pine saplings, young birch trees, and hagberry bushes. In among the thickets a woman was singing. Karl Arthur did not see the singer, but he knew the voice well; it belonged to the tavern-keeper’s giddy daughter—she who ran after all the fellows. She was not far away, and might appear in the road at any moment.
Karl Arthur stepped softly now, lest his footfalls be heard by the singer; he even looked about for some way of escape.
On the other side of the road lay a meadow where a herd of cows was grazing. The cows were not alone. A woman was there, milking. Her he knew also. She was the tenant farmer’s cow girl, who was tall as a man and who had three illegitimate children. His whole being shrank in horror. Whispering a prayer to his Maker, he hastened on.
The tavern-keeper’s daughter still yodelled in the bush, and the big cow girl, having finished her milking, was preparing to go home. Luckily, neither of them crossed his path.
The wretched old sinner in him now took a new tack. He said that perhaps our Lord had shown him these two loose women not so much to test his faith and courage as to warn him. Perhaps He wanted to let him see what a reckless, idiotic thing he was doing.
Karl Arthur immediately silenced the weak, wavering sinner in him, and continued his quest. Should he give up for a thing so trivial? Should he believe more in his own fears than in the power of God?
At last he saw a woman coming down the road. Her he could not avoid. Though she was still at some distance he recognized her. It was Crofter Matts’s Elin, whose whole face was disfigured by a purple birthmark. For an instant he stood aghast. The girl was not only hideous to behold, she was also the poorest person in the parish. Her father and mother were both dead, and she had ten dependent younger brothers and sisters to care for.
He had visited her in her lowly hut, swarming with dirty, ragged youngsters whom the eldest sister vainly strove to feed and clothe. The perspiration of dread stood thick on his brow, but he folded his hands and advanced resolutely.
“It is for her sake, that she may receive help, all this has come to pass,” he mumbled to himself as they were rapidly nearing each other.
A true martyrdom was opening up to him, and he would not turn aside for anything in that line. For this poor girl he had no such feeling of revulsion as the cow girl or the tavern-keeper’s daughter had aroused in him. Of her he had heard only good.
A few strides more and they would have been face to face—when, happily, she turned off from the road. Someone had called to her from the wood, and she quickly disappeared among the tangle of thickets.
Now that Crofter Matts’s Elin was out of the way he felt that a heavy load had been lifted off his chest. With fresh assurance, he strode on, his head held high—proud as if he had actually walked on the water to prove the strength of his faith.
“The Lord is with me,” he said. “Christ walks with me on this journey, holding over me His protecting shield.” This thought sustained him, and filled his heart with gladness.
“The right one will soon appear. The Lord has been testing me; He has seen that I am in earnest. I shall not turn back. My bride-elect approaches.”
He had just covered the short stretch of road between the deanery and the church town and was turning in on the village street, when a cottage door opened and a young girl came out. She crossed the small garden path that led from the house and stepped into the road almost in front of Karl Arthur.
She had appeared so suddenly he had not seen her until she was almost upon him. He stood stock-still. Instantly he thought: “Ah, here she is! Didn’t I know it? I had the feeling just now that she was coming my way.” Clasping his hands, he gave thanks to God for His great and wondrous mercy.
She who came toward him was a young woman from a parish in northern Dalarne who went about the country as house-to-house peddler. She was dressed in the picturesque red and green, black and white peasant costume of her home parish. Here at Korskyrka, where the old peasant dress had long been laid away, she shone like a rose of the wilderness.
The girl herself was even prettier than her clothes. Her hair curled softly around a fine forehead, which, otherwise, would have appeared rather high, and her features were perfect. Above all, it was the deep, brooding eyes and the fine black eyebrows that settled the matter. Such lovely eyes and brows would have lent beauty even to a plain face. Moreover, she was tall and well built. None could doubt for a moment that she was strong and healthy. Though shouldering a large leather bag full of merchandise, she held herself erect and moved with ease, as if quite unconscious of her burden.
Karl Arthur was entranced. It was summer incarnate coming toward him—the rich, warm, blooming summer of that year. Had he been an artist, he would have painted it just so.
But, if it was summer approaching, it was not a summer he need fear. Quite the contrary. God wanted him to open his heart to it and rejoice in its beauty. His lovely bride-elect had come from distant hill regions, from the home of poverty and lowliness. She did not know the lure of riches, the consuming passion for material things that caused the children of the plains to forget their Creator. This daughter of the people would not hesitate to marry a man because he wished to remain poor all his life.
Verily, the wisdom of God surpasseth all! The Lord knew what was needful for him and, by a turn of His Hand, had placed in his path the woman more suited to him than any other.
The young clergyman was so lost in his own musings that he made no move toward the beautiful Dalar girl. When she saw how he was devouring her with his eyes, she could not help laughing to herself.
“You stare as if it was a bear you’d met,” said she.
Karl Arthur laughed, too. It was extraordinary how light-hearted he had become all at once!
“Oh, no, it was no bear I fancied I saw.”
“Then it must have been the Wood Nymph. ’Tis said that folk get so cracky when they see her they can’t move hand or foot.” She smiled, showing the prettiest, the most dazzling teeth, and wished to pass on; but he quickly barred her way.
“You can’t go,” he said, firmly. “I must speak with you. Sit you down here at the side of the road!”
She was surprised at the imperative command; but thinking he wanted to purchase some of her wares, she said: “I can’t open the bag out here on the highway.”
Immediately, a light broke in upon her. “Aren’t you the pastor of this parish? I thought I saw you in the pulpit yesterday.”
Karl Arthur was glad she had heard him preach and knew who he was.
“Oh, yes,” he affirmed, “it was I who preached; but I’m only an assistant pastor.”
“Then you must be living at the deanery,” she said. “I’m just on my way there. You come round to the kitchen, and I’ll sell you the whole bagful of goods.”
“But I do not wish to purchase your wares,” the Curate replied. “I want to ask you to be my wife.” He spoke in a choked voice, for he was deeply moved. It seemed to him that all Nature—the birds, the quivering leaves of the trees, the grazing kine—was aware of the solemn event, and awaited in breathless suspense the young woman’s answer.
She turned quickly to see whether he was in earnest, but otherwise seemed quite indifferent. “We might meet here in the road at ten this evening. I have business of my own to think of now.”
With that, she went on her way. He let her go, certain she would come back and give him a Yea. For was she not the bride God had chosen for him?
Karl Arthur, however, was in no mood to go home and settle down to work. He turned toward the heights, and when he had gone far enough into the wood not to be seen from the road, he flung himself down upon the ground.
What luck! What marvellous luck! What dangers he had escaped! How wonderful were the happenings of that day!
Now all his troubles were over. Never again could Charlotte Löwensköld tempt him to become