Dalecarlia.

HE name of Dalecarlia was given in old times to that part of Sweden which lies near to the river Dal.

THI

The Dalecarlians are a very hearty, industrious set of people, and say of themselves that one man from their province can do as much work as two men from any other part of Sweden. In summer the Dalecarlian peasant-girls leave their homes amongst the hills and valleys, and go to Stockholm. There they are employed as rowers, and handle their oars from morning till night without being over-fatigued. No doubt the pure mountain air and the simple mode of life which they enjoy give them strength for such hard work. Travellers tell us that these energetic women have not pretty features, but that the healthy bloom on their cheeks and the good-natured expression in their blue eyes make you admire them. They have a distinct costume of their own, which is very picturesque.

The great Gustavus Vasa, before he became king of Sweden, took refuge from his enemies in this province of Dalecarlia. He disguised himself as a labourer, and the peasant-folk still point out with pride the different places where he lived and worked amongst their forefathers. In 'a barn at the village of Isola there is a monument of porphyry, bearing this inscription,' Here worked as a thrasher Gustavus Ericson, pursued by the foes of the realm, but selected by Providence to be the saviour of the country. His descendant in the sixth generation, Gustavus III., raised this memorial.'

H. L. T.

A

Miriam's Cross.

(Concluded from page 152.)

LTHOUGH Andrew fulfilled his promise, and took her to see her mother, as soon as she was strong enough to bear the excitement of the visit, he did not for many months tell her the whole of the sad truth. Whether it was simply the result of her long-continued intemperance, or whether the idea that she had killed her daughter caused her ill-regulated mind to lose its balance altogether, I cannot say; but from the night of her quarrel with Miriam until her death a few years later, Mrs. Newton was hopelessly insane. She knew Miriam always, and at first was able to converse with her so rationally, that Dr. Beauchamp was able to take her twice to the Asylum without letting her know the real character of the institution. The third time, however, she became suspicious, and as her health was then almost restored he told her the truth.

Mrs. Beauchamp had been very urgent in her entreaties that Andrew would allow her to come to Westpoint and nurse Miriam herself, but he did not think it wise for her to do so. You are too delicate, mother,'

Miriam's Cross.

he said; the nursing would only knock you up. Anne is trustworthy and thoroughly capable, and with Mrs. Morris's help we shall manage quite well.'

So Mrs. Beauchamp spent the bright summer days at Netherstone as contentedly as she could, looking forward with an intense longing to the time, now soon to come, when she would be able to act a mother's part towards the girl who was already dear to her as her own daughter.

Miriam continued to improve steadily, and though she was not able to travel 'next week,' as Andrew had hoped she would be, the day of his happiness dawned at last, and in the old church on the cliffs at Westpoint he took into his own keeping the faithful woman for whom he had waited so long. The wedding was necessarily very quiet. Mrs. Beauchamp had insisted on coming over for it, and Dr. Thorne, from the hospital, had asked and received permission to take the father's place and give the bride away. Mrs. Morris, of course, was present, and Anne, who afterwards declared that she couldn't see the ring put on for crying.'

6

'But I couldn't help it, ma'am,' she said to her mistress, 'thinking of all she'd gone through, and remembering how she used to look, and how she looked to-day. She's as frail as a feather!'

She was, indeed. Far too frail for the usual honeymoon tour to be thought of. Mrs. Beauchamp and Anne returned to Netherstone immediately after the wedding, and on the following day Andrew brought his wife home.

'We will take our holiday next year,' he said, 'when you are beginning to look like yourself again. At present I shall be afraid of every breath of wind, lest it should blow you away!'

What a pleasure it was to him to see her smile! Her lips had grown so grave and sad that he had almost feared that she would never regain her old brightness of expression.

'As for you,' his mother said to him, 'you look five years younger already!'

The doctor laughed and glanced at Miriam, lying cosily on the couch by the library window. Never mind me, mother; I am really getting an old man, so my appearance does not signify. turn all your attention to Miriam.'

You must

'I have taken too much of it already,' said Miriam. How shall I ever prove to either of you how grateful I am?'

'Don't talk of gratitude!' replied Mrs. Beauchamp. We love you, dear, and we have loved you always. Now that you really do belong to us, you may be sure that we shall try to make up for the years when we could do nothing to help you.'

Nothing? Ah, you don't know! I think it was just the knowledge

Miriam's Cross.

that I had two friends left that saved me. I should have lost even my trust in God but for you. I had only your love to assure me that He had not forsaken me utterly.'

'Poor child!' said Mrs. Beauchamp, passing her fingers tenderly over the girl's white brow, where the long disfiguring scar still remained. 'Well, it is all over now, darling; you have sailed into smooth waters at last, and the calm is sweeter than it would have been if you had rever braved the storm.'

CHAPTER XII.

'First face the storm,

So shalt thou know the gladness of the calm.'

VERY dream-like was Miriam's happiness in those first days of her married life. She was too weak to exert herself in any way at present; and hour after hour she lay upon her couch, either indoors or out of doors, enjoying the beauty and the peace of her new home. August, covering the landscape with its glory of ripening corn and its brilliance of summer flowers, made Netherstone's gray walls, with their dark, clustering ivy, look more picturesque than ever. The grand old trees and smooth lawns, the quiet shrubbery paths and the glistening waters of the little stream which formed the western boundary of the garden, were a constant delight to Miriam; and, as her husband told her, she had nothing to do but to enjoy them. And enjoy them she did, with such a simple and child-like appreciation of their loveliness, that Andrew himself caught something of the same spirit, and began to view his possessions in a new light.

Those were very happy days to him also, and both husband and wife realised the truth of the words I have just quoted. They had faced the storm, and Miriam had been well-nigh overcome by its fury. They had suffered-she for her mother's sake, and he for hers-and now what earth can give in the way of rest and gladness was theirs. And after the long battle, how blessed was the peace! After the weariness, how sweet the rest! After the gloom and shadow, how glorious the light!

'I am afraid I am too happy,' said Miriam one day to Mrs. Beauchamp.

'I think not.'

'You don't know. If you could imagine-but you could not, if I were to tell you about it—what these past years have been, you would understand what I mean. I feel just as Christian the pilgrim must have felt when his burden rolled away from him.'

"That is not being too happy.'

'But I am afraid of growing selfish. You are all so good to me; and since I have been ill I have scarcely had need even to think for