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also her hat, which she held up to see the frosted straw sparkle in the light, looking a little dubiously at the scarlet poppy. Then she closed the chest, locked the trusty padlock, and came downstairs with her half-finished wedding-dress in her arms.

V.

Rozina and her mother were wonderstricken. It gradually came to them that she intended to finish it. In In silence she went to work.

"What's that for?" asked her mother. "Better finish the weddin' dress for the weddin'," was the slow reply.

"Weddin'?" gasped her mother. But Rozina rushed up to her sister, crying, "Be you goin' to marry him? Be you? Can I help you sew?"

Pernilla dropped everything to stare at her sister. Was this the girl who had for weeks, months refused to do a thing for the wedding? What had come over her?

But with Rozina's excited exclamations, Rosengren had come to the door, and now strode forward to Pernilla.

The women all shrank back at his angry look.

"Yes, I ask, too, be you goin' to marry that John Erick? Answer me!"

It was her father, he who had ever indulged his girls. She knew he believed her lover guilty. What could she say not to further incense him? "Be you goin' to marry him?" he roared.

"Yes."

"You be? A thief as stole from your father?"

"He didn't take it, he didn't. I tell you, father, somebody else did."

"Ha, ha, ha! Bring out the thief, then, so I can make a wedding for you 'n John Erick. Bring him out. Put him out. But if you don't, you shan't have a cent from me, nor an acre of land; and don't come here to be married."

Pernilla flushed and paled as her heart throbbed violently at the wrathful words, but, with calm dignity, she said, as her father was leaving the room:

"I don't ask nothing but my white dress."

The girls sewed, and Rozina chattered and cried alternately. She brought out her white goods, and would have it cut out just like her sister's.

"But where will you be married?" came out at last.

"Over on the island," answered Pernilla, with tears in her eyes.

Her listeners knew what that meant. It meant to dispense with a license, and go off like a runaway couple. "The island" was a synonym for true love that had not run smooth.

"Our minister?" faltered her mother. "No, the justice," fell like lead on this orthodox home-circle.

"Oh, my child, it don't seem-seem religious to be married in American."

"I know, mother, but I've got over that. Do you know," she proceeded, with flashing eyes and rising before them in her regal indignation-“do you know, John Erick asked our minister to go over there and do it, and he wouldn't. He said he didn't marry runaway folks only to get a present of stolen money. That's what he said, and it's more religious to be married. in American than to be married by that man."

The wedding-day came with the fairest June morning. Pernilla begged Rozina to go along, but she said the ride would make her ill.

So, on the high spring-seat of John Erick's new wagon, with the Justice and John's chum on a board behind, they drove along the beautiful Swede Creek road, around the foot of Old Rattlesnake, to the ferry.

The blue Mississippi was calm and bright in the afternoon air, and over the Wisconsin Hills beyond, strayed the shadows of the white clouds.

After a brief waiting at the shore, the ferryboat came, and they drove on it, being the only passengers for this trip. From this same landing-place, shady and inviting, where the road ran down to the river beneath festoons and loops of vines clambering over the trees, many a bridal couple had anx

iously waited for the old, flat-bottomed ferry-boat that communicated with the island. Pernilla wondered who had been the bride before her, and the ferry-hands well-nigh forgot to work the raft along the cable as they looked upon the fair bride of to-day. John Erick persisted in saying sweet things to her in Swedish, which Pernilla was sure the Justice understood, and which John Erick hoped he did.

Perhaps it was this, and perhaps it was the river breezes, that made her cheeks so red.

The families that lived on the island side had witnessed more than one wedding, but none to equal this in interest. Was it possible that here, on desecrated ground, as it were, they were to behold the belle of Swede Creek and John Erick Peterson?

The ferry-men waited on the old boat at the strand. From some tattered wigwams a few dilapidated specimens of Indians stole into the bushy background. Pernilla laid aside her hat and shawl, and stood bareheaded under a great maple.

Vegetation over the whole island was rich and lovely. Heavy woods rose around them. The afternoon shadows from the Minnesota side cooled the air, which was redolent with the fragrance of flowering shrubs.

Jungles of tall cornel shrubs and elder bushes were in bloom, a sea of white in among the trees as far as eye could see. The bride, in her white dress, was almost overshadowed by cymes and tassels of the festive, whiteblooming bushes about her.

The June wind kissed her black hair; snowy petals fell on the silken grass; the birds sang in the wild-wood; and the river ripples laughed against the hard sands when Pernilla was married on the island.

VI.

Brave as she was, Pernilla did not venture to wear her white dress to church the next Sunday, and appeased John Erick's clamor by promising to put it on at home as often as he wanted.

Half the young folks of the settlement were waiting at the church door for a glimpse of the newly-married pair, and a row of homespun swains roosting on the hitching-rails, formed the first line of pickets. Having passed these with due and proper greetings for one and all, and once inside the queer little church, they parted, for the modern anomaly of men and women sitting together was then unknown in Swede Creek, and is, indeed, yet. Pernilla went to the familiar place by her mother, while John Erick found a seat among the uncouth-looking men, most of whom looked very unkempt indeed, with long hair cropped off square at the coat collar.

The pink and purple sunbonnets and gingham-caped shakers on the women's side were, on this very day, the source of no small annoyance to many females in the back part of the house, who in vain stretched and peered among their ranks and files to get an eye on Pernilla's hat.

They were singing the last hymn, and no one knew this was to be the most memorable service ever held in the Swede Creek log-church. The fragrant, drowsy June air was heavy with bridal loveliness, and the breezes, sweet comment on the prime of the year, rustled the hymn books. During the last lines of the hymn Rozina arose from her seat and walked firmly, unhesitatingly forward to the altar steps, ascended them, and in a few seconds stood by the pulpit.

Minister and people were stricken with amazement. The song died in the middle of a verse. Some stood on seats next the door. Mrs. Rosengren grasped Pernilla's arm and stared at Rozina. John Erick trembled violently as he hid his face in his hands. He wondered what she would do next. He was afraid of that girl. Expectant silence reigned.

She was talking to the minister, who gazed at her in dumb consternation, and Pernilla saw her little golden head against his black gown. Turning to the people, they saw she intended to speak, but courage failed her. She

closed her eyes an instant, then summoning all her strength, took a step forward and spoke. The vision of that slim girl up there by the minister made the people hold their breath, while her pale face and moving lips brought tears to more than one, for her voice reached only the first few seats. But her folks heard every word-words that would nevermore be silent. Rosengren rose in his seat, leaning toward the pulpit as one enchanted. She spoke in English, which made it more startling in that place, and this is what she said:

"I took the money. I stole it. John Erick Peterson knows nothing about it. I did it-I did it. I want you all to know it-"

She faltered, swayed as if to fall, but spoke, though only the clergyman caught her last words, which she uttered quickly, turning to him with little eager motions, as if she felt she could not make herself heard.

Then, clasping her hands on her breast, she uttered a cry of pain. The people pressed forward in wonder and in sympathy. White as death she lay, and from her mouth came drops of blood.

Her father took her in his arms and bore her to the wagon. She moaned and with great effort begged, in a whisper, to be taken to Pernilla's new house. This was not a time to consider feuds, and the whole Rosengren family gathered in the little two-room frame cottage, and Rozina was laid on Pernilla's bed. Toward dusk she fell asleep. Then John Erick took Pernilla out to a bench under a mountain ash and told her all he knew-told it tenderly and with tears in his voice.

On leaving them the night the money was taken, he had, before going home, gone up the valley to the nearest neighbor, and on returning past the Rosengren house, within half an hour, had taken a short cut behind the barn. Hurrying along, he spied Rozina not far from him, but on calling her, she crouched as if to hide, and an instant after ran off without a word. He thought it strange, but suspected a joke of some kind, and turned to go

into the house to ferret her out, but changed his mind. When the theft was discovered and he was arrested, and Rozina in her testimony said nothing about having seen him (he said nothing of it either), he felt sure she had hidden the money to make trouble for him.

Pernilla listened as in a dream to this enigma, finally asking:

"But why should she? Why?" In answer he told of the February morning in the bottomlands, and all Rozina's wild words; upon which Pernilla burst into tears, sobbing:

It

"Poor Rozina! poor Rozina! seems wrong for me to have you." That night Rozina would have Pernilla sleep with her. She was quite free from pain, and asked questions at long intervals, keeping her arm thrown over Pernilla.

"Pernilla," she would whisper, as often as her sister lay very still, "don't go to sleep yet."

"Now, Pernilla, tell me 'bout your weddin' again-the ride, the island." And eagerly she would listen to the description.

"You said there was flowers?"

"Yes; tall bushes, snow-white, all over the woods; right by me, too." "White flowers by you? How pretty? Was it near the river?"

"Right near it-under a big tree. Just a lovely place," said Pernilla. "And was there Injuns-did you say?"

"True, yes; there was Injuns at my weddin'."

"Not near you-was they?" "No, 'way off in the woods." "Pernilla, you're married now, ain't you?"

"Yes, dearie." Long silence.
"Pernilla, you know I like him?"

"There's a good girl, Rozina; you go to sleep now; don't talk about it now."

"Yes, now. I liked him, did he tell you?"

"Yes. dearie."

"When? I want to know when," she said, excitedly, to Pernilla's great fear as to the result.

"Oh, Rozina, don't take it hard; do go to sleep a little bit. When you get well we can talk it over."

"I ain't never goin' to get well. When did John Erick tell you?"

"He told me this afternoon." "This here afternoon?" cried the sick girl. "Do you mean to say he never said nothin' before?"

"Not a word, Rozina. Don't cry." But she cuddled into Pernilla's arms like a bird and asked no more questions, only sobbed once or twice:

"Wish I had some of them white flowers from the island."

"Don't you hate me, John Erick?" was her greeting, as he came to her bedside in the morning.

"Hush, Rozy, you must be good.' Her great dark eyes were fixed on him. "John Erick, I wish-Oh, I can't ask it."

"Yes, yes, Rozina, anything."

"I'd like some of them white flowers from the island. Pernilla says it was all white over there."

"Why, if that's all, I'll ride over the ferry and get all you want," he answered.

"I'd love 'em so," was all she said. So, after dinner, John Erick rode off after white flowers. Rozina's love of flowers was a passion, and was considered from her early childhood as a peculiarity by her folks. When all the old women, on Sunday morning, reverently carried into church two leaves of rosemary, and a sprig of oldman, she would, all unabashed, gather a handful of the showiest flowers to be found, golden lady-slippers or fragrant water-lilies, often to her mother's discomfort, for only rosemary and oldman seemed orthodox. And no sooner had John Erick gone off than she teazed for her white dress. This seemed a

wild whim, but in vain they tried to dissuade her.

"I finished mine, too, Pernilla, after you left home, and I want it on a little while, just a little while, Pernilla."

So they put it on, but the effort exhausted her; and as her father knelt in anguish by the bed, she was too weak to open her eyes. She was following John Erick's ride. She seemed to be with him-the landing, the ferry-boat, the slow journey over the river, then the island. Under the very tree she thought she stood, and he. Now he was coming back.

"Has he come yet?"

"Pretty soon, Rozy," was the answer, many times.

The clatter of hoofs, and John Erick rode by the window with an armful of snowy branches.

"There he is, there he is," cried the sick girl, raising herself to look out.

Pernilla broke a handful of sprays from the delicate, faintly fragrant spiraea and brought them to Rozina, who took them, eagerly, whispering:

"Did he bring them from the island? Be them from the island?"

John Erick stood in the doorway, fumbling a branch, and tears shone in his eyes as Rozina turned her grateful look on him and touched her lips to the flowers, repeating:

"Pernilla, be them the kind? Be them from the island?"

The excitement was too much. A fit of coughing came on, and as she lay back after the struggle, she weakly lifted the white flowers from the island to her sweet, tired face.

And with this, her last movement, she fell asleep-fell asleep and died in the June afternoon, with the feathery blossoms quivering in her last fluttering breath.

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T

SWITZERLAND. — III.

By GEORGE PRESBURY ROWELL

HERE were times when I thought there were scarcely any birds in Switzerland but a visit to a most excellent and complete Natural History Museum showed specimens of almost every bird I had ever heard of. I saw there a stuffed specimen of an eagle to which the American bird of which we are so proud would stand no sort of a comparison. He would be eaten up by its gigantic rival in the short hours of one afternoon. Beside the dead and dried specimens shown in the museum and the fact that late in September I did see flocks of small birds which I thought might count of individuals as many as ten thousand, I still feel that the number of birds I saw was very small. There was the sociable and everlasting sparrow in the streets and roads. Now and then a few swallows would be seen-only a few. Once, and only once, I saw a hawk. A few crows were seen from time to time and once, at a height of more than ten thousand feet, there were great flocks of black birds that might be crows, but seemed something smaller, that appeared to have dwellings in the crevice of a rocky cliff near at hand. In the lakes wild ducks swim about unmolested, gulls

abound and so do swans, especially about the Lake of Geneva. Doubtless Switzerland is within the line of migration for numberless birds, but apparently it is not the permanent residence of a very large number. It has nothing to take the place of the sociable robin redbreast that has so warm a place in the affections of the people of New Hampshire that even the most thoughtless boy with a gun would never consent to shoot one, no matter how temptingly he might invite his fate.

The national hero of Switzerland was William Tell. To New Hampshire John Stark stands in that position. No school boy reads of Switzerland without calling to mind the archer, the apple, the boy and the concealed arrow with which Tell was, as he said to the Austrian Gessler, "to have slain the tyrant had I killed my boy." Stark is also remembered by the sentence in which he expressed the statement that he should conquer his opponent on that eventful day at Bennington "Or Moll Stark 'ill be a widder." His resolution would not seem to have been overstrained if we remember that he had at command five hardy frontiers-men for every British or Hessian soldier opposed to him on that

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