The Golden House

One morning, early in February, Nono had gone out early to "the watch-house," and had removed the curtain, as the sheet was respectfully called. The family had finished their breakfast, and were just breaking up to set off in different directions, when there was a sound of sleigh-bells stopping at the gate.

The colonel and a gentleman who was staying at Ekero had started out for a morning drive, "Shall we pass near the post-office?" said the gentleman, taking a letter from his pocket. "I forgot to say before we left the house that I had a letter I was anxious to have mailed at once. It is my wife's name-day, and I want her to get a few words from me."

"We shall not pass the post-office," said the colonel, "but I can get a trusty messenger here;" and the coachman drew up at once at the cottage.

The gentleman started, and the colonel sprang to his feet in surprise.

"How wonderful! so like her! I almost thought I had seen a spectre!" said the stranger. "And her name-day, too. My wife was named after the princess."

Yes! There stood the princess in white garments, seemingly coming forward, her figure gracefully bowed, as it was in life, as if by a loving, unconscious desire of the heart to draw near to all who approached her. A fleecy shawl seemed to lie lightly over her shoulders. Snow-white coils of hair crowned her head, and her fair face had a pure sweetness of its own.

"It is wonderfully like her!" said the stranger.

The family from the cottage now came out, Nono leading Karin, who had all the while been in the secret, and the rest eagerly following.

"Is this your work, Nono?" said the colonel.

Nono modestly bowed, and murmured an answer, while his eyes glowed as if they were on fire.

The sound of little Decima sobbing broke in on the conversation. "That is a cold white princess!" she said. "She can't take me on her knee and tell me pretty stories. I don't like the cold white princess!"

Jan took Decima in his arms, while the colonel said pleasantly: "But we like her, Decima; and we loved the princess, both of us; and this gentleman's wife has her name; and he has written a letter to her that we want taken to the post-office at once, that she may get it on her name-day. – Can you go, Nono?"

Nono was glad to spring away with the letter, full of happy thoughts – that every one knew that it was the princess, his dear snow princess, that he had made with his own hands! The gentlemen liked it, too!

While Nono was joyously bounding along the road to the village, the group round the statue could not get through admiring it.

"He's a wonder, that boy!" said Karin, as she went into the cottage. "That he should come to me to bring up, when I can't cut out a gingerbread baby so that it looks like anything!"

"God knows why he sent him to you, Karin," said Pelle, "and God will know what to do with him in the time that is coming. He is a wonderful boy, that is sure!"

While the simple people at the golden house were talking in this way about Nono, the colonel and his guest had driven away. The stranger had promised to come in the afternoon and take a photograph of the snow statue, and of Nono too, the very best he could get, and of the whole family group just as he had seen them.

As the gentlemen drove on together they talked of the princess, beloved by rich and poor, and of the visitor's wife, one of the pure in heart worthy to bear the name of her honoured friend.

Nono, too, was the subject of conversation. His whole story was told, and listened to with intense interest. It was agreed that Nono should, with Karin's permission, come for some hours every day to Ekero to wait upon the stranger, who was a sculptor, and was making a marble bust of the colonel's wife from the various likenesses of her, assisted by her husband's vivid descriptions of her ever-remembered face and her person and character.

"I must know that boy, and take him to Italy with me in the spring if I can," said the sculptor. "There is an artist in him, I am sure, and it will only be a pleasure to train him."

When, later, Pelle heard the plan that was proposed, he said quickly, —

"Those artist fellows are not always the best to be trusted with the care of a boy. It would be better for Nono to work in the fields, with good Jan to look after him, than to make figures in a far country under the greatest gentleman in the world who was not a good man."

Karin looked relieved, and turned to hear what Jan would say on the subject; for, after all, in important matters it was always Jan who decided.

"The colonel said, when he talked to me" – and here Jan paused and looked about him. He did not object to having it understood that the colonel considered him the head of the family, a fact which Jan himself sometimes doubted – "the colonel said," he continued, "that artist was a Christian man, and he had a wife just fit to be called, as she was, after the princess, and he couldn't say any more. And he didn't need to! They haven't any children of their own, so she just goes where he goes, everywhere, and she's the kind of a woman to be the making of Nono, such a boy as he is. Nono will go with him in the spring; I have made up my mind on that matter."

Karin began to cry. "To bring him up, and such a nice boy as he is, and such a wonderful boy, too; and to love him so, and then have to give him to people who hardly know him at all!" and Karin fairly sobbed.

"You are partial to Nono, Karin," said Jan sternly. He never held back a rebuke for Karin when he thought she deserved it. "You never took on so when your own boys went away, three of them, over the sea."

"Our boys are our boys," said Karin, "and that makes a difference. They can't belong to anybody else. I should be their own mother, and they'd feel it, and so should I, if they lived in the moon. But Nono, off there, he may find his own father and mother and never come back. They may be tramping kind of people. Most likely they are, and there's no knowing what ways they might teach him. They have a right to him and I haven't. That's what I feel. I love him just like my own. He wouldn't turn the cold shoulder to his own father and mother if they were poor as poverty or just fit for a prison, I know that. It wouldn't be in him. Not that I think he would forget me. It would be a shame to say it, such a good child as he has always been to me!"

Jan put his hand on Karin's shoulder and looked helplessly at her, as he generally did when she had a flood of tears and a flood of talk at the same time.

Pelle came to the rescue, as he had often done before. "Karin wants to be Providence," he said. "She wants to take things into her own hands. That's the way with women, especially mothers. There was my mother, when I was a sailor, almost sure I would go to the bad; but God just lays me up in a hospital, and turns me square round, and sets my face to the better country. I just went home, and made up my mind to stay by my mother, and do for her as long as she lived; and I did, God bless her! It is good sense, Karin, to let the Lord manage his own way. Your way might not turn out the best after all."

"Yes, I know it," said Karin, wiping her eyes. "But things do come so unexpected in this world, one can't ever be ready for them."

"Just take one day at a time, Karin, and don't bother about what's coming," said Pelle. "We can't any of us say what is to become of Nono, not even Jan, who is so clear in his mind. We don't any of us know what to-morrow may bring. He'll have just what the Lord has planned for him. Women are better at bringing up 'critters' than driving them when they are brought up. They are about the same with boys. Mothers should bring up their boys right, and then let the Lord do what he pleases with them afterwards. Isn't it so, Karin?"

"Yes – maybe – I do suppose you are right, Pelle, and I'll try to remember it. But a man don't know how a woman feels."

"It's well they don't," said Jan curtly. "It wouldn't have suited what I've had to do in life to be like them. Karin's heart is bigger than her head; but things have worked well here so far, and it's likely it will be so to the end," and Jan looked kindly after Karin as she went off to feed the chickens, with Decima in her train, evidently thinking her mother was the injured party.

At the bottom of his heart Jan was convinced that he had about the best wife in the world.

CHAPTER XIX.

PIETRO

The statue of the princess had long since passed away, and the thoughts of the pleasant scenes around it had melted into the cheerful memories of the past. In the cottage there were ever the photographs of the beautiful white figure and of the family group, and under them an almost perfect likeness of Nono.

The real Nono was far away in the land of his forefathers. He was sorely missed in the home where he had been so tenderly cared for. Blackie was, as usual, wearing deep mourning, though he showed no emotional signs of feeling the absence of his master. Blackie, like many a precocious two-legged creature, had not developed into the wonder that was expected. Example and daily association had made him more and more like his fellows; and Nono had not been long away from the golden house before Jan began to talk about the little black pig as the pork of the future.

Karin had supposed that the parting with Nono would be like the parting with her other boys – a separation only lightened by letters coming rarely, merely to tell that the absentees were well and doing famously. With Nono it was quite otherwise. The letters from him came weekly, almost as regularly as Sunday itself. And such letters as they were, written so clearly, and containing such a particular account of his doings, and, what Karin prized more, warm expressions of grateful affection for the dear friends "at home," as he still called the golden house, though it was plain that the once houseless little Italian had now two homes.

Nono wrote that the artist's wife treated him as if he were her own son, and was teaching him carefully everything that would help him to understand all that was about him. Object lessons they seemed to be, with wonderful Rome for the great "kindergarten." He was learning Italian too, and that he thought charming. As for his work in the studio, it was only a pleasure, excepting that he was impatient for the time when he could make beautiful things himself. When he had walked in the streets at first, he had thought all the boys might at least have been his cousins, and some of them made him feel as if he were looking in the glass. Now and then he would meet a man that he felt sure must be his father, but he did not often dare to speak to such strangers. He had hoped and believed he should find his father in Italy, but now he was sure it would be harder to know him there than in Sweden. He had almost given up thinking about it lately, he had so much to do and so much to see, and everybody was so kind to him.

Karin did not feel that Nono was drifting away from her, though he wrote so openly and affectionately of his new friends. His thankful remembrance of all the love and care he had had at the cottage was expressed in every letter, and a deeper gratitude for the kind instruction that had taught him from his childhood to love his heavenly Father, and to try to obey his holy laws.

Alma missed Nono, it was true, for she had really grown fond of the little friendly boy while he had been an inmate at Ekero; but she had a new deep content in the pleasure she was learning to find in the society of her brother. Together they were struggling heavenward, and were daily a help and joy to each other.

Alma was walking on the veranda one morning in early summer, when she saw what she thought two tramps approaching. She had no liking for such wanderers, and turned to go into the house. At that moment she caught sight of the worn face of the older man, and stood still. He looked so gentle, and yet so weary and weak, as he clung to the arm of his younger companion. They were not dressed like Italians, nor like any style of persons in particular, for their costume was evidently made up of cast-off garments that had seen better days. Their faces, though, were dark and thin, and there was a southern fire in the eyes of the younger man as he said at once in tolerable Swedish, "Pietro here is tired. He cannot get any further, miss. I told him he could not hold out for this trip, but come he would, and I had to let him. Perhaps he could sit down somewhere a few moments and get a glass of milk or something like that."

"He looks very tired," said Alma. "Go that way to the kitchen, and I will see that you have something to eat."

The colonel, hearing voices, came out at the moment. He saw at once that the men were Italians, and addressed them in their own language. The eyes of the one who had spoken flashed with pleasure, and a light came into the face of his companion, who now said in Italian, "I have been very ill. It is too cold for me up here. No summer, no summer! The north killed my wife long ago, and I suppose it has killed me. I knew this man when I was here before. I only met him again yesterday. He knows where the house is I want to find. I left my boy there, a baby, and I want to know if he is alive. It was Francesca's baby, and she loved it before she went wrong," and he touched his forehead significantly.

The colonel looked meaningly at Alma, whose eyes were wide with intense interest, for she had understood enough to follow the conversation.

The colonel took the hand of the old man kindly, and said, —

"You must rest here a little, and then we will talk together."

When Pietro was refreshed by rest and food the colonel sat down beside him, and told him all about the happy life Nono had had at the cottage, and how he had made the snow statue of the princess, and was now far away in Italy, learning to be perhaps a great sculptor himself.

The tears rolled slowly down the old man's cheeks as he listened. "It is good to hear, Enricho," he murmured, addressing his companion; "but I am too late, as you see."

"Can't we keep him here, and take care of him? He is our Nono's father, of course, papa," said Alma, much moved.

Alma had truly received into the inner chamber of her heart the heavenly Guest, and she was eager to share all with his humbler brethren.

"Where shall we put him?" said the colonel thoughtfully.

"In the little room in the wing, where the painters slept last summer," answered Alma promptly. "I will see that it is all nice for him. He looks so sick and tired. I am sure Marie will do her best for him, she was so fond of Nono. And, dear papa, we can use my money for him. I have ever so much still left in my little cottage. Let me, please, papa!"

The colonel gazed lovingly at Alma as he said, —

"Now you look so like your dear mother. It is just what she would have said. Certainly we will keep him here."

Enricho was only too glad to leave Pietro in the pleasant quarters that were prepared for him before evening. When the weary old man lay down in his comfortable bed, with everything neat and clean about him, he felt as if he were in some strange, blissful dream. He was not to see his boy; but how lovingly they had spoken of him!

Karin cried like a child when she heard that Nono's poor father had appeared; the very man she had dreaded to think of, who might come at any time to carry off the boy who was as dear to her as her own children. How she wished she could speak the poor father's language, and tell him what Nono had been to her! Later, she did try to make him understand it all, not only by broken Swedish words and signs, but with Frans sometimes as a translator. Mr. Frans had been studying Italian with his father, and was glad himself to talk about Nono.

Pietro, broken down by hardship and illness, and thin and worn, seemed older than he really was. Pelle and Pietro were soon good friends. It was a precious time for Frans when he translated the conversation between these two veterans from life's battles – the one defeated, wounded, near his death; the other humble, yet triumphant, victorious, and soon to be summoned to the court of his King for a more than abundant reward.

"I am not fit to be the father of a boy like Nono," said Pietro one day – "not fit to be his father."

Pietro's old superstitious confidence in the religion of his country had passed into a dull unbelief in all that was sacred. He had a disease which Pelle found he could not reach.

Then the colonel came and sat day by day in Pietro's room, and talked to the poor Italian out of the fulness of his heart as he had never talked to a human being before. There, in that small room, the colonel won a victory greater than the triumphs of war. There he won a soul for the heavenly King! The colonel, by nature so self-controlled, so reticent, was moved to warmth and tender tears as Pietro grasped his hand and thanked him for opening the way for his soul to the real knowledge of God and holiness and peace.

It was the first human being that the colonel had led in the way of life, and Pietro was a precious treasure to him.

Alma insisted upon being responsible for every expense that was incurred for Pietro. She could do nothing more for him but remember him in her prayers. The fair, slight girl, with the kindly look in her dear blue eyes, seemed to him a thing quite apart from his life, something he could not understand – that could not understand him.

The time would come when Alma, now walking tremblingly herself in the way of life, would be strong to help the weak and struggling, and lead the wanderers gently home.

CHAPTER XX.

THE OPENED DOOR

The sweet bells of Aneholm Church were cheerily ringing. The sunshine shed a quiet gladness over the smooth meadows, and even the moist, dark evergreens of the distant woods glittered in the clear light.

Within the church, garlands of birch leaves hung here and there on the white walls and festooned the carved pulpit. Green wreaths crowned the golden angels that supported, each with one lifted hand, the sculptured altar-piece; while in the other, outstretched, they loosely held wild flowers, as if ready to strew them in the paths of the pilgrims bound heavenward. The still marble figures that had so long sat watchers beside the effigies on the great monuments of the honoured dead wore now on their brows blue circlets of corn-flowers, as if to tell for to-day of glad resurrection rather than of the dark tomb.

Tiny floral processions seemed passing in long lines along the tops of the simple wooden seats for the congregation; for the sconces that had held the lights for many a service on a winter morning or evening were now filled with bouquets, placed there by the children who had the day before been confirmed in the quiet sanctuary. The flowers, like the children, were from the rich man's garden or from the woods and meadows – here choice roses or glowing verbenas, there buttercups and daisies.

To-day the newly confirmed, "the children of the Lord's Supper," were to "come forward" for the first time to the holy communion.

The colonel generally walked to church with Alma and Frans, but this morning the carriage had been ordered for him. A friend was to be with him who was not strong enough to go on foot to the service. The doctor, who was carefully watching over Pietro, had said that it would not be at all dangerous for him to have his desire gratified – to take the holy communion at the sacred altar. His days were plainly numbered; it but remained to make his decline as full as possible of joy and peace.

The poor old fellow was pleased to wear his fresh homely suit and the broad-brimmed hat that reminded him so pleasantly of home. The congregation were already assembled when the two entered – Pietro leaning heavily on the arm of the colonel, who gently led him to the corner of the pew that had been comfortably prepared for him.

The preliminary service over, the children recently confirmed went forward first to the communion, circling the chancel in solemn stillness, while the prayers of the congregation went up for the young disciples. Then came the elders to the holy table. Old Pelle and Pietro knelt side by side, the latter staying himself by one hand on the colonel's shoulder, as if he had been a brother. The Italian knew nothing of the pride and stiffness of the early days of his friend. The colonel was but to him the loving guide who had led him to the heavenly kingdom. Their paths were soon to separate. Pietro was to be summoned upward; the colonel was to linger and labour, and perhaps suffer before he entered into rest.

The future lay uncertain before the dwellers at Ekero and the golden house, but they had nought to fear. They had opened the guest-chamber of their hearts to the heavenly Visitant, and they would henceforward be blessed by his continual presence.

And Nono, who had so early admitted the sacred Friend? He did not see his father on earth, but he had the glad hope of meeting him in the true home above. Nono was to "make beautiful things," and had the beautiful life of all who follow Him who is the spring and source of beauty and purity and love.

"Behold, I stand at the door and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me."

"If a man love me, he will keep my words: and my Father will love him, and we will come unto him, and make our abode with him."

"Be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of glory shall come in."

THE END