"I will go home," she murmured; "I will say, Mother, take me in and save me, or else I die!" And so, when the night closed, and all the villagers were safe at home, and none could mock at her and her misery, the poor, desolate one crept to her mother's door. It had been open to her even when she came in her pride; how would it be closed against her sorrow and humility? And was there ever a true mother's breast, in which, while life yet throbbed, there was not a refuge for a repentant child? Hyldreda found shelter and rest. But the little elfin babe, unused to the air of earth, uttered continual moanings. At night the strange eyes never closed, but looked at her with a dumb entreaty. And tenfold returned the mother's first desire, that her darling should become a "christened child." Much the old grandame gloried in this, looking with distrust on the pining, withered babe. But keenly upon Hyldreda's memory came back the saying of Kong Tolv, that for a soul would be exchanged a life. It must be hers. That, doubtless, was the purchase; and thus had Heaven ordained the expiation of her sin. If so, meekly she would offer it, so that Heaven would admit into its mercy her beloved child. It was in the night-in the cold, white night, that the Widow Kalm, with her daughter and the mysterious babe, came to the chapel of Skjelskör. All the way thither they had been followed by strange, unearthly noises; and as they passed beneath the oakwood, it seemed as if the overhanging branches were transformed into giant hands, that evermore snatched at the child. But in vain; for the mother held it fast, and on its little breast she had laid the wooden cross which she herself used to wear when a girl. Bitterly the infant had wailed, but when they crossed the threshold of the chapel, it ceased, and a smile broke over its face-a smile pure and saintly, such as little children wear, lying in a sleep so beautiful that the bier seems like the cradle. The mother beheld it, and thought, What if her foreboding should be true; that the moment which opened the gate of heaven's mercy unto her babe, should close upon herself life and life's sweetnesses? But she felt no fear. "Let me kiss thee once again, my babe, my darling!" she murmured: "perhaps I may never kiss thee more. Even now, I feel as if my eyes were growing dark, and thy little face were gliding from my sight. But I can let thee go, my sweet! God will take care of thee, and keep thee safe, even amidst this bitter world." She clasped and kissed the child once more, and kneeling calm, but very pale, she awaited whatever might be her doom. The priest, performing by stealth what he almost deemed a desecration of the hallowed rite, began to read the ceremony over the fairy babe. All the while, it looked at him with those mysterious eyes, so lately opened to the world, yet which seemed to express the emotions of a whole existence. But, when the sprinkled water touched them, they closed, softly, slowly, like a blue flower at night. The mother, still living, and full of thankful wonder that she did live, took from the priest's arms her recovered treasure, her Christian child. It lay all smiling, but it lifted not its eyes; the color was fading on its lips, and its little hands were growing cold. For it-not for her, had been the warning. It had rendered up its little life, and received an immortal soul. For years after this, there abode in the village of Skjelskör a woman whom some people thought was an utter stranger; for no one so grave and, at the same time, so good was ever known among the light-hearted people of Zealand. Others said that if any one could come back alive from fairy land, the woman must be Hyldreda Kalm. But as later generations arose, they mocked at the story of Kong Tolv and the palace under the hill, and considered the whole legend but an allegory, the moral of which they did not fail to preach to their fair young daughters continually. Nevertheless, this woman had surely once lived, for her memory, embalmed by its own rich virtues, long lingered in the place where she had dwelt. She must have died there too, for they pointed out her grave, and a smaller one beside it, though whose that was none knew. There was a tradition that when she died-it was on a winter night, and the clock was just striking twelve-there arose a stormy wind which swept through the neighboring oak-wood, laying every tree prostrate on the ground. And from that hour there was no record of the Elle-people or the mighty Kong Tolv having been ever again seen in Zealand. |