Oh, glorious freedom! In which she confided, Towards which she pilgrimed, You are her own now! She is free, she is free, with the freed ones! Therefore be joyous, Be joyous and sing ye, Never more, never more can she be captive! Thus sung those melodious voices through the serene spring atmosphere, to one heart whose unspeakable anguish was wonderfully appeased by that spirit-like song, whilst torrents of tears fell upon the newly-raised turf of the grave. High above the grave carolled the larks in the deep-blue, and seemed to repeat, as in a tone of exultation, She is free, she is free, with the freed ones! FATHER AND DAUGHTER. A FLOWER UPON THE GRAVE. DIRECTOR FALK sat in his little room at Kullen, as the little suburban residence to which the family had removed after the fire was called, and saw the sun set behind the budding fruittrees in the garden. He still sat with his feet swathed in woollen socks and suffering from gout. The expression of his countenance was less severe than formerly, but, if possible, more gloomy. Both his head and his hands had visibly a tremulous, palsied movement. His pale countenance and his firmly-closed lips showed that he had taken some resolute determination, upon which he was about to act, although it cost him a great effort to do so. He seemed to be expecting some one or something. He expected-his daughter Hertha, to whom he had sent a message that he wished to speak to her. Three weeks had passed since the night of the fire, and one since the corpse of Alma had been borne from the house. The horrors of that night, and cold taken at the same time, had hastened the progress of her disease, and rapidly completed the work which it had begun. How many a time had Hertha, who well knew the original cause of her sister's illness, thought in the bitterness of her heart how she would by her death-bed one day reproach her father aloud, because he was her executioner; had thought over before-hand the terrible words with which she would punish the hard, selfish man. The hour came, but she then saw her father bowed and broken, trembling near his victim, and she could no longer find words wherewith to reproach or punish him. She had only tears for them both. Since that event, however, father and daughter seemed to avoid each other. Aunt Nella, or old Anna, carried question and answer from one to the other, when this was needed. Rudolph's name was never mentioned by the Director, neither did he seem to like to hear him mentioned by any one else, and the unfortunate youth was regarded by the family almost as one dead. Every one believed him guilty of originating the fire. Hertha now, more than ever, called upon to act both for herself and others, and more than ever, therefore, in want of that liberty which had been promised her, to direct her own actions and manage her own lawful property, both wished and feared, at the same time, to have some conversation with her father. Thus things stood on that evening, when a message came which summoned her to him. If any one has done thee a great injury and by that means called forth the demons of hatred and bitterness into thy heart -and worse injury than that can no one do to a soul—and God give thee grace to do thy injurer a great service, there arises something great within thy whole being, which makes it much easier for thee to forgive, even if thou art not besought to do so. Thou hast acted like the Highest on the earth, and His peace-which surpasses all peace and all strife—covers with its wings the bitter waters of thy mind. When Hertha came before her father, her glance was less cold, and her demeanor less rigid than usual. She had carried him like a child in her arms and on her breast, through fire and flames. The memory of that had wonderfully mollified her heart. Yet that heart throbbed violently as she entered her father's room and advanced softly to the chair in which he sat. He looked up hastily, and motioned with his hand to a chair which stood near his, as he said: "Sit down; I wish to speak to you." Hertha saw that the hand trembled; it affected her. After a moment's silence the old man began, with a voice which he endeavored to make firm. "You have done me a great service; you have saved my life. I wish to show you my gratitude. Tell me what you wish me to do for you?" "Give me my liberty, father," said Hertha, with a mild but firm voice," and the property that I inherit from my mother. I am twenty-seven years old, and I wish to be declared as having attained my majority." "It shall be done," replied her father, "if I can only get time to take the necessary steps. I am prepared to render an account of the property inherited from your mother; I have been a just steward, according to the best of my ability; the last misfortune does not touch it-that-that you can well understand." Hertha bowed her head in silent acquiescence; her father continued: "The interest of your mother's property, together with your proportion of your late sister's share, amounts to a sum sufficient to enable you to live independently wherever you would like. You have a right to do so. You are of the class of strong women who are able to be their own support, and even to support others. I have hitherto not believed in the existence of such; I have, perhaps, been unjust in this respect, at all events as regards you, as I saw at the time of the fire, and even since then. Be therefore free, my daughter; see and do that which pleases you, and, in the meantime, take this sum of money," and with a trembling hand he laid in that of his daughter, a roll of bills to the value of about a thousand rixdollars banco-"they are some of my savings, you can do with them what you like; use them for a journey or whatever else you have a wish for." Money, as reward for an act of love, which saved him from a horrible death! and yet Hertha received it with gratitude, because money is a means of much good, and of happiness to many; besides she well understood her father's really good intentions. Tears filled her eyes as she thanked him. He assumed a harsher tone: "I know that you do not love me, and perhaps it is not altogether your own fault, because you have not understood my affection for you; nevertheless, I know that I have wished for and desired, the future advantage of my children." Here he suddenly broke off and fixed his eyes upon the ground. It was as if a pale shadow rising therefrom had whispered, "Why do I lie .here? I might have lived happily as a wife." Hertha was silent; the old man wiped away the sweatdrops from his brow. His whole frame trembled. After a moment he resumed "If I have made a mistake, then I am, perhaps, severely enough punished. In the meantime, may you be free and happy, far from a father and a home which you do not love. The interest of your mother's property can be paid to you at any place wherever you may be. And I desire nothing more from you than that you should tell me where you would like to be." "Here!" said Hertha, as she rose up and laid her hand on the arm of her father's chair, "here, with you, my father, if you will allow it. Oh! you have little understood me and the liberty which I have coveted. And you shall understand me better, if you will promise me, what I now ask of you, and which I know that I deserve." "And what is that ?" asked the Director, as he looked up to his daughter with an excited glance. "Your confidence, father!" said Hertha, mildly and gravely. "Believe that I desire what is right and good, and let me remain with you to prove this to you. Have confidence in me, and-be kind to me and my sisters, so that we may love you, and endeavor to make you happy. I am no longer a child, my father! I will be a mother to my younger sisters, and manage your house according to my best ability. I know that this is my duty; it will also be my pleasure, if, father, you will only give me my freedom and your confidence, and be kind to me for-Alma's sake!" Now it was spoken out: that reproachful, bitter word, which had so long brooded in Hertha's breast, but a loving angel had anointed the arrow's point with a healing balsam. |