Throughout the entire building the marks of poverty were plainly evident; but at the same time each object presented a tidy and cleanly appearance and although the cottage lacked many luxuries, still comfort seemed to reign supreme.  The rush covered floor; the table, polished to brightness; and the flower vases, filled with odorous boquets of lilacs, the neat window curtains, the handicraft of Nanna, the crimson sofa curtain, embroidered by the thrifty Magde, all combined, proved that the inmates of the cottage, had not only the taste, but also the inclination to render home pleasant even under the most adverse circumstances.

* * * * *

At the time that Nanna had started forth as a guide to the youthful stranger, old Mr. Lonner was seated near the side of his bed in his private apartment.  Although weighed down by age and the grief that had oppressed his early life, he nevertheless possessed that gentleness and sociability, which had ever been the characteristic traits of his life.  His flowing white locks fell around his countenance, from which the traces of manly beauty had not been entirely eradicated, and as he smoked his pipe with an air of dignified pleasure, he would occasionally glance towards a young matron, who, seated in a large arm chair, was reading aloud a letter to him.

The letter bore the postmark of Goteborg, and was written by the old man’s eldest son, Ragnar Lonner, the husband of the matron.  He was mate of a trading vessel, and three months before had bidden farewell to his wife and family.  As she continued reading the letter, three children who had been playing, commenced a little dispute about the proprietorship of a large apple.  In an opposite corner Carl had stationed himself.  He was a full grown youth with a face bearing an expression of mingled silliness and wisdom.—­As he glanced from under his long hair, first at the bed-quilt, then at the quarrelling children, he paid close attention to all that his sister-in-law was reading aloud.  Carl was not the simpleton people considered him, although his highest ambition appeared to consist in erecting dirt houses and making mud-pies.

“Magde,” said the old man, casting a glance of affection upon the vivacious Magdalena.  “You had better read that letter again.  Ragnar is a son who has his heart in the right place.”

“And a husband too!” added Magde, and a flush of joyful pride overspread her blooming cheeks.

“Yes, and a brother also; read the letter once more, it will be none the less pleasant to read it a third time when Nanna returns.”

Magde, who had not refolded the letter, commenced reading again, and her voice trembled with pride and emotion as she read as follows:—­

     “Beloved Magde: