[This dramatic little tale by the late Björnstjerne Björnson is so simply told that it seems almost destitute of art, which is to say its art is of the highest kind, for the art of simplicity, as every writer knows, is the hardest to achieve. It was translated into English a few weeks ago, for the first time, for the Boston _Transcript_, from which we reprint it.] The man about whom this story is told was the mightiest in his parish. His name was Thord Overaas. He stood one day in the pastor's study, tall and serious. "I have been given a son," he said, "and wish to have him christened." "What shall he be called?" "Finn, after my father." "And the sponsors?" They were named, and were the best men and women in the community of the father's family. "Is there anything further?" asked the minister, looking up. The peasant hesitated a little. "I prefer to have him christened alone," he said. "That is, on a week day?" "On next Saturday, twelve, noon." "Is there anything further?" asked the pastor. "There is nothing further." The peasant fumbled his cap, as if he were about to go. Then the pastor rose. "This much further," he said, and walked over to Thord, took his hand and looked him in the eyes. "God grant that the child may be a blessing to you." Sixteen years after that day Thord stood again in the pastor's study. "You carry the years well, Thord," said the minister, seeing no change in him. "Neither have I any cares," answered Thord. To this the pastor remained silent, but after a while he asked: "What is your errand this evening?" "This evening I come to see about my son, who is to be confirmed tomorrow." "He is a bright boy." "I did not wish to pay the pastor before I knew what number he is to have on the floor." "He shall stand number 1." "So I heard--and here is ten dollars for the pastor." "Is there anything further?" asked the minister looking up at Thord. "There is nothing further." Thord went away. Again eight years passed, then a noise was heard one day outside the pastor's study, for many men came and Thord first. The pastor looked up and recognized him: "You come strong in numbers this evening." "I wish to ask to have the banns pronounced for my son; he is to be married to Karen Storliden, daughter of Gudmund, who stands here." "She is the richest girl in the parish." "They say so," answered the peasant, smoothing back his hair with one hand. [Illustration: Do not keep both food and germs in the refrigerator. To prevent musty smells and keep air of refrigerator pure and sweet, place a bowl containing sponge sprinkled with Platt's Chlorides where food is kept. Wash sponge occasionally.] The minister sat for a time as if in thought. He said nothing, but registered the names in his books and the men signed accordingly. Thord laid three dollars on the table. "I should have only one," said the pastor.