the slender birches were sunning their mottled stems in the warm spring air; the evergreen woods rose dark and mysterious; while the glad little spruces that skirted the thickets were nourishing soft buds on every twig, little caring that they would in time be as gloomy and solemn as the grand old veterans of the forest behind them.
sweden once more! all seemed unchanged after thirty years, save the emigrant and whatever specially concerned him. the familiar homes far back from the road, he remembered them well. his own home, he knew, had been ravaged by fire, and scarcely a vestige of it remained. his parents were no more. he could not, if he had wished it, shed penitent tears over their graves; for their bones were mouldering in a far-away ancestral vault, with no kindly grass to[pg 105] mantle them, and no glad wild flowers to whisper of a coming resurrection. the possessions that should have been his had been willed away to strangers. the once well-known family name was now rarely heard in the neighbourhood, and then only sorrowfully whispered as connected with the sad and almost forgotten past.
it was sunday morning. the church bell had rung out its peals the appointed number of times, and now all was silent, for the rustic worshippers were gathered within the sacred walls.
the congregation were all seated, and the confession was being repeated, when a tall, slender man, with peculiarly broad shoulders and a peculiarly small waist, came with an ungainly gait up the aisle, holding in his hand a limp felt hat as if it were glued fast to his long, thin fingers.
he stopped a moment, as if mechanically, before a full pew, and then stood doubtfully in the aisle.
a little chubby girl perched just behind him had not been too devout to observe the proceedings of the stranger. she unhooked the door of the seat in which she was established alone with her mother. the slight click attracted, as she had hoped, the attention of the new worshipper. she whispered to[pg 106] her bowed mother, "he has no place to sit; may i let him in to us?" the head was slightly nodded in reply; the door was gently pushed open; and the stranger sat down in the offered place. his dark face was thin, and wrinkled too much apparently for his years. his thick black hair and beard were irregularly streaked in locks with white, rather than grey with the usual even sprinkling brought about by age alone; and his forehead threatened to stretch backward far beyond the usual frontal bounds. he apparently took no part in the service. his eyes seemed looking far away from priest and altar, and his ears were dead to the words that fell upon them.
above the chancel there had been a painting representing the lord's supper, not copied even second or third hand from leonardo's masterpiece, but from the work of some far more humble artist. the cracks that had crept across the cloth of the holy table and scarred the faces of the disciples were no longer to be seen. the disciples, whose identity had so occupied the minds of the little church-goers and been the subject of week-day discussions, were now hidden with the whole scene from the eyes of all beholders. a red curtain veiled the long-valued painting in its disfigured old age. against this glow[pg 107]ing background was suspended a huge golden cross of the simplest construction. it was, in fact, the work of the carpenter of the neighbourhood, and was gilded by the hand of the pastor's wife, who had solemnly thought to herself as she wielded the brush, "we must look to the cross before we may draw near to the holy supper."
some idea like this flitted through the mind of the stranger, though he did not appear like a devout worshipper. his whole bearing gave quite another impression. even when, during prayers later on, he held up his hat before his face, as is supposed to be a devout attitude in some christian lands, the little girl fancied she could see him peeping here and there round the church, as if he were taking an inventory of its specialties. it was but a simple country church, with square pillars of masonry supporting the galleries, from whence light wooden columns rose to the vaulted roof. indeed, in the old-fashioned building the rural seemed to have been the only style of architecture attempted. the whole interior had been thoroughly whitewashed, however it had fared with the hearts of the worshippers.
during the sermon the stranger was evidently lost in his own meditations. as soon as the service was[pg 108] over, he followed the clergyman down the aisle to the sacristy, on one side of the main door.
the reverend gentleman was in the midst of disrobing, when the dark-faced man hastily entered and said abruptly, "will you kindly look over this paper, which must be my only credential with you? i belong to this parish, and should be glad to have the privileges of membership when broken down and needing a home."
the pastor glanced at the paper. it was a simple certificate, from a well-known dignitary high in authority in the land, requesting that the bearer, without being subject to further investigation, should have his right acknowledged as a member of the parish to which he now made application. the pastor could treat him accordingly, only showing the paper in case any difficulty arising from this arrangement should make such publicity necessary.
the paper was properly signed, witnessed, and sealed. the pastor put it in his pocket, looked wonderingly at the applicant, and said, "the poorhouse is but a mean place, with accommodation for a few persons, and the present occupants are of the humblest sort. there are now living there an old woman, formerly a servant in respectable families,[pg 109] who has a room to herself; a half-mad fellow, who will not speak when spoken to unless he can hit on some way of answering in rhyme. he, of course, has a room to himself. there is, besides, a large room with sleeping-places for two persons. one of these places is occupied by an old man who has been a hard drinker; you would have to share the room with him. would you be contented with that arrangement?"
"contented and grateful," said the stranger. his name was given as "a. johanson," and was so registered in the pastor's note-book. particular directions were then kindly lavished on the stranger as to how he was to reach his future home.
a peculiar smile stole over the face of the listener. he took politely the permit which ensured his admittance at the last refuge of the unfortunate, and then, with a bow and a slight waving of the limp hat, he disappeared.
