the earth.  He then tapped the postillion on the shoulder, and said to him, with the laconism compulsory on him from his knowledge of the Swedish tongue, “Aland?” This was the name of the halting-place. “Intet tu,” (not yet,) replied the postillion, as he took his arm from the sheepskin which surrounded his shoulders.  At the same time he cracked his whip, as if to show how impatient he was to reach his halting-place.  The animals, thus excited, set forth at a long gallop across that portion of the Gulf where the frequent passage of the fishermen had to a degree leveled the snow, and ascended with much difficulty a hill covered by trees at least a hundred years old.  At the extremity of this forest, the postillion turned toward the traveler, and with his finger pointed out to him a spot so distant that it could be distinguished with difficulty. “Aland!” said he; and with his voice and gestures he encouraged his horses, who doubled their ardor, as if they comprehended that this was the last effort which would be required of them before they reached their destination.

The sleigh soon halted at the foot of a vast wooden house.  When the driver cracked his whip, when the sound of the bells was heard, the door opened, and the stranger, it was evident to see, was expected.  A servant advanced to meet him, with a lantern in his hand, and led him through a long corridor, introducing him into a room where a man with gray hair sat in an arm-chair.

“My uncle!” said the traveler, rushing toward him.

“Ireneus, my dear child!” said the old man.  They stood in silence, clasped in each other’s arms, until the old man, taking the young one by the hand, led him to a table on which two lights were burning, looked at him with complaisance, and said, “It is indeed yourself—­it is the likeness of my poor brother:  the same eyes, the same proud and resolute air.  You look as he did thirty years ago, when he was about to cast himself amid the dangers of war; when, unfortunately, he embraced me for the last time.”

“My dear uncle,” said Ireneus, “instead of the brother you have lost, a son comes to you.  In my early youth, my mother taught me to love you.  That duty I shall be glad to discharge.”

“The very sound of his voice!” continued the old man, who still looked at him; “the very sparkle of his eye!  No painter could have made a more exact portrait.  May you, however, have a far different destiny.  Fatality weighs on the family of Vermondans.  May you, the only vigorous offshoot of that old race of soldiers, already stricken by misfortune, already an exile from your country, never learn, as your father and I did, how bitter is the bread of the stranger—­how difficult it is to go up and down the stranger’s staircase.  But what do I say?  You are in another father’s house.  You come to it like a long-expected child, and you meet with two sisters.”  Then going toward the door of another room, he said, “Ebba, Alete, come to welcome your cousin.”