“Olof, I have never really known you until now!”

“And I,” he answered, “have never known you till to-day.”

THE BROKEN STRING

The dark of an autumn evening was abroad.  It marched along the roads, stole over the meadows, and sat brooding in the forest; the shimmering waterways marked its track.

But at Moisio all the homestead was ablaze with light; every window shed its bright stream into the night, as if from a single fire within.

And from within came a constant sound of many voices, as of men sitting round the hearth relating manifold adventures.  Outside, all round the house, were voices too, loud and low, soft and harsh, with an undertone of whispering in corners, and footsteps moving here and there.  All that there was of life and light and sound in Kohiseva seemed gathered this night at Moisio.

The fiddler played his hardest, the floor creaked, and the walls quivered to the tramp of many feet; a stream of figures passed continuously before the windows.

The wedding had taken place that afternoon.  Then came feasting and dancing—­and the guests were dancing still, though it was close on midnight.

The bridegroom was a fine upstanding fellow, and the bride a worthy mate—­as stately a pair as any had seen.  All the neighbourhood agreed in this—­and all had seen the couple, though not all had been bidden to the feast.  A whisper had been passed among the crowd without, followed by a shout from all, demanding to see the bride and bridegroom.  And when the pair came out and stood in the porch, with their following behind, the onlookers greeted them with shouts and cheers—­just as at fine folk’s weddings in the great cities, declared those who knew.

The bridegroom was happy—­and well he might be, with such a bride.  And the bride, too, was happy—­as well she might be after waiting all those years.  All knew the story—­the first strange wooing, with the desperate venture down the rapids, and the lover’s Song of the Blood-Red Flower as he went away.  And more was whispered about—­fragmentary tales of the bridegroom’s adventurous life and the trials of the girl who waited for him to return; rumour had gathered what was known, and popular fancy had added thereto at will.  The stories passed from mouth to mouth among those outside, and even among the guests within, reaching almost to the bridal pair themselves.  There was a touch of something legendary, heroic, about it all, that shed a halo of romance even upon old Moisio’s grey head.

* * * * *

Again they call for bridegroom and bride—­the hero and heroine of the story—­manly courage and womanly faithfulness personified; a sight to look on again and again.  Again the light streamed out into the porch, and again the shouts and cheers went up, and one or two of the more curious and venturesome slipped into the house unbidden in the press.