by a species of log cabin, which, in

Norway, is called a brew-house; but toward the
west the view was but slightly obscured by an