touched him or uttered a sound. Indeed she thought her breathing was too loud, so she smothered it, and neither moved her hands nor turned her head; in this immovable stillness it was as though they were under the shadow of gathering wings. The hour was like the one in which she had given birth to him, when she heard the first gurgling sound of his living voice. And now life was beginning a second time with trembling breath. His eyes were as light in the snow. She could never weary of their fresh brightness, they floated together, his and hers, she wished it would never end. But the boy was overcome by the power of her eyes and gave himself up to the safe feeling of her presence, so he shut his eyes again, opened them once or twice just to try ... yes, she was there, and so fell asleep. Soon after she was down in the study. Outside was bright day; in it should come! She drew up the blinds, the daylight filled the high room with the life of life, filled her own soul to its innermost recesses--she pushed open the door to the spare room and placed herself in the doorway. Tuft lay there broad and strong with outstretched arms, a bushy head of hair, his high forehead still shining with yesterday's perspiration, and a smile about his mouth. The light half wakened him. "Ole!" she said, he opened his eyes wide, but shut them again; he strove to settle in his memory what he had just had a glimpse of, and at the same instant from out of all this light came the words of Josephine's voice: "He lives!" Thus, on Sunday, a man spoke from the church pulpit, taking his text from his own experiences. He spoke of what is highest and greatest for us all.