When Petra withdrew her eyes, everything in the room seemed hallowed by the scene without; it was pure and light,--a frame of flowers for a magnificent picture. She felt surrounded by some unseen presence, observing her deportment, yea, even her thoughts; she went round the room, without being conscious of doing so, and touched the things. Suddenly she caught sight of the life size portrait of a lady smiling down upon her from over the sofa, facing the light. She was sitting with her head a little to one side, and folded hands, her right arm rested on a book, on the back of which, in distinct letters, was inscribed: "Sabbath Hours." Her light hair and fair complexion, shed radiance, imparting a Sabbath peace to all around her. Her smile was grave, but the gravity was affection. She seemed as though she could draw everyone to her in love; she seemed to understand all, for in everything she saw only the good. Her countenance bore traces of delicacy, perhaps this delicacy had been her strength, for there could be no one who dare abuse it. A wreath of everlastings hung above the frame; she was dead. "That was my mother," she heard softly behind her, and she turned,--it was the daughter, who had gone out and now came in again. The whole room, seemed as it were, filled with the portrait, everything was adapted to it, and the daughter was its quiet reflection; she seemed a little more silent, a little more reserved. The mother received the glance of all, and gave hers fully in return, the daughter bent hers down, but in both there was the same peace and mildness. She had also her mother's figure, but without a trace of weakness,--on the contrary, the bright colours in her tight-fitting dress, in her apron, and little silk neckerchief fastened with a Roman pin, cast a glow of freshness over her face, and yielded a charm, which made her at once the daughter of the portrait, and the nymph of the place. As she was walking there among the mother's flowers, Petra felt a strong drawing towards her; in the presence of such a woman, and in such a place, everything good must grow;--dare she but step within! She now doubly felt her loneliness; her glance followed Signe incessantly, Signe felt it and tried to evade it, but it did not help, she felt embarrassed, and stooped down over the flowers. At last Petra discovered her impropriety, she felt ashamed, and would have apologised, but there was something in the neatly arranged hair, the fine forehead, and the dress, that bade her be cautious. She looked up at the mother; her, she could already have embraced! Was it not as if she were bidding her welcome. Dare she believe it? No one had ever looked thus at her before; it seemed to say that she knew all that had happened to the wayfarer, and would yet forgive her. Forbearance, she stood in need of, and she could not take her eyes from this benevolent glance,--she put her head to one side, like the portrait, she folded her hands like it, and almost without