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THE DOLE OF JARL THORKELL.

THE land was pale with famine
And racked with fever-pain;

The frozen fiords were fishless,

The earth withheld her grain.

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"The Esir thirst and hunger,

And hence our blight and ban;
The mouths of the strong gods water
For the flesh and blood of man!

"Whom shall we give to Asgard? Not warriors, sword on thigh; But let the nursling infant

And bedrid old man die.”

"So be it!" cried the young men,

"There needs nor doubt nor parle"; But, knitting hard his red brows,

In silence stood the Jarl.

A sound of woman's weeping

At the temple door was heard ; But the old men bowed their white heads, And answered not a word.

Then the Dream-wife of Thingvalla,
A Vala young and fair,

Sang softly, stirring with her breath
The veil of her loose hair.

She sang: "The winds from Alfheim
Bring never sound of strife;
The gifts for Frey the meetest
Are not of death, but life.

"He loves the grass-green meadows,
The grazing kine's sweet breath;
He loathes your bloody Horg-stones,
Your gifts that smell of death.

"No wrong by wrong is righted,

No pain is cured by pain;

The blood that smokes from Doom-rings Falls back in redder rain.

"The gods are what you make them,

As earth shall Asgard prove;

And hate will come of hating,
And love will come of love.

"Make dole of skyr and black bread That old and young may live;

And look to Frey for favor

When first like Frey you give.

"Even now o'er Njord's sea-meadows
The summer dawn begins;
The tun shall have its harvest,

The fiord its glancing fins."

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weather, and put into the harbor at Dieppe, and that there she would in all probability find him during the day.

Poor Jeanne! It was not the fête day she had looked forward to. That had been a day all bright in sunshine and pleasant excitement in her anticipations. Gabriel and she were to have gone together, she wearing the dress his mother had given her; they were both to see for the first time the Citadelle and the oyster-garden, but now the storm had come up, and there would certainly be rain, and her father's fishing was spoiled, and — indeed, it must be confessed, that, for Jeanne, the weather within was as bad as that without. The fatal, angry words that had come between Gabriel and herself were still sore in her heart. If she could only feel light-hearted and content again as she had done before this had happened! Gabriel had asked her to marry him. Why should she? That meant to leave her home, to leave her father, to leave the coast. She had not yet thought of marrying. Yes, she had had always a vague prospect before her in the future, that some time she would marry a fisherman, who would help her father, and live in the cottage; but this was different, altogether different; she was bewildered, perplexed, by the prospect that opened before her. She had said "No" to Gabriel,sure enough; she was glad she had said "No"; but she wished, with a sinking heart, that they had not quarrelled. Gabriel, Gabriel, marry Gabriel, that all seemed so strange; and yet he was so near, so closely tied by affection and habit to her life, that the thought of estrangement between her and him gave her a bitter pang. What would Aunt Ducrés say? An uneasy suspicion vexed her that she might take her son's part in the matter, of course a mother always did, and Aunt Ducrés loved Gabriel more than most mothers do their sons. A dismal prospect of alienation and separation seemed to open before her, a maelstrom of perplexity seemed ready to swallow her up. So you see Jeanne's thoughts

before her little mirror yere by no means in harmony with her gay attire. There was little to do, when she was dressed, but her bed to make, and her every-day clothes to be laid away; for she had set all the house in order overnight, even to the grooming of her donkey, that, sleek and well conditioned, stood in his stall, and only needed to be saddled and have the pannier of fish slung across his back. This was an easy task to Jeanne's adroit and experienced hands. So, leading her donkey by the bridle, Jeanne walked slowly down the lane towards the Robbes' cottage.

It were hard to imagine a dress more suited and becoming to the strong rounded figure, with its movements of natural grace and dignity, than the short red petticoat, the trim flowered bodice, and the fair white Norman cap, beneath which appeared heavy braids of golden-brown hair. A threefold silver chain encircled Jeanne's neck, to which hung a silver figure of the Madonna; and heavy gold earrings, heirlooms of many generations in her mother's family, completed her costume. In her hand she carried her rosary and missal.

A pleasant greeting met Jeanne, as she neared the Robbes' gate, from the group of neighbors and friends whoall like herself in holiday dress, some on foot and some mounted on their donkeys-were awaiting the assembling of the rest of the little company before starting on their day's pilgrimage. The stream of lively talk ran on with added force after her arrival; for the new robe de fête had to be examined and admired, and the girls crowded about her with loud ejaculations of approval, as they fingered the bows of ribbon, and felt the delicate texture of her skirt.

Marie Robbe stood aloof at first, and made an attempt to behave with a becoming degree of coldness in resentment for Jeanne's brusquerie of the previous evening. But her assumed dignity was not proof against the goodhumored indifference of Jeanne; and her little airs of displeasure melted away

when Jeanne began to arrange the basket of fish on Marie's despised donkey, and then invited her to mount her own handsome beast.

Others of the villagers came up by twos and threes till all were assembled, and the whole company began to move forward, falling into the natural groups that family ties or mutual sympathy dictated. The women chatted together over their household concerns, and the men discussed the prospects of the fishing-season. The children of the company trudged on sturdily by the sides of their mothers, or rode before them on the donkeys, or chased each other through the thymy grass. As the morning wore on, and the blustering wind made the walking more fatiguing, the talk flagged; even Marie Robbe's tongue ceased its chatter, and she allowed her mind to fall back upon the more important business of scheming how it should be her turn to ride on their entrance into the town. This at the present moment was the most ardent wish of her heart, and if to this satisfaction she could have added that of passing François Milette on her triumphal entry, and have poisoned his happiness for the day by some coquettish slight, so that his very holiday wine should become gall and the sweet fête cakes wormwood to his taste, perhaps she would have experienced the keenest sense of pleasure of which her nature was capable.

Jeanne, meanwhile, was walking by the side of Épiphanie Milette, whose pretty face did indeed look pale and careworn enough to justify the belief of some people that she had received the ominous greeting from the Fairy. It is true that evil fortune had pursued poor Épiphanie, and things had gone unkindly with her. Her father had, as I said before, been a hard man of no very good character, on whom the more pious surmised the good Saints had laid a ban on account of certain nefarious undertakings under shadow of the night, bringing him more than once into collision with the coast guards. Certain it is that the fickle fortune

of the sea had never smiled upon Milette as a fisherman, nay, had most persistently frowned, and yet he had had at times unaccountably large sums of money. Madame Milette, during her husband's lifetime, though she was always well clothed, and had money to spend, had a sour and discontented look. They had always had little to do with other people, and she had a hard life of it, it was said, down in the lonely house on the cliffside with her sickly child and her bad husband; and some of the women, if they did speak tauntingly of her leather shoes and new chain, pitied her, and were ready, when the time came, to do her a good turn.

Jeanne's good aunt had been one of these, and, on the morning after that stormy night when Milette was brought home dead, she went down to the desolate house on the cliffside, and performed the office of good neighbor to the poor widow, who was sitting there alone with her daughter, and feeling, Heaven help her! more bitterly the fact that the world had turned its back on her than that death had robbed her of her husband. For, indeed, the death of her husband confirmed all the suspicions of his evil life.

That stormy winter's morning, just at dawn, when the two fishermen came stumbling up the shingly pathway to the lonely house bearing the body drenched with sea-water, and with a pistol-wound in the breast, the two scared and trembling women dragged him in, and laid him on the bed, asking no questions.

So the shadow of Milette's life grew darker over his death, and people stood aloof from the widow and her daughter. Jeanne's aunt and old Madame Lennet were, for a time, their only friends; and, indeed, on one of those cold, winter days, Madame Lennet had gone up to see Monsieur le Curé himself, to beg him-which she did with tears and the simple eloquence of her compassionate heart- to let Milette's body receive the full rites of Christian burial without question as to the cause of his death, usual in such cases, so that the widow might be spared the additional disgrace

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