Away in the north, low down near the distant mountains, it hangs in the sky. The world is full of color. The night is still and calm and holy. The distant inland peaks glisten with white, tinged with the red from the sun. The hills are brown and green and red. Patches of hawthorn bushes are white with flowers. The delicate leaves of the white birch tremble in the sunlight, and into the depths of the denser foliage, there streams a wonderful mingling of purple and green. The water is still tonight, and even the ocean sleeps. Away westward, some outer islands lie in the shining sea as rubies in a silver setting.

Ingeborg sat at her open window looking out upon the scene. The same long braid of golden hair hung down her back. Her fair face was yet fairer, paler now, and devoid of even the tinge of red in the cheeks. She played with the red geranium blossom in the window.

To one who had lived all her life amid the darkness and the sunshine of the north, this summer scene, one might think, would not be especially impressive; but not so with Ingeborg. The beauties of the northern summer, and especially the glories of the midnight sun, were not lost to her. They were her light and life. Amid the grinding toil, the chrushed hopes, the neglect and wrongs of those who should protect and love, no other solace, next to that which she received from the Father above, was equal to that which she derived from communing with the glories of nature about her.

And she needed comfort, this young wife. So far, Knute, the husband, had not proved what she had hoped and longed for. He was kind enough to her in a way. In fact he was much kinder to her than he was to himself, not understanding that her love knit her soul to his so closely, that her greater suffering was when he abused himself. Such is the love of woman.

Knute was away on a summer fishing trip, and he might be back at any time. This was why she was up that night. He was not much at home. The sea, rather than his house, was his home, as it must needs be to the fishermen who reap the seas for their harvest; and when he came to her, ofttimes it was not in such a way as a husband should return to his wife. Oh, the yearnings of that wife's heart! What mattered it if she did make the floors

of her rooms shine with the whiteness of newly-sawed boards? What if she made the pretty rugs for the floor, and the cushion for the chairs, for his chairs especially! Why should she place so much care on her windows to make the green plants peep from out the white curtains, and make it pretty and home like for him! He was yet a common fisherman. He was poorer now than when they were married. He would never get a larger boat, his house could never get a new coat of paint. He would never get to Bergen with fish of his own-and she would never get there either. And yet, how she loved him, and longed to see him a man among men!

Then Ingeborg said softly her prayer, not forgetting him who was away; after which she read her daily chapter from the Bible. Then she closed the window and lay down on a couch for a little sleep.

In half an hour she awoke. Hardly knowing why, she got up, smoothed out her hair, and looked out upon the fjord. Everything was as still as usual. The sun had swung around to the eastern sky, and was slowly mounting upward. Ingeborg threw a shawl over her head and stepped out. She would take a walk along the shore and gather some duck eggs. Knute would surely come home soon, and they would be such a treat to him.

The eider duck was not plentiful that year, as the good fishing in the neighborhood had made night-noises unavoidable, and as this is what the ducks do not like, they had to go to other shores to make their nests and lay their eggs. Ingeborg found but few nests, and she thought of the scarcity of eider down for the coming winter.

At midnight the sun's rays are bright enough, but they are not warm; but now, as the morning hours advanced, the rocks reflected the warmth of sunlight, and the air lost its chill. The morning was full of life and glow, and hope again struggled for existence as it had many times before, in the breast of the woman. She plucked some wild flowers, and arranged them in a boquet as she walked along.

Presently, she came to a high point jutting out into the fjord, and as she walked around the rocks, she saw a boat lying at anchor close in by the shore. The boat looked very much like Knute's yes, it was Knute's. He had come home-but where

was he? Then hope again gave up the timid struggle and fled, for there in the grass, on the sunny side of a rock, lay Knute, fast asleep. The wife stood still and looked at him, while her throbbing heart seemed to come up into her throat as if to choke her. She knew the meaning of it all, full well. The empty bottle lay by him in the grass.

He was a handsome fellow yet, was fisherman Knute. He lay full length in the grass, his great sea boots digging into the sand, and his head resting upon his arm. His hat was off, and Ingeborg saw the matted, brown hair fall over his face.

The woman did not proceed further, but she crouched down behind a boulder and looked at him. Her hand trembled, and she shook as if with cold, but she did not stir or speak. What could she do to help him!

The boat rocked idly on the sea. There was nothing in it but his fishing tackle and nets. He was to have brought home a sack of flour, with other necessities for the house, but his fish had, no doubt, been exchanged for someting else. He had come home, emptyhanded, and in no condition to meet his wife. That much he had realized. He would at least sleep off the effects of his drinking before he went home-and here he was.

Ingeborg cried softly behind the shelter of the rock. Knute still slept on as peacefully as a child.

He must not lie there longer, she thought. He will catch cold on the damp earth. She would wake him and take him home. She had three large eggs for his breakfast.

Softly she went along, and knelt down by him.

"Knute, get up!" she said, "Knute dear, wake up."

The sleeper rolled over on the grass. Ingeborg pushed back the hair from his face, and let her hand lie on his head. "Knute, dear, wake up"-and then he opened his eyes and saw her. He knew in a moment what he had done, and where

he was.

"Come, Knute, come home with me, and if you are tired you may rest at home. Come, dear."

The man sat up. "Ah, what a brute I am!" said he. "Can you forgive me once more, Ingeborg? I am not worthy such a

woman.

You do not chide me, you do not even scold, but awaken me with a loving touch."

"Yes, love is stronger than all things, Knute. If love will not help you, nothing else can. My love, Knute, my love will help you to make a man of yourself yet, will it not? Tell me it will!"

"Through the grace of God, it will," said he.

He took her down to the boat, and they sailed home toAnd hope again dared to peep out from its place of

gether.

hiding.

(TO BE CONCLUDED IN DECEMBER NUMBER.)

YOU CAN ALWAYS TRUST MOTHER.

BY SARAH E. PEARSON.

[For the Improvement Era.]

Out in the world with its untried joy,
Its triumphs, pleasures and pains,
You are eager to enter the fray, my boy,
And share in its glittering gains.

Strong in youth, in faith and in health, my boy,

You smile as you enter its strife;

You taste the elixir without the alloy

Old experience offers to life.

And yet, don't forget, in the whirl and fret
Of the strenuous life of the man,

There's a true heart beating for you, my boy,
Which never will change nor can.
Unselfish type of our Father's love
Which yields the palm to no other;
Whatever the failure or grief or care,

You can safely trust your mother.

Her pride and joy is your honor, my boy,

Her hope is your happiness;

But if sorrow and care early silver your hair,

She'll love you none the less.

Though her cheek may be withered, her footstep slow, Growing dim those eyes of blue,

Yet they have grown old in your service, you know,
She would give her heart's blood for you.

For love sharpens the wits and steadies the hand,
And strengthens the judgment true;

And lends a sort of second sight

To those faded eyes of blue;

Ah, the Autumn of life, brings the seed time of faith,
Which bloomtime can never bring;

And her prayers are most often for you, my boy,
And her thoughts most around you cling.

So, trust your mother, for never another
Will love you just as she

Who bore, and guarded and guided you,

And your baby prayers heard at her knee. Oh, be tender as well as brave, my boy,

And thoughtful as well as gay;

"Twill smooth her path to the grave, my boy,
And be balm to your heart alway.
And so, don't forget, in the whirl and fret
Of the strenuous life of the man,

There's a true heart beating for you, my boy,
Which never will change, nor can.
Unselfish type of our Father's love
Which yields the palm to no other;
Whatever the failure or grief or care,

You can always trust your mother.