Fisherman Knute’s Christmas Gift. II

FISHERMAN KNUTE'S CHRISTMAS GIFT. IEPHI ANDERSON, AUTHOR OF "ADDED UPON," "THE CASTLE BUI ER," "MARCUS KING MORMON," "THE HIGHER LAW," ETC.

III.— CHARITY.

And now the winter had come — the cold, dark, northern winter. For three weeks the sun had not been seen; and, save the tinge of gray in the southern sky, each day at noon, there were no indica- tions that there was a sun to shine upon the earth. The mountains stood in huge whiteness against the dark, blue sky. The sea, warmed by the ocean currents, was yet free from the Frost Giant, and rolled in dark, green billows into the fjord and onto the shore. The stars were out continuously, except when the snow clouds filled the sky. The northern lights wavered and streamed across the heavens in ever-varying forms and colors. It was midday, yet lamps were gleaming from every house in the village. The hum of voices came through opening doors, and now and then men were heard shouting to each other. From the frozen lake, the merry laughter of small boys could be heard. Ingeborg lived yet alone in the house under the steep cliffs

just out of the village —and she was alone today also, alone as she had been for many days and nights before — that was nothing new or uncommon. She was also preparing for the Christmas holidays, and the fishermen's return. Sometimes the winter fishing is much the best, and this year it had been uncommonly good. So, prac- tically all the male population of the village had been out on the sea. They were coming home for the holidays, and the women and boys, and what few men remained were all busy. After busying herself around and in the house for a time,

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Ingeborg drew her spinning wheel closer to the tall, square stove in the corner, placed more fire, and supplying peat cakes on the herself with plenty of wool began to spin. The big wooden clock, with long weights, ticked off the time in rhythm to the hum of the wheel. The pile of carded woolen rolls grew smaller, while the spools of thread became full. Ingeborg had not been to Bergen yet, and Knute would never take her there, that was certain. A dozen times, during the short period of their married life, it had seemed that he would cease drinking, and become a man; but each time he had failed, until now it appeared that she must give up in despair. The home was needing repairs, the furniture was scant. Ofttimes, of late but — — Knute did not know it the wife had gone hungry to bed. The beautiful, soul-inspiring faith of the spring day when they were married, had long since departed. The hope that had buoyed her up, time and time again, had been crushed. All had gone life, the living life, hope, ambition, trust, assurance — all were be-

yond her grasp, and only love remained. Love was yet with her, burning stronger, firmer, purer than ever within her heart. Tomorrow would be Christmas Eve. The wheaten cakes had been baked, and the raisin bread was ready — the kind that Knute liked. The ale was brewed. There would be plenty to eat when he came home. He had sent her fifty crowns from Lofoten, and she had laid in a good supply of food. She worked at her wheel until late in the afternoon. Then she rested and took up her knitting. There were stockings for Knute, thick, heavy stockings for sea-work, and there were mit- tens also. She now finished the thumb end of a mitten, and then proceeded to ornament the wristband with a circle of blue silk which she brought from a box in a drawer. This pair must have been of special importance, because she held them up now and then to see the effect of her work. The day passed, yet the men did not return. Neighbors came that evening and told her that the fishers would be home the next day. The day before Christmas opened with a snow storm, with wind and piercing cold. Through the morning hours the storm raged, and there were poor prospects of a merry Christmas for the

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fishermen. The dark was dense, and even the usual grayness at noon was not to be seen. In the afternoon the storm ceased, the wind subsided, and in a few hours the Aurora gleamed through the rifts in the clouds. Shortly afterwards most of the men came sailing into the harbor, but Knute was not with them. Ingeborg, with an unusually pale face, listened to the men's story. Knute had stopped some distance up the fjord, to visit some friends, he had said, but none of the men was aware of anybody liv- at the place at this time of the year; but no amount of argument or remonstrance had availed with him. Stop he must, and stop he did! She need not worry, however, as he was able to take care of himself until morning, when he, no doubt, would come home. So Knute didn't think enough of her to come home when the others did? she thought. But she would not judge him. Perhaps he was in a poor condition to come home. Yes! that was it. He did not wish to let her see him until he was sober and well over the effects of his sin. — But and the thought made her heart stand still for a moment — if he was in that condition, and had liquor

with him, there would be danger. He might freeze to death. The men had said there was no one living now at Stonypoint where he had stopped. Why hadn't his comrades used force and compelled him to come home? He would die out there alone.' If he went on shore, and found no one, he might drink, and freeze, and die! — Ingeborg closed the door she had been looking out into the darkness after the departing men. The storm-clouds yet passed hurriedly over the sky. She warmed her hands by the stove. She shivered, not wholly with cold. Stonypoint was but a few miles away, overland. Why should her husband be left to perish in the cold? If someone had but stayed with him — if she were only with him, he would be all right,

for when she was with him, he was always sane and just. It was Christmas Eve — she was comfortable at home, and he — she couldn't bear the thought of it. She herself would go after him. Physical suffering would ease the suffering of the soul. It would be better to go by water, perhaps, and get some one with her; but when she ran down to the boat house, she saw how impossible this was. The storm .had driven floating ice into the fjord, and no small boat could make headway through it.

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She sped back to the house, and with her lamp went up into the loft, coming down with a pair of long Norwegian ski, or snowshoes. True, it had been some time since she had used them, but that would make little difference. She had often made long excursions on snow shoes, and this trip overland would not be hard. Knute might come home while she was away. She would leave his supper on the table.It was Christmas eve, and it would not do

for him to come home to a cheerless house. She spread a white cloth on the table, and set it with her best chinaware. The slices of raisin-bread were many and large. She opened one of the doors in the stove and placed the coffee pot in a warm corner. She added more peat to the lire. Then she sat down to think for a moment. Ah, yes, there were — Knute's mittens his Christmas present. If he came home while she was away, he must find them. Where should she place them? She had read of the American way of hanging up stockings on Christmas eve for the reception of presents, but that was usually done near larger open fireplaces in which wood and coal were burned —but, perhaps, by the stove would do — was play any- it all

way — and Knute would be delighted—Knute always did like

American ways. So she drew a chair up to the stove, and hung the mittens with blue silk edging across the back. Then she pinned on them, a paper which had written on it,

To Knute, From Ingeborg. A Merry Christmas. Then she prepared for the journey by putting on heavy leg- gings, and a pair of socks over her shoes. Then an extra skirt and jacket, and a warm hood were gotten out. She saw that the foot- fastenings on the ski were intact. When all was ready, she poured out a cup of coffee, and with it ate a piece of cake. She did this mechanically, as she did not feel at all hungry or faint; but there was a something in her blood, something that gave her courage and determination, but which did not give color to cheek or lip. Before going she would read her chapter and say her prayers. It was now about bed time anyway — she had often in her lonely

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hours gone to bed as early in the evening as this. She reached for her Bible —the one given her on the day of her confirmation, and drew a chair up to the table. She opened to the thirteenth chap- ter of First Corinthians and read:

Though I speak with the tongues of men and angels, and have not Norwegian reads "love" for the English "charity"] I am become love, [the

as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. * * * Love suffereth long, and is kind; love envieth not; love vaunteth not

itself, is not puffed up,

Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.

Love never faileth: * * *

And now abideth faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.

The reader laid the book with the open place downward on the table, then she slipped down by her chair and said her prayers. A few moments later, she was out in the night, and struck out on the long shoes over the snow-covered hills which lay in the direction of Stonypoint. The wind came in from the sea, driving the waves and ice in against the shore with a fierce, grinding noise. The snow clouds covered the sky, and cut off even the dim light of the stars. In an hour, the storm was on again, black and cold and pitiless; yet Ingeborg moved on and on over the drifting snow, and

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further and further into the night.

About the hour of noon, Christmas day, * *

Knute's boat was *

seen picking its way between the ice into the harbor. Some time before, some of the neighbors had discovered that Ingeborg had disappeared, and as soon as Knute landed he was informed of the fact. "Oh, she's surely around somewhere," said he. "At some of the neighbors', perchance." No; she was not in the village. Knute hurried to his house and went rapidly through the

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rooms; then his friends joined him, and a wider search was made. The storm yet came on in heavy squalls, and it was useless to go far. Knute was perfectly sober, in fact he had been in that con- dition for some time. At night-fall the whole village was in the deepest distress and anxiety. All search was in vain. Knute went about with a pain in his heart, the like of which he had never yet felt. Was it pos- sible that he should lose her, he thought, lose her, the sweetest, most precious woman on earth ! Oh, no; that could not be — she would come back to him presently. But that night also went, and then during the next day, the storm ceased, and the sky was again clear. That night they found Ingeborg nearly to Stonypoint, in a snowdrift at the base of a cliff over which she had fallen. She was dead.

After it was all over, Knute went back to his home, and found all the things just as Ingeborg had left them. The funeral had been conducted from a friend's house in the village, and Knute had not been in the room except in the hurried search. Now he saw the set table; and then the mittens hanging over the back of the chair. He picked them up and read the writing on the paper. These, then, were Ingeborg's Christmas present to him — her last token of that unbounded, everlasting love, for which she had given her earthly life. Something shone from the woolen threads of which the mittens were made, and on closer examination, Knute saw that it was hair from the long, shining braids of his wife. In spinning the yarn for these, she had spun in from her own locks the shining color of gold. Then he saw the book lying on the table. He turned it over as it lay open, and read the pages; and as he read, a new light came into his understanding: "Faith, hope, lovel but the great- est of these is love." "Love never faileth." He had never known what love is before. The Lord, through the woman that had been given him, had tried to teach him by many ways and devices. But so far all lessons had failed. He had been stupid, wickedly stupid. Patience she had shown. She

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had sacrificed and suffered, that through it all his inner heart might be touched.

A life without love is a failure. The woman loved the man, but he did not understand the depths of that love. For her sake, it was necessary that he be awakened. Love is eternal, and what are a few years of earth-life to the ages of eternity? And so, the price had to be paid. A mortal life had to be given to save a soul from torment —rather, let us say two souls.

But ah, the price to Knute, the fisherman!

"This is the cruel fault of life —to be Full-visioned only when the ministry Of death has been fulfilled, and in the place Of some dear presence is but an empty space."

Christ came from the courts of heaven to show us the Father. Ingeborg was called from earth-life to show to him who was indis- pensable to her, the true meaning and end of existence, and to open to his soul that which, had he been without, his life would have been a failure in very deed. "I will help you to succeed," she had said, and she had done that thing. The woolen mittens, edged with blue silk, and glistening with threads from his loved one's head, were not the Christmas present Knute had received. They were but simple reminders of that most precious gift which had come from heaven — a knowledge of love and God, for God is Love.

(the end.)