inside out to show me she had no change whatever. Constantly you find the people as destitute of change as our own proverbial

cabmen.

As to outfit for travelling in Norway, I did as advised on the spot; contented myself with the one suit of clothes I wore— flannel trousers and waistcoat, pilot coat, with plenty of pockets -a most necessary item; a flannel shirt is indispensable. I left at the hotel all luggage that could not be stowed in my knapsack, which after all contained some quite superfluous articles. The less you have the better. A good waterproof coat or cape (large) and waterproof covering for your travelling cap, can only be forgotten at your peril. Folded in a small waterproof case, you will carry it slung over your shoulder, and with knapsack and money, map, road-book, and dictionary, and the inevitable Murray," may consider yourself ready to proceed up the country, if you are in good health. For I think it would be a mistake to visit Norway, or, at all events, to travel into the interior, in search of health. The traveller should be in pretty good condition, and able to dispense with the fare he is accustomed to at home.

Being thus equipped, at four p.m. I presented myself at the railway station-just like one of our own, for Englishmen constructed the railway and arranged all its details-and mingling with the crowd at the ticket office, all jabbering an unintelligible language, felt myself thoroughly a foreigner, and when my turn came was glad to make as few words as possible suffice: "Eidsvold-tredie pladz-hvor meget?" Paid two marks, and, I think, four skillings, got into a carriage filled with country people, apparently returning home from market, with heaps of baskets, and bundles filling all the interstices between the passengers, all the men smoking; and so off for the north of Norway, the railway serving for forty miles of the distance.

(To be continued.)

SIGNE.

A NORWEGIAN TALE.*

IN a country which, by its constitution, has no aristocracy, and where the class that we call landed gentry is unknown, the peasant farmer, usually the proprietor by inheritance of the land he tills, has no social superior in his neighbourhood but

* Signe's History: A Norwegian Tale. By Magdalene Thoresen. Trans. lated by Rev. M. R. Barnard, B.A. London: Chapman & Hall. Pp. 285.

the priest. Kolbein Starkar was by far the wealthiest of such yeomen farmers in all his district, and his dwelling, Kraakenæs, the best, built on rising ground, sloping down gently to the Fjord, and looking like a regal palace, amidst the neighbouring cots. But he was also the most-disliked man, strong-willed, and proud of his wealth; his neighbours would have been glad to see his pride humbled. His wife had long been dead, and all his care and love were lavished on an only child, now in her sixteenth year, Signe, the prettiest lass in all the country side, and pure as lovely, and who, at the opening of our tale, is wending her way to church on Confirmation Sunday, being the first after Whitsuntide. Fancy-free, she passes along with her sturdy father and Massi, a motherly sort of house-keeper domestic, who had had the bringing up of her.

Near the church, a group of maidens was gathered round a clear, sparkling pool, adjusting their simple toilet before entering to receive the holy rite. As Signe joined them on the one side, a travelling car drove up on the other, and a young man leaping out bounded to the startled group of girls, and addressed them in a style to which they were unused; he having just come from his first experience of city and university life at Copenhagen. At the instant, the bell rang, and the flurried maidens hurried into church; but as Signe had loitered for a moment, he fancied she stayed intentionally, and, pressing up to her, was about to address her, when she raised her eyes, and directed such a gaze of astonishment and curiosity upon him, while such a deep blush spread over her beautiful face, that he was unable to get a single word from his lips. The next moment she, too, ran hastily away, and rejoined her companions.

As the pastor took his place in front of the altar, Signe timidly raised her eyes, and saw beside him the same young man who had so recently gazed so earnestly at her; and it seemed to her as if he were asking her for something. She closed her eyes tightly, but the lids seemed like glass, for through them she still saw him. Presently her name was called. In cold and icy words the clergyman asked her, "Whether she would promise to renounce the devil, the world, and the flesh, and to continue a faithful servant to God to the end of her life." Poor Signe for a moment she shuddered; then, opening her eyes, saw again the same inquiring glance directed towards her. "Alas!" she thought, "everything is so hard for me, who am so weak and feeble! How will it be hereafter? Oh, if mother were only here!" All passed as in a dream; and after church, a number of women were busy discussing the merits of the candidates. "Who would have thought that of Kolbein Starkar's daughter? There was neither sense nor meaning in her answer."

"You may well say that; for she never spoke a word." "Here they come. But see him, Kolbein, there. It will take something more than that to bow his proud neck."

Directly after Confirmation Sunday, Signe had become ailing, and had begun to fade like a sickly plant that droops its leaves. No one could tell why. It puzzled Kolbein, who sat and thought over it for a couple of days, and at last arrived at the firm conclusion," that there was certainly some one who was longing after her, and who could it be but her old grandmother, on the other side of the mountain there, and who was too infirm to come to Kraakenæs? It was best he sent her over there at once, perhaps, for everybody knew that when old folks like that took fancies into their heads, it was enough to wear the life out of the person they were longing after." So Signe was sent to pay her grandmother a visit.

When three months had passed, Kolbein sent a message for her to return, and all was glad anticipation at home, and preparation to welcome her. She came back, bringing sunshine and gladness with her; but though the shadow that had been visible on her face had disappeared, a close observer must now and then have noticed a trace of it flitting across it, like one of those gauze-like clouds one often sees sweeping across the clear blue vault of heaven, and which betoken the departure rather than the approach of a storm.

She was leaning, out of breath, after her exertions, against a low, stone fence that separated the meadow from the high road. Her faithful dog lay at her feet, as she stood listlessly plucking now a wild flower, now a leaf, her thoughts coming and going without order or plan; and little by little she wandered still farther into the land of dreams. Presently, the sound of approaching footsteps startled the dog and his mistress, and the next moment there stood before her the same young man who had gazed at her so earnestly in the church, and she felt the same agitation and confusion of mind stealing over her, which had made her then acquit herself so childishly. For a moment they regarded each other with a perplexed and curious air, and then the young man, advancing to the edge of the road, said, "Come! shall I help thee over hither?"

"I am best where I am," answered Signe, as she stooped down to pacify Wolf, who was growling ominously.

"Well, then, I'll come over to thee," he laughed back; and with a bound stood by her side. But no sooner had the young man sprung over the fence, than the dog took such a fierce hold of the intruder's leg, that it required all Signe's authority and all the agility of the other to liberate himself. Nor could Signe coax him out of his sullen humour, for he obstinately refused to

be pacified, evidently considering himself the older and more experienced of the two. As she rose up from her stooping posture, she, at the instant, found herself locked in a firm embrace, while a pair of lustrous eyes, bright as the blue sky above her, were gazing down into hers. She tried to scream, but the cry was lost in a long-drawn gasp. "What is thy name?" whispered the youth. "Quick!" for the sound of wheels was now audible. "Signe!" replied the other, in a low tone, and the tears swelled up into her eyes, and her voice faltered.

"Signe!" repeated the other, triumphantly, as he boldly pressed a kiss on her quivering lips. "Wilt thou think of me, Signe? So will I think of thee!"

"There!

But the carriage was by this time close to them. take that to remember me by," he whispered, as he hastily took a rose-bud from his button-hole, and placed it in her hand. The next moment Gudmund, the pastor's son, was hastening to meet the carriage, in which his father was accompanying him the first stage of his journey back to the University.

Away rolled the carriage, and Signe was still standing on the same spot, with the rose-bud he had given her in her hand, and with her head sunk down over her bosom, as if listening to the throbbings of her heart. Poor Signe! she herself had no conception of what had happened to her, though she stood there as one benumbed by a sudden and severe blow. She had not ven-. tured to raise her eyes when he left her. How could she look him in the face? Perhaps, too, her maidenly dignity felt a little injured. When the pure

and simple girl that evening told the faithful Massi, she asked in a bewildered manner, "Who, then, in Jesus' name, was it?" And when Signe answered, "Why, the pastor's son, to be sure." "God help thee, then! God help thee!" cried she, lookingly terribly distressed and startled at the news. "But, Massi, dear, I don't see any harm in it," answered Signe, meekly.

"Listen, my child! If thy father only got to hear it, it would be an evil day for Kraakenæs, I'll warrant. Think of him, indeed, such a young, wild dandy, as he! Nay, let like mate with like, say I. But leave that dead thing;" and Massi stretched out her hand to take the rose-bud from Signe.

"I'll throw it away," said Signe, "when I go up stairs." But Signe carefully put it in the great silver-clasped Bible, which lay on her table in her chamber.

And summer passed, and autumn passed, and winter came, to close the door upon the beauties of nature; but she had one neverfailing source of pleasure-her flower in the old Bible. She would

sit by it for hours, while her father was out of the way, and Massi was busy in the house; and the withered flower sent thousands of tender shoots into her young heart.

Meanwhile, her father had been looking out for a suitable partner for his child, and had fixed on an ungainly fellow whose only recommendation was that he was the son of the next richest man to himself in the parish; and so Kolbein brought things to bear accordingly. And besides the entanglement which came from this, Thorstein, a wild, reckless, ne'er-do-well son of another neighbour had sworn no one but himself should carry off Signe, the prettiest and wealthiest lass of all that district. And in time gossip became busy in the village, and everybody wondered how things would go. And so the time wore on, and Signe had completed her seventeenth year, and every one was surprised she had not accepted any out of all the numerous suitors that offered themselves. But Kolbein was content. "She was but a child yet, and must sober down a little, before laying a firm hold on the stern realities of life."

Gudmund had passionately entreated permission to re-visit his home; but the stern priest, who had guessed the young man's motive, peremptorily refused. And often Signe felt life a heavy burden, and wished she were dead. And at times saw clearly enough that "Massi was right when she said that it would be a downright misfortune for them to meet again; and that it would be bad for her if she did not drive the pastor's son out of her thoughts." "Yes, Massi was right; and she would set to work in earnest to forget him, that she would." Alas! her will resembled the child who played with prudence in the sunbeam. Fancy only grew out of the sport, and every unguarded moment the tempter got more hold of her weakly fortified resolutions; and when once temptation gains a footing, it is impossible to track its course. Each step it takes is so easy and short that even the wisest and best do not notice it; for the web of the soul is composed of such fine threads that many of them may be broken without any visible rent. Little came of poor Signe's resolutions. She lacked that seriousness which does not allow of sobs and sighs and wringing of hands, but goes straight on; for seriousness, alas was too heavy an element for Signe's mind, and she let herself be borne hither and thither by the first impulse that came over her.

At length, so obvious was the wasting effect of all this inward tumult that the father was uneasy, and, at Massi's prudent suggestion, once more sent her over the mountain to her grandmother's. And there she stayed the summer over; while Massi secretly rejoiced that her poor child was away, for the pastor's son had come home soon after Signe's departure, and she hoped