Two young girls entered immediately.  One of them was lively and active, with black eyes and a ruddy complexion; the other pale, fair, and delicate.  The first gave her hand gaily to Ireneus, and kissed him on both cheeks; the other advanced timidly, and with downcast eyes, leaning her brow forward to be kissed.

“My dear cousins,” said Ireneus, “my mother would have been delighted, as I am, to have seen you; but being unable to make this long journey in Sweden, has sent you at least a token of her affection.”  As he spoke, he took from his pocket a little morocco box, which the agile Alete took and opened with eagerness.

“What pretty ear-rings!” said she; “what a charming ring!  See that little blue cross, and the bracelet set with emeralds.  Such jewels are made only in Paris.  Come look at them, Ebba!”

During all this time, Ebba stood aside motionless and silent.  She then approached the table on which her sister had displayed the jewels, and looked at them without speaking.

“Is not this pretty?” said Alete.  “We must divide them; and as I have a lover who will make it a point of honor to give me as many ornaments as my whim dictates and his fortune will permit, I wish you to take the larger part.”

“No,” said Ebba, with a voice soft as that of a child, “as you are about to be married you should have all as a wedding present.  If you will however let me keep this little cross, I shall be very grateful.”

Alete, who under the mask of frivolity concealed a tender and delicate heart, sought in vain to overcome the modesty of her sister; and finally, with much reluctance, received three-quarters of the jewel-case.

“Now, young ladies,” said their father, who had been an observer of this contest of generosity, “remember that your cousin has made a long journey.  See if his room is in order and if supper is ready; for when one has passed the whole day in crossing our snow-plains, some comfort is required.”

“They are good and affectionate children,” continued the father, when they had gone out.  “The eldest is a gipsy who delights me with her gayety; the youngest often moves me even to tears.  Her mother died in giving birth to her.  The poor girl seems constantly under the influence of the misfortune which presided over her birth.

“None of the things in which girls of her age delight, please or excite her.  Her silent and retiring life, seems one long act of resignation.  She finds interest in story and books alone.  She has learned three or four languages, and read all the books either here or at the parsonage.  When, however, she is in society, one would fancy her a very ignorant person, so little does she say and so anxious does she appear to conceal her information.  Her modesty is disturbed by no vanity, and the placidity of her meditations is interrupted by no vulgar commotion.  One might almost fancy her a stranger to this world, indifferent to its calculations, lost to its joys, and submitting without effort to its sorrows.  I have never seen her smile, but I have never heard her complain.  Delicate and weak, the paleness of her face, the languor of her appearance, betray a physical suffering she herself denies.