It appeared then that for some reason this was an insurmountable objection. And Edith’s happiness dies out of her beautiful face, and she turns away weeping. “Edith, beloved!” Then she is once more at his side. “Thou art no more a foreigner to me, beloved. Whatever thou art, I am.” And she presses her lips to his--it was the sweetest kiss of his life--the kiss of death. The next morning, as Edith, after having put the last touch to her toilet, threw the shutters open, a great glare of sun-smitten snow burst upon her and for a moment blinded her eyes. On the sidewalk opposite, half a dozen men with snow-shovels in their hands and a couple of policeman had congregated, and, judging by their manner, were discussing some object of interest. Presently they were joined by her father, who had just finished his breakfast and was on his way to the office. Now he stooped down and gazed at something half concealed in the snow, then suddenly started back, and as she caught a glimpse of his face, she saw that it was ghastly white. A terrible foreboding seized her. She threw a shawl about her shoulders and rushed down-stairs. In the hall she was met by her father, who was just entering, followed by four men, carrying something between them. She well knew what it was. She would fain have turned away, but she could not: grasping her father’s arm and pressing it hard, she gazed with blank, frightened eyes at the white face, the lines of which Death had so strangely emphasized. The snow-flakes which hung in his hair had touched him with their sudden age, as if to bridge the gulf between youth and death. And still he was beautiful--the clear brow, the peaceful, happy indolence, the frozen smile which death had perpetuated. Smiling, he had departed from the earth which had no place for him, and smiling entered the realm where, among the many mansions, there is, perhaps, also one for a gentle, simple-hearted enthusiast. THE STORY OF AN OUTCAST. THERE was an ancient feud between the families; and Bjarne Blakstad was not the man to make it up, neither was Hedin Ullern. So they looked askance at each other whenever they met on the highway, and the one took care not to cross the other’s path. But on Sundays, when the church-bells called the parishioners together, they could not very well avoid seeing each other on the church-yard; and then, one day, many years ago, when the sermon had happened to touch Bjarne’s heart, he had nodded to Hedin and said: “Fine weather to-day;” and Hedin had returned the nod and answered: “True is that.” “Now I have done my duty before God and men,” thought Bjarne, “and it is his turn to take the next step.” “The fellow is proud,” said Hedin to himself, “and he wants to show off his generosity. But I know the wolf by his skin, even if he has learned to bleat like a ewe-lamb.”