Glitter-Brita, decked with her shining brooches, wended her way to the church among the gayly-dressed lads and maidens of the parish? A cluster of white-stemmed birches threw its shadow over the stone where the penitent mother was sitting, and the tall grass on both sides of the path nearly hid her from sight. Presently the church-folk began to appear, and Brita raised her head and drew her veil down over her face. No one passed without greeting the strangers, and the women and maidens, according to old fashion, stopped and courtesied. At last, there came an old white-haired man, leaning on the arm of a middle-aged woman. His whole figure was bent forward, and he often stopped and drew his breath heavily. “Oh, yes, yes,” he said, ill a hoarse, broken voice, as he passed before them, “age is gaining on me fast. I can’t move about any more as of old. But to church I must this day. God help me! I have done much wrong and need to pray for forgiveness.” “You had better sit down and rest, father,” said the woman. “Here is a stone, and the fine lady, I am sure, will allow a weak old man to sit down beside her.” Thomas rose and made a sign to the old man to take his seat. “O yes, yes,” he went on murmuring, as if talking to himself. “Much wrong--much forgiveness. God help us all--miserable sinners. He who hateth not father and mother--and daughter is not worthy of me. O, yes--yes--God comfort us all. Help me up, Grimhild. I think I can move on again, now.” Thomas, of course, did not understand a word of what he said, but seeing that he wished to rise, he willingly offered his assistance, supported his arm and raised him. “Thanks to you, young man,” said the peasant. “And may God reward your kindness.” And the two, father and daughter, moved on, slowly and laboriously, as they had come. Thomas stood following them with his eyes, until a low, half-stifled moan suddenly called him to his mother’s side. Her frame trembled violently. “Mother, mother,” implored he, stooping over her, “what has happened? Why are you no more yourself?” “Ah, my son, I can bear it no longer,” sobbed she. “God forgive me--thou must know it all.” He sat down at her side and drew her closely up to him and she hid her face on his bosom. There was a long silence, only broken by the loud chirruping of the crickets. “My son,” she began at last, still hiding her face, “thou art a child of guilt.” “That has been no secret to me, mother,” answered he, gravely and tenderly, “since I was old enough to know what guilt was.” She quickly raised her head, and a look of amazement, of joyous surprise, shone through the tears that veiled her eyes. She could read nothing but filial love and confidence in those grave, manly features, and she saw in that moment that all her doubts had been groundless, that her long prayerful struggle had been for naught. “I brought thee into the world nameless,” she whispered, “and thou hast no word of reproach for me?”