“With God’s help, I am strong enough to conquer a name for myself, mother,” was his answer. It was the very words of her own secret wish, and upon his lips they sounded like a blessed assurance, like a miraculous fulfillment of her motherly prayer. “Still, another thing, my child,” she went on in a more confident voice. “This is thy native land,--and the old man who was just sitting here at my side was--my father.” And there, in the shadow of the birch-trees, in the summer stillness of that hour, she told him the story of her love, of her flight, and of the misery of these long, toilsome five and twenty years. Late in the afternoon, Brita and her son were seen returning to the farm-house. A calm, subdued happiness beamed from the mother’s countenance; she was again at peace with the world and herself, and her heart was as light as in the days of her early youth. But her bodily strength had given out, and her limbs almost refused to support her. The strain upon her nerves and the constant effort had hitherto enabled her to keep up, but now, when that strain was removed, exhausted nature claimed its right. The next day--she could not leave her bed, and with every hour her strength failed. A physician was sent for. He gave medicine, but no hope. He shook his head gravely, as he went, and both mother and son knew what that meant. Toward evening, Bjarne Blakstad was summoned, and came at once. Thomas left the room, as the old man entered, and what passed in that hour between father and daughter, only God knows. When the door was again opened, Brita’s eyes shone with a strange brilliancy, and Bjarne lay on his knees before the bed, pressing her hand convulsively between both of his. “This is my son, father,” said she, in a language which her son did not understand; and a faint smile of motherly pride and happiness flitted over her pale features. “I would give him to thee in return for what thou hast lost; but God has laid his future in another land.” Bjarne rose, grasped his grandson’s hand, and pressed it; and two heavy tears ran down his furrowed cheeks. “Alas,” murmured he, “my son, that we should meet thus.” There they stood, bound together by the bonds of blood, but, alas, there lay a world between them. All night they sat together at the dying woman’s bedside. Not a word was spoken. Toward morning, as the sun stole into the darkened chamber, Brita murmured their names, and they laid their hands in hers. “God be praised,” whispered she, scarcely audibly, “I have found you both--my father and my son.” A deep pallor spread over her countenance. She was dead.