["I am not," said my mother; "I have no doubt that Providence will take care of him." "I repeat that I am exceedingly uneasy," said my father; "I can't help being so, and would give my largest piece of coin to know what kind of part he will play in life." "Such curiosity is blamable," said my mother, "highly so. Let us leave these things to Providence, and hope for the best; but to wish to pry into the future, which is hidden from us, and wisely too, is mighty wicked. _Tempt not Providence_. I early contracted a dread of that sin. When I was only a child, something occurred connected with diving into the future, which had, I hope, a salutary effect on my subsequent conduct. The fright which I got then, I shall never forget. But it is getting dark, and we had better go into the house." "We are well enough here," said my father; "go on with your discourse. You were speaking of tempting Providence, and of having been frightened." "It was a long time ago," said my mother, "when I was quite a child, and I was only a humble assistant in the affair. Your wish to dive into the future brought it to my recollection. It was, perhaps, only a foolish affair after all, and I would rather not talk about it, especially as it is growing dark. We had better go in." "A tale with any terror in it is all the better for being told in the dark hour," said my father; "you are not afraid, I hope." "Afraid, indeed! Of what should I be afraid? And yet I know not how it is, I feel a chill, as if something was casting a cold shadow upon me. By- the-bye, I have often heard that child talk of an indescribable fear which sometimes attacks him and which he calls the shadow. I wonder if it at all resembles what I am feeling now!" "Never mind the child or his shadow," said my father, "but let us hear the story." "I have no objection to tell it; but perhaps after all it is mere nonsense and will only make you laugh." "Why, then, so much the better; it will perhaps drive from my head what Mr. Simpson told me, which I certainly considered to be no laughing matter, though you and he did. I would hear the story by all means." "Well, so you shall. 'Tis said, however, that a superstition lies at the bottom of it, as old as the Danes. So, at least, says the child, who by some means or other has of late become acquainted with their language. He says that of old they worshipped a god whose name was Frey, and that this Frey had a wife." "Indeed!" said my father, "and who told you this?" "Why, the child," said my mother hesitatingly; "it was he that told me." "I am afraid that it will indeed prove a foolish story," said my father; "the child is mixed up with it already."