Without replying, Magde hastily opened a clothes press, and produced an old compass box, from which she took a handful of withered clover leaves.

“See here,” said she.

“And do these not convince you?” inquired Ragnar.

In this old box, Magde preserved, so to speak, the tokens of her wedded joys.  From the first year of her marriage, she, whenever her husband was absent, would seek in the meadow for four-leaved clovers, under the conviction that so long as she continued to find them, she might rely upon the continued love and fidelity of her husband.  And she was invariably successful, and each year she deposited the clover leaves in the old compass box.  As Ragnar uttered his last question, Magde cast herself upon his breast, and gazed tenderly into his face.

“O don’t look at me too closely, to-morrow I will look better, after I am washed and dressed,” said Ragnar, arranging his shirt bosom, and smoothing down his jacket collar.

“You are so good already, that if you should be better it would be dangerous; but Ragnar, you have forgotten to measure the children to see how much they have grown since your departure.  You used to do that as soon as you entered the house after a return from a long voyage.”

“This time,” replied Ragnar, “you greeted me with such strange news that I quite forgot all my usual habits.  It grieves me to observe that Carl is upon the verge of the grave.  True, he was ill last winter; but he soon recovered.”

“He exerted himself too much during our troubles,” said Magde, “then he has taken no care of himself, and then—­yes, yes, there is something very strange about Carl.”

“What do you mean by strange, Magde?” inquired her husband.  “Do you think that he is really insane?”

“Oh no, I did not mean that; but—­”

“Speak on, speak your mind.”

“Now, do not laugh at my fancy—­or be vexed with poor Carl.  I think that—­he loves me too much, and his passion has weighed heavily upon him, although he does not, himself, understand it.”

“Your words are worthy of reflection, Magde; now I remember, his conduct did appear peculiar when he said he envied me the privilege of kissing you.  Poor fellow, how could I be vexed with him?  He, probably, never desired to vex either you or myself.”

“Never.  Frequently during the summer I have placed flowers in his room, and in them he took his greatest delight.  Even now he loves to hear me sing to him, or to read a chapter in the Bible, above all other things.”

“Such love,” said Ragnar, “is a beautiful rose, the perfume of which cheers a drooping spirit.  He may continue his love; it will sustain him in his last trial.  Hereafter, I will not even take your hand in his presence.”

“How kind you are, dear Ragnar.  Now I can be to him as I was before your return.”  Magde wiped the tears from her long eyelashes, and before Ragnar could question her, she continued:  “You may depend upon my fidelity.  I only wish to afford him a slight ray of joy while he is still on earth.  Without me he stands alone.”