The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 01, No. 06, April, 1858

While Clarice was thus unfolding to this loveliness through love, Bondo Emmins suddenly saw her as if for the first time. The vision was to him as surprising as if the ring had indeed a power of enchantment, and it had been thrown around him. He was as active and as resolute in attempting to persuade himself that all this was nothing to him as he was active and resolute in other endeavors,—but he was not as successful as he supposed he should be. For it was not enough that Emmins should laugh at himself, and say that the pretty couple were meant for each other. Now and then, by accident, he obtained a glimpse of Clarice's happy heart; the pearl-like secret of their love, which was none the less a secret because everybody knew that Luke and Clarice were to be married some day, would sometimes of itself unexpectedly give some token, which he, it seemed, could better appreciate than any one beside the parties concerned. When some such glimpse was obtained, some such token received, Bondo Emmins would retire within himself to a most gloomy seclusion; there was a world which had been conquered, and therein he had no foothold. If Clarice wore the pearl in her bosom, on Luke's head was a crown, and Bondo Emmins just hated him for that.

But he never thought of a very easy method by which he might have escaped the trouble of his jealousy. The great highway of ocean was open before him, and millions of men beside Luke Merlyn were in the world, millions of women beside Clarice Briton. No! Diver's Bay,—and a score of people,—and a thought that smelt like brimstone, and fiery enough to burn through the soul that tried to keep it,—this for him;—fishing,—making bargains,—visiting at Old Briton's,—making presents to the dame,—telling stories, singing songs by that fireside, and growing quieter by every other,—that was the way he did it;—cured himself of jealousy? No! made himself a fool.

Old Briton liked this young man; he could appreciate his excellences even better than he could those of Luke; there were some points of resemblance between them. Emmins was as careless of money, as indifferent to growing rich, as Briton ever was; the virtues of the youth were not such as ever reproached the vices of the veteran. They could make boisterous merriment in each other's company. Briton's praise was never lacking when Bondo's name was mentioned. He accepted service of the youth, and the two were half the time working in partnership. In the cabin he had always a welcome, and Dame Briton gave him her entire confidence.

Luke did not fear, he had once admired the man; and because he was a peace-maker by nature, and could himself keep the peace, he never took any of Bondo's scathing speech in anger nor remembered it against him. Usually he joined in the laugh, unless some brave, manly word were required; honorable in his nature, he could not be always jealous in maintaining that of which he felt so secure.

If Clarice did not penetrate the cause, she clearly saw the fact that Bondo Emmins had no love for Luke. She might wonder at it, but Luke suffered no loss in consequence,—it was rather to his praise, she thought, that this was so. And she remembered the disputes between the young men which she had chanced to hear, only to decide again, as she had often decided, in favor of Luke's justice and truth.

When the time of great trouble came, and this man was going out with her father in search of Merlyn and his son, her impulse, had she acted on it, would have prevented him. He looked so strong, so proud, in spite of his solemn face! He looked so full of life, she could not endure to think that his eyes might discover the dead body of poor Luke.

When she came home and found that he had returned with her father, before her, on the evening of that day of vain search for Merlyn and his son, a strange satisfaction came to Clarice for a moment,—touched her heart and passed,—was gone as it came. When she said, "I shall find him," conviction, as well as determination, was in the words,—and more beside than entered the ears of those that heard her.

[To be continued.]

THE STORY OF KARIN

A DANISH LEGEND

Karin the fair, Karin the gay,
She came on the morn of her bridal day,—

She came to the mill-pond clear and bright,
And viewed hersel' in the morning light.

"And oh," she cried, "that my bonny brow
May ever be white and smooth as now!

"And oh, my hair, that I love to braid,
Be yellow in sunshine, and brown in shade!

"And oh, my waist, sae slender and fine,
May it never need girdle longer than mine!"

She lingered and laughed o'er the waters clear,
When sudden she starts, and shrieks in fear:—

"Oh, what is this face, sae laidly old,
That looks at my side in the waters cold?"

She turns around to view the bank,
And the osier willows dark and dank;—

And from the fern she sees arise
An aged crone wi' awsome eyes,

"Ha! ha!" she laughed, "ye're a bonny bride!
See how ye'll fare gin the New Year tide!

"Ye'll wear a robe sae blithely gran',
An ell-long girdle canna span.

"When twal-months three shall pass away,
Your berry-brown hair shall be streaked wi' gray.

"And gin ye be mither of bairnies nine,
Your brow shall be wrinkled and dark as mine."

Karin she sprang to her feet wi' speed,
And clapped her hands abune her head:—

"I pray to the saints and spirits all
That never a child may me mither call!"

The crone drew near, and the crone she spake:—
"Nine times flesh and banes shall ache.

"Laidly and awsome ye shall wane
Wi' toil, and care, and travail-pain."

"Better," said Karin, "lay me low,
And sink for aye in the water's flow!"

The crone raised her withered hand on high,
And showed her a tree that stood hard by.

"And take of the bonny fruit," she said,
"And eat till the seeds are dark and red.

"Count them less, or count them more,
Nine times you shall number o'er;—

"And when each number you shall speak,
Cast seed by seed into the lake."

Karin she ate of the fruit sae fine;
'Twas mellow as sand, and sweet as brine.

Seed by seed she let them fall;
The waters rippled over all.

But ilka seed as Karin threw,
Uprose a bubble to her view,—

Uprose a sigh from out the lake,
As though a baby's heart did break.

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