196 THE GIRL WHO TROD ON THE LOAF.

her name pronounced once more, and saw two bright stars that
seemed gleaming above her. They were two gentle eyes closing
upon earth. So many years had gone by since the little girl had
been inconsolable and wept about “ poor Ingé,” that the child
had become an oid woman, and was now to be called home to
heaven ; and in the last hour of existence, when the events of the
whole life stand at once before us, the old woman remembered
how as a child she had cried heartily at the story of Ingé.

And the eyes of the old woman closed, and the eye of her soul
was opened to look upon the hidden things. She, in whose last
thoughts Ingé had been present so vividly, saw how deeply the
poor girl had sunk, and burst into tears at the sight; in heaven
she stood like a child, and wept for poor Ingé. And her tears
and prayers sounded like an echo in the dark empty space that
surrounded the tormented captive soul, and the unhoped-for love
from above conquered her, for an angel was weeping for her.
Why was this vouchsafed to her? The tormented soul seemed
to gather in her thoughts every deed she had done on earth, and
she, Ingé, trembled and wept such tears as she had never yet
wept. She was filled with sorrow about herself: it seemed as
though the gate of mercy could never open to her; and while in
deep penitence she acknowledged this, a beam of light shot radi-
antly down into the depths to her, with a greater force than that
of the sunbeam which melts the snow man the boys have built
up; and quicker than the snow-flake melts, and becomes a drop
of water that falls on the warm lips of a child, the stony form of
Ingé was changed to mist, and a little bird soared with the speed
of lightning upward into the world of men. But the bird was
timid and shy towards all things around; he was ashamed of
himself, ashamed to encounter any living thing, and hurriedly
sought to conceal himself in a dark hole in an old crumbling wall;
there he sat cowering, trembling through his whole frame, and
unable to utter a sound, for he had no voice. Long he sat there
before he could rightly see all the beauty around him; for it was
beautiful. The air was fresh and mild, the moon cast its mild
radiance over the earth; trees and bushes exhaled fragrance, and
it was right pleasant where he sat, and his coat of feathers was:
clean and pure. How all creation seemed to speak of beneficence
and love! The bird wanted to sing of the thoughts that stirred
in his breast, but he could not; gladly would he have sung as
the cuckoo and the nightingale sang in the Spring-time. But
Heaven, that hears the mute song of praise of the worm, could
hear the notes of praise which now trembled in the breast of the
bird, as David’s psalms were heard before they had fashioned
themselves into words and song.

For weeks thesc toneless songs stirred within the bird; at last
the holy Christmas-time approached. The peasant who dwelt
near set up a pole by the old wall, with some ears of corn bound