XII.

"Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature."—Mark 16:15.

Hr. Henrik Bogstad leaned back in his chair before the fire in great relief. He had just shown out a young man who was distributing religious tracts dealing with some "new-fangled religion" lately imported from America, that land of all new-fangled things. All the day, Hr. Bogstad had been adjusting some difficulties among his tenants, and that evening he was somewhat ill-humored. His treatment of the missionary, was, therefore, harsher than he was wont to treat either strangers or friends.

His conscience smote him a little as he thought of what the young American had said. He could find no fault with the religious doctrines advanced, but why should he be bothered with religion anyway? He had cares enough; for a great responsibility had come to him since he had been put in charge of the estate left by his father's death. Just now was the season of gaiety in Christiania, and here he was missing a good many things by his enforced visit to his country home.

After musing for some time, he got up and went to the window. Outside, the snow covered everything—the fields, the roads, the frozen lake and river. The houses were half hidden, and the pines on the hill bore up great banks of snow. From the window the view was beautiful in its solemn whiteness. From the white level of the distant frozen lake, broken patches of brown protruded. These were the islands on one of which Signe Dahl had lived. Henrik wondered what had become of her, and where in the big America she had taken up her abode. He had heard that she was well and happy, but further than that he had not set himself to learn. Long ago he had put behind him philosophically his affair with Signe. He had ceased to think of her as anything more than a sweet, yet strange girl who could resist such an offer as he had extended to her.

As Henrik was looking out of the window, he saw the young stranger who had visited him less then an hour ago, returning down the road. Just as he was about to pass, Henrik hailed him and asked him to come in again, meeting him at the door.

"Come in," he said; "I want to talk with you."

The missionary placed his grip on a chair and seated himself on another.

"I was somewhat cross with you when you called," said Henrik. "I don't want you to think that I am rude, especially to strangers."

"I was not the least offended," smiled the other.

"I'm glad to hear it. Now I want you to tell me something about America. I've never been there, though I expect to go some day. I have some friends and a good many relatives over there. From what part do you come?"

"I am from Wyoming."

"That's away out west, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Two uncles of mine live in Minnesota, but that's a long way from Wyoming. Where are you staying here, for the night?"

"I am a traveling minister of the gospel and I stay wherever there is an opportunity."

"Then you'll stay with me tonight. I am not much on religion, but if you will mix a little information about America with your preaching, I shall be pleased to listen to you."

These conditions were easily agreed to. So, after a good supper, the two young men seated themselves comfortably by the shaded lamp on the library table. The missionary spread out his book of views and explained each of the pictures. He told of the great stretch of arid land in western America, of the ranches, of the high mountains, of the fertile valleys made fruitful by irrigation, and of the wonders of the great Salt Lake.

"This is the Temple."

"Yes; and what is that for?"

The purposes of temples were explained.

"You say you baptize for the dead?" enquired Henrik, "How is that?"

"Well, as I was telling you when I called on you some time ago—"

"Pardon me, but I must confess that I did not pay enough attention to what you said to remember. I was thinking about those quarreling tenants of mine. Tell me again."

The other smiled good-naturedly, and did as he was asked. Henrik listened this time, and was indeed interested, asking a good many questions.

"Now, about the Temple," continued the missionary—"we believe that every soul that has ever lived on the earth, that is living now, or that will ever live must have the privilege of hearing this gospel of Jesus Christ. There is only one name given under heaven by which men may be saved, and every creature must hear that name. Now, the great majority of the human race has never heard the gospel; in fact, will not hear it in this life."

"Where, then, can they hear it?"

"In the great spirit world. Christ, when He was put to death went and preached to the spirits in prison—those who were disobedient in the days of Noah and were destroyed in the flood; and no doubt the saving power of Christ has been proclaimed in that spirit world ever since. Among those who hear, many will believe. They have faith, they repent of their sins, but they can not be baptized in water for the remission of their sins."

"No; of course not."

"And yet Christ definitely said that unless a man is born again of water and of the spirit he cannot enter into the kingdom of God. What is to be done?"

The listener, leaning over the table, merely shook his head.

"Paul speaks in I Cor. 15:29 of some who were baptized for the dead—and that is a correct principle. The living may be baptized for the dead, so that those who have left this world may receive the gospel in the spirit world and have the birth of the water done for them vicariously by someone in the flesh."

"This is strange doctrine."

"Temples are used for these baptisms. The Latter-day Saints are busy tracing back as far as possible their lines of ancestry, and then they are going into their temples—for they have already four of them—and are doing this work for their dead. In this way is being fulfilled Malachi's prediction that Elijah the Prophet should come before the great and dreadful day of the Lord, 'and He shall turn the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers,' lest the Lord come and smite the earth with a curse. You will find this in the last chapter of the Old Testament."

The lamp burned late into the night as these two men sat by it talking; and the conversation was not, as one of them had planned, for the most part about the land of America and its material opportunities.

"Whosoever he be of you that forsaketh not all that he hath, he cannot be my disciple."—Luke 14:33.

"I cannot understand him," Frue Bogstad was saying. "His actions are so strange."

"It's simply wicked of him," added Froken Selma Bogstad. "He is bringing the whole family into disrepute."

The mother did not reply, but turned her face thoughtfully away from the angry daughter.

"The boy is completely carried away with this American religion," continued the girl, pacing nervously back and forth in the room. "Pastor Tonset called to see him the other day, and you ought to have heard them! The pastor, as our friend, came to advise him; but do you think Henrik would take any advice? Why, he even argued with the pastor, saying that he could prove the truth of this religion from the Scriptures."

"Has he talked to you about it?"

"Yes; and he wanted me to accompany him to Osterhausgaden where these people hold meetings. I told him definitely and forcibly that I didn't want him to mention religion to me."

"He seems to be in such deep earnest."

"And that's the pity of it. It does no good to talk to him. He takes it for granted that he should be persecuted. I believe he is ready to give up everything for this creed that has him in its grasp."

A violent ringing of the bell brought Selma to the door. It was Henrik, who had forgotten his latch key. He hung up his hat, wiped the perspiration from his face, for it was a warm evening; then he said cheerily:

"Spring is coming; I feel it in the air. I'll be glad to get out to Nordal—there is so much to do this summer—"

"Young man," interrupted the sister, "we have been talking about you."

"About my wickedness, I suppose."

"About your foolishness. It isn't very pleasant for us—what you're doing."

"What am I doing? That which is unkind to you, mother?" He placed his arms lovingly around her shoulders, but she sat without replying, her face in her handkerchief. He turned to Selma.

"What have I done?" he asked. "Do I drink? Do I gamble? Do I steal? Do I lie? Do I profane? Do I treat any of you unkindly? Am I disrespectful to my mother or my sister?"

"You associate with a people known everywhere as the scum of the earth," snapped the sister, as she stood in front of him. "You are disgracing us—the whole Bogstad family—you—but what's the use of talking to you."

"Not a bit of use that way, dear sister. Suppose you answer some of my questions. You accuse, but never bring proof. You would rather believe uninformed people than me. You accept hearsay, but will not listen to the truth I wish to tell you. I have asked you to point out some of the bad things taught by the Latter-day Saints, but so far you have never tried. I have invited you to go with me—"

"Do you think I would thus disgrace myself to appear in their meetings!"

"You will not even read a simple tract; you close your eyes and ears. You push God from you when you say that He does not reveal Himself any more; and so does Pastor Tonset and all his followers. Because I am willing to receive light, even though it comes from a 'sect everywhere spoken against,' I am a bad man. I tell you, my sister, and also you, my mother, I may be looked upon as a disgrace to the Bogstad family, but the time will come when you and all that family will thank the Lord that one member of the family heard the truth, and had courage enough to accept it!"

Selma walked to the door, and now passed out without replying. Henrik sat down by his mother, and the two continued to converse in low, quiet tones.

The mother's hair was white, the face pinched from much suffering, the hands shrunken. Selma's talk disturbed her, as did that of a score or more of interested relatives; but when she talked with Henrik alone she was at peace, and she listened quietly to what he told her. She was so old and weak and traditionated in the belief of her fathers that she could grasp but feebly the principles taught her by Henrik; but this she knew, that there was something in his tone and manner of speech that soothed her and drove away the resentment and hardness of heart left by the talk of others.

"You know, mother," Henrik was saying, "this restored gospel answers so many of life's perplexing questions. It is broad, full of common sense, and mercy. Father, as you well know, was not a religious man. When he died, Pastor Tonset gave it as his opinion that father was a lost soul—"

"Father was a good man."

"I know he was, mother; and to say that because he could not believe in the many inconsistencies taught as religious truths, he is everlastingly lost, doesn't appeal to me—never did. Father, as all of us, will continue to learn in the spirit world to which all must go; and when the time comes, he will, no doubt, see the truths of the gospel and accept them. And here is where the beauty of true religion comes in: it teaches that there is hope beyond the grave; that salvation is not limited to this life; that every soul will have a chance, either here or hereafter. You, mother, have worried over father's condition. Don't do it any more; he will be all right." He felt like adding that she had more reason to worry over the living, but he said no more.

Selma came in with the coffee, and no further discourse was had on religious topics. Although Henrik had quit using coffee with his meals, he occasionally sipped a little in the company of his mother. This evening he took the proffered cup from his sister, who soon withdrew again, and then Henrik and his mother continued their talk. It was along the lines of the old faith, grounded into them and their forefathers since Christianity had been "reformed" in their country. As a boy, Henrik had not been religious, as that term was understood by his people, but nevertheless he had in him a strain of true devotion which the message of the American missionary had aroused. However, this revival within the young man did not meet with the favor of his friends, and he was looked upon as having come under the influence of some evil, heretical power, much to their regret.

"Marie is here," announced Selma from the door.

Henrik arose. "Where is she? I did not know she was in town."

"She is in the east room."

"Tell her to come in."

"She says she wants to see you alone."

"All right. Good night then, mother. Pleasant dreams to you."

Henrik found Marie sitting by the open window looking over the tops of the shrubbery in the garden. The light from the setting sun bathed her in its glow, increasing the beauty of an already beautiful face. Henrik stepped up behind the girl and placed his hands under her chin. She did not turn her head.

"This is a surprise," he said, "but I amsoglad to see you. Did you have a pleasant time at Skarpen?"

There was no reply. The young woman still surveyed the garden and the darkening shadows on the lawn.

"What is the matter, little girl?" he asked. He felt the trembling of her chin as she removed his hands.

"No," she replied, "I did not have a good time."

"I'm sorry. What was wrong?"

"You were not there—you were somewhere else, where your heart is more than with me—you were, no doubt at Osterhausgade." She hardened her tone as she proceeded.

"Oh, I'm not there all the time," he laughed.

"You think more of the people you meet there than you do of me, at any rate."

"What makes you think so?"

"You, and your actions. O, Henrik, could you but hear the talk—I hear it, and people look so strangely at me, and pity me ... I can't stand it!" She arose as if to escape him, walked across the room, then sat down by the center table. He closed the window blind, then lighted the gas, and seated himself opposite her by the table. There was a pause which she at last broke by saying:

"I hear that you are actually going to join those horrid people—is that true?"

There was another long silence as they looked at each other across the table.

"Yes," he said.

"Next week?"

"That was my intention—yes."

"And we were to be married next month?"

"Yes—"

"Well, I want to tell you, Henrik, that if you join those people the wedding day will have to be postponed."

"For how long?"

"For a long, long time."

"Well—I had thought to be baptized next week; but, of course, I can postpone it."

"For good, Henrik—say for good."

"No; I can't say that; for a little while—to please you, to let you think a little longer on the matter. I want you to choose deliberately, Marie. There need be no undue haste. I don't want you to make up your mind unalterably to reject me because of the step which I am going to take."

"I have already made up my mind."

"Marie!"

"You must choose between me or—"

"Don't say it, don't; you'll be sorry some day, if you do; for the less said, the less there is to retract."

Marie arose. "I'm not going to take anything back," she answered with forceful anger. "I thought you loved me, but—I—have been mistaken. I shall not annoy you longer. Good night."

He arose to follow her. "You need not come with me," she added. "I shall see Selma, and she will accompany me home—not you."

"Very well, Marie."

She turned at the door. "Will you not promise?"

"Promise what?"

"Not to do as you said—not to disgrace—"

"Marie, where the light shines, I must follow; where the truth beckons, I must go. I—"

With a low cry the girl turned and fled from the room.

"The Lord alone did lead him."—Deut. 32:12.

One beautiful summer evening, Henrik Bogstad was baptized in the waters of the Christiania fjord. After that, the truths of the gospel appeared clearer than ever, and still whisperings of the Spirit, to which he now had legal right, testified to his spirit that he was in the way of salvation, narrow and straight perhaps, but glowing with a light that comforted and cheered.

He told none of his family or friends of his baptism. They had already rejected him as far as they could, and they asked him no questions. His sister would hardly speak to him, and Marie cut him openly. His many uncles, aunts, and cousins were cold and unfeeling. His mother, though feeble, and sinking slowly, was the only one of his family that he could talk to. She seemed to understand and believe him. He felt that in spirit they were one, and he received great comfort from the thought.

About Midsummer the mother died. Then Henrik spent most of his time at Nordal. There was peace in the solitude of the pine-clad hills, there was comfort in the waving fields of grain and the clear-flowing streams. The lake spread out to his view from his window, and he gazed at its beauty, sometimes his mind wandering from the Dahl home on the island westward to unknown America. And America had a new meaning for him now. Before, it had been simply a new wonder-land, with untold possibilities in a material way; but added to this there was now the fact that in America the Latter-day Zion was to be built; there the people of God were gathering, were building temples, preparatory to the glorious coming of the Lord.

Henrik soon caught the spirit of gathering, but he quenched it as much as possible. His brethren in the gospel advised him to remain where he was and do his full duty to his sister and their interests. This he tried to do. He would not quarrel with Selma, but was exceedingly patient and considerate. He would "talk religion" with any of his friends who expressed a desire to do so, but he would not contend.

Henrik mingled more freely with his tenants at Nordal, and they soon became aware of a change in him. He gave them good treatment. Sometimes, there were Sunday services in the large parlor of the Bogstad residence, and the people were invited to attend. They turned out, it must be admitted, more because of Hr. Bogstad's invitation than because of any enthusiasm on their part.

Henrik, during this period of comparative loneliness, read much. He always carried a book in his pocket when out among the hills and fields, and many a moss-covered stone became his reading table. He had procured a number of English books which he delighted in, for they brought to him much that had not yet been printed in his own language.

After the harvesting was over that summer, Henrik directed his attention to another line of work, pointed out to him by the New Light. He gathered the genealogy of his forefathers. His was a large family, and when he searched the old church records at Nordal, at Christiania, and at a number of other places he found that the family was an old and prominent one, reaching back to the ancient Norsemen. He derived a peculiar satisfaction in this work, and he extended his researches until he had a large list of names on his mother's side as well as on his father's. "Among these there are many noble and true," thought Henrik. "Many will receive the gospel in the spirit world, and all will have the opportunity. I shall have the necessary earthly work done for them. If my labors for the living will not avail, my dead ancestors shall have their chance. Who knows but even now the gospel is being preached to them, and many of them are looking eagerly for someone to do their work for them." The thought filled him with enthusiasm.

The following spring Selma married, which left Henrik quite alone. He met Marie at the wedding festivities. She was silent and quiet. He made no strong efforts to win her back to him, so they drifted apart again. Then Henrik arranged his affairs so that he could remain away for some months. He said he was going to America to visit his uncles in Minnesota,—and yes, very likely he would go farther west. His friends shook their heads misgivingly, but he only smiled at their fears.

Henrik sailed from Christiania in company with a party of his fellow-believers, and in due uneventful time, landed in the New World. He found America a wonderfully big and interesting country. He went directly westward first, crossing the great plains and rugged mountains to the valleys beyond. Here he found and visited many of his former friends. He lived with the Latter-day Saints in their homes, and learned to know their true character and worth.

Then he saw the temples in which the Saints were doing a saving work both for the living and the dead. While in conversation with some of the temple workers, he told them of what he had in the way of genealogy, which they commended highly, telling him that he had an opportunity to do much good for his family.

"I am glad to hear you say that," replied he, "for you know, this work for the dead was what first impressed me in the gospel. It came to me naturally, it seems, for I had no trouble in accepting it."

Henrik learned much regarding the manner of procedure in this temple work. He could do the work for the male members of his family, but a woman must officiate for the female members. This was the true order, he found.

"Your sister or your wife or any other near relative would be the person to help you in this," said his informant.

Henrik shook his head. "I am the only member of the family that has received the gospel," he replied.

"Then, of course, any other sister in the faith will do; but the blessings for doing this work belongs to the nearest kin, if they will receive it. Have you no relatives in America?"

"Yes; a lot of them are up in Minnesota, but none that I know are Latter-day Saints—but I'll go and find out," he added as an afterthought.

And that is what Henrik did. Within a month he was on his way. He found his Uncle Ole living not far from St. Paul. He was a prosperous farmer with a family of grown-up sons and daughters who were pleased to see their kinsman from the homeland. All the news from all the family had to be told from both sides. Henrik was shown the big farm with its up-to-date American machinery and methods. He was driven behind blooded horses to the city and there introduced to many people. They knew that Henrik was a person of some importance back in Norway, and they wanted to show him that they also were "somebody." That seemed to be the principle upon which they lived. The father and mother still belonged to the Lutheran church. The three daughters had joined a Methodist congregation because their "set" was there. The two boys attended no church.

Henrik was disappointed. He saw plainly that here was no help for him. All these were entrapped by the world. At first, Henrik said nothing about his own religious faith, but after a time he spoke of the subject to one of his girl cousins. She was not the least interested. He tried another with the same result. Then, one day at the table, he told them all plainly what he believed and what he was called. They were merely surprised. "That's all right," said his cousin Jack who voiced the universal opinion, "we live in a free country, you know, where one's religion isn't called into question."

Henrik's other uncle lived in the city. He was a mechanic, having worked for years in the railroad shops. Some months previous he had been discharged, and since then he had operated a small "tinker" shop of his own. Uncle Jens lived in a small rented house. Uncle Ole's visits to his brother were far between. "Brother Jens is shiftless," Uncle Ole said.

Henrik was, however, made welcome in the humble home, and he soon found the family a most interesting one. His uncle was a religious man, having, as he put it, "got religion" some years ago at a Baptist revival. He had joined that church and was an active member in it. The wife and some of the children were devout believers. They indulged in long family prayers and much scriptural reading. This branch of the Bogstad family called the wealthy farmer and his children a "godless lot."

Uncle Jens' oldest daughter, one about Henrik's own age, did not live at home, therefore he did not see her. He was getting well acquainted with the others, but Rachel he did not know.

"I must meet Rachel, too," he said one day to his uncle. "Where can I find her?"

"She works in a down-town department store; at night she stays with some friends of hers. The fact is that Rachel is peculiar. She is not one with us. She has been led astray—"

"Oh!" cried Henrik.

"She is not a bad girl—no, no; but she has been led away into a false religion, and as she will talk and argue with us all, I thought it best that she stay away from our home until she comes to her senses; but—"

"What is this religion that has caused her to err so badly?"

"Why, she calls herself a Latter-day Saint."

"What!"

"Yes; I've tried to reason with the girl, but it's been no use."

"I want to see her—now, today," said Henrik. "Give me her address."

"Shall I go with you?"

"No, I can find her,—you need not bother."

Henrik obtained the proper directions, and set out immediately. Was there then one other of his family that had received the gospel—one that could help him? He boarded a car, getting off at the store. Going to the department in which she worked, he asked the floor-walker where he could find Miss Bogstad. Then he saw her behind a counter, resting for a moment, unoccupied. Though she was an American, Henrik could see the Norwegian traits in his fair cousin. She was of the dark type, with round, rosy lips and cheeks, and heavy, brown hair.

"I am your cousin Henrik from Norway," he said as he shook her hand.

Her smile burst into a soft, merry laugh as she greeted him. "I am glad to see you," she said. "I heard you were here, but thought perhaps I might not get to meet you."

He held her hand a long time, as he looked into the pretty, sweet face. Had he been an American, he would, no doubt, have kissed her then and there; but being a Norwegian, he only looked his wonder and pleasure.

They could not talk much because customers had to be served; but Henrik lingered until closing time, saying he would walk home with her that they might talk. She expressed her pleasure at the proposition; and promptly at the closing gong, she donned her wraps and joined him. The day was warm, and he suggested a walk around by the park, where they might sit down on a bench under the trees.

It was a difficult matter for seriously minded Uncle Jens and his family to laugh, and even a smile was seldom seen on their faces; but here was one who seemed bubbling over with merriment—one whose countenance shone as if from an inner light of happiness.

"Rachel," said Henrik, "your father has told me about you."

"Yes," she replied with sobering face, "they think I am a very bad girl,—but—"

"Look here cousin, don't make any apologies. I know, and understand."

He asked her some questions about herself, all of which she answered frankly. Then he told her about himself, which she first met with an astonished stare. He narrated his experiences in Norway, of his trip westward, and the real purpose of his coming to Minnesota. She heard his story with alternating smiles and tears, as it touched her heart. They sat thus for a long time, oblivious to the singing birds above, of the curious passers-by, or the fast falling night. They walked home in the lighted streets, and it was late when he bade her goodnight at the gate.

The next day Henrik had a talk with Uncle Jens which ended in the uncle's closing with a bang the open Bible on the table out of which they had been reading, and then in uncontrolled rage ordering his nephew out of the house. Henrik tried to make peace with his uncle, but it proved useless, so he took his hat and left.

Henrik met Rachel again that evening, and again they sat on the bench under the trees. Once again they became lost to all outward disturbances in the deep concerns which brooded in their hearts and found utterance in their speech.

"I shall remain here a few days more," said he in conclusion, "because I want to get better acquainted with you; and then we must talk over our plans further. Then I shall go back to Norway. In a few months I shall come back, and we two shall go westward where the Temples are, and there begin the work that is ours—the work that the Lord has called us to do. What do you say to that?"

"Thank you," she replied simply, and with her usual smile; "I shall be ready."

"Rend your heart and not your garments, and turn unto the Lord your God: for he is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and of great kindness."—Joel 2:13.

On Henrik's arrival in Norway, the harvesting was in full swing, and he busied himself with that. His friends, some of whom were surprised at his return, asked him what he had found in America, and he told them freely. Had he discovered the delusion in his American religion? No, he replied, his faith had been made stronger. Selma had relented somewhat, she making him welcome at her home in Christiania. Here he also met Marie. Henrik treated her as a friend with whom he had never had differences. When she saw him back again, browned and hardy, but the same gentle Henrik, Marie wondered, and by that wonder her resentment was modified, and she listened to his accounts of America and his relatives in Minnesota with much interest. As he spoke with an added enthusiasm of his cousin Rachel, the listeners opened their ears and eyes. He told them freely of his plans, and what he and Rachel were going to do.

"Yes," he said, "I can see the hand of the Lord in my finding Rachel."—Marie had her doubts, but she said nothing.—"It is all so wonderful to me, and I am only sorry that you folks can't see it!" But they replied nothing.

Henrik wrote often to Rachel, and the letters which he received in reply he usually handed to Selma, and Marie, if she was present. They pronounced them fine letters. "She must be a jolly girl," they said.

"She is," he affirmed; "the most religious and yet the merriest girl I have ever met. That seems a contradiction, but it isn't." Then he went on explaining, and they could not help listening. Henrik studied the two young women to see what impression he might be making. On Selma there was very little, but he believed Marie was overcoming some of her prejudice. Selma told him that Marie loved him as much as ever, and that if he deserted her, it would break her heart.

"But Selma," he exclaimed, "I have never deserted her. It was she who broke the engagement."

"How could she do otherwise;—but she has been waiting, and will still wait in hope."

"I, too, shall do that," he said.

That fall Henrik again sailed for America. Going westward by way of Minnesota, he called for Rachel and took her with him. In one of the Temple cities they found lodgings with some of his friends, and then they entered upon their work for their ancestors. Henrik had a long list of them, and so they were kept busy nearly all the winter. At the end of three months, Henrik asked Rachel if she was tired and wanted a rest.

"Oh, no," she said; "I believe I can do this work all my life. It isn't always easy, but there is so much joy and peace in it. I believe the angels are with us, and I don't want better company."

And so these two were very much contented. They sent letters home telling of the "glorious" time they were having, and the work they were doing. At the opening of spring, Henrik left Rachel to continue the work, he having to go back to Norway. He asked her if she desired to return to her folks in Minnesota, but she said no, not yet.

The early spring months found Henrik in Christiania. He made a trip to Denmark on genealogical research which proved quite successful. The first of June found him back to Nordal.

Midsummer Night came clear and cool. Henrik was in Christiania, and was to be one of a party to spend the night on the hills above the city. Marie was not with them, and Henrik enquired the reason.

"She is ill," said Selma.

"Ill? Where is she?"

"At home. I think you should go and see her."

"Does she want me?"

"Yes."

Henrik excused himself from the party and went immediately to Marie. He found her on the veranda, reclining on a couch. The lamp-light from an open window fell on a pale face, startling in its changed expression. He silently took her hand, her fingers tightening in his grasp. She looked him steadily in the face, her swimming eyes not wavering. Then Henrik knew that he loved this girl yet. For a long time he had tried to forget her, tried to root out his love for her, tried to think that she was not for him. "I'll not try again," he had thought, "for twice now have I been disappointed;" but now a flood of compassionate love engulfed him, and he, too, clung to the fingers in his grasp.

"I am sorry to see you like this," he said, "what is the matter?"

"I don't know."

"Doesn't the doctor know?"

She shook her head with a faint smile. "Sit down, Henrik, I want to talk to you," she said.

He took the low chair by her side. The mother looked at them from the door-way, but did not come out.

"I want you to forgive me," she said.

"That has been done long ago."

"Thank you—now listen. I have been wrong, wickedly wrong, it seems to me—listen! I have not been honest, neither with you, nor myself, nor with the Lord—which is the worst of all. I understood much that you taught me of the restored gospel—It seemed so easy to my understanding; but my pride was in the way, and I would not accept the light. I pushed it away. I kept saying to myself, 'It isn't true,' when I knew all the time that it was. That's the sin I have committed."

"My dear—"

"You remember that book you asked me to read? Well, I read it through, though I led you to believe that I did not. It is a beautiful book, and true, every word. * * * Perhaps you will not believe me when I tell you that I have been a number of times to your meetings in Osterhausgade. Once when you were there—I thought you would see me," she smiled. "And I could find no faults, though at first I went looking for them * * * Now, I've told you. You have forgiven me, you say; but will the Lord?"

"Yes; the Lord is good."

"When I get better—if I do—I am going to join the Church as you have done. That is the right thing to do, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"And then, may I go to where you and your cousin Rachel are working for the dead? When—when are you to be married?"

"Married? To whom?"

"Why, to your cousin Rachel. Are you not going to marry her?"

"Certainly not—never thought of it for a moment."

"Oh, dear, I must have made another mistake. Forgive me." She lay back on her cushions.

"Marie, when I get married, it's you I want for my wife. I have told you that before, and I haven't changed my mind. You shall be mine, if you will come back to the sweet days of long ago. Will you?"

He leaned over the couch, and she drew his face to hers. "Yes," she whispered.

At the end of an hour's conversation wherein much had been said, Marie asked: "May I go with you to the temple and there help you in the work you are doing? I believe I could help a little."

It was at that moment that the curtain lifted from the eyes of the mortal, and Henrik saw for an instant into the pre-existent world. A group of spiritual beings was eagerly engaged in conversation, and from out that group he heard the voice of one answering Marie's question.

"Yes; I think so; but we shall see."

"A friend of mine in his journey is come to me."—Luke 11:6.

The next time Henrik went to the valleys of the mountains in western America, Marie accompanied him. They were married in the Temple, made man and wife for time and eternity by the authority of the Priesthood. That event was among their supremely happy ones. Rachel witnessed the ceremony, and the smile on her face was sweeter than ever.

After that, Marie helped in the temple work as she had desired. The three then labored together until Henrik's list of names was nearly exhausted. After a very pleasant visit among friends, Henrik and Marie went back to Norway and to Nordal. They made a new home from the ancient one on the hillside by the forest, and for them the years went by in peace and plenty. Sons and daughters came to them, to whom they taught the gospel. In time many of his kin also believed the truth and accepted it, and thus the seed that was sown in humility, and at first brought but small returns, gave promise of a bounteous harvest.

Once every four or five years, Henrik and Marie visited the Saints in the West, and spent some time in the temple. These were happy times for Rachel, who continued to live alone, not making many intimate acquaintances. Henrik was glad to provide for her simple necessities, so that she could continue her life's work in behalf of the dead.

Rachel did not marry. Once in Minnesota, a young man had made love to her, but she could not return that love, so she was in duty bound not to encourage him. Rachel was hard to get acquainted with, a number of young men had said. She was always happy and smiling, and yet a closer knowledge of her character disclosed a serious strain that puzzled her admirers—for Rachel had admirers. A number of times good men had been about to make love to her in earnest, but each time some strange feeling had checked them. The young woman was "willing" enough but what could she do? There was without doubt a "man" for her, but she could not go in search of him. As the years went by, and with them her youth and somewhat of her beauty, she was often sad, and sometimes heart-hungry; and at such times she found no peace until she had poured out her heart to her heavenly Father, and said, "Thy will be done—but make me satisfied."

After an absence of three years Rachel visited her home in Minnesota. She was received kindly, the parents being no doubt grateful that she had escaped alive from the clutches of those "terrible people" whom she had been among. She could still smile and be happy, be more patient than ever, taking in good part the ridicule and sometimes the abuse directed toward her. She talked on the gospel with those who would listen, and after a time she found that she was making a little headway. Her father, at the first, told her emphatically that she was not to "preach her religion" in his house; but he would sometimes forget himself and ask her a question, which in being answered would lead to a gospel discourse. Then, awakening to what was going on, he would say, "That will do. I thought I told you that we wanted none of your preaching," at which Rachel would smilingly look around to the others who were also smiling at the father's inconsistencies.

During this visit the good seed was planted, from which in due time the Lord gave an abundant harvest from among the Bogstad family and its many ramifications.

One day in the temple Rachel met Signe Dahl Ames. It was Rachel's custom to keep a lookout for sisters who were new to the work that she might assist them. Signe had not been in the Temple since the day she was married, and now she had come to do some work for her family. Rachel met her in the outer room with a pleasant greeting.

"I am Sister Bogstad," she said; "and what is your name?"

"Bogstad, did you say—why—why, my name is Ames."

"Yes, Bogstad," replied Rachel, noticing the sister's surprise. "We haven't met before, have we?"

"No; I think not. The name is not common, and I used to know a gentleman by that name—that's all."

"You're a Norwegian," said Rachel.

"Yes."

"So am I; though I was born in this country, it may be possible that I belong to the family which you know."

"I used to know Henrik Bogstad of Nordal, Norway."

"That's my cousin. We have been doing work here in the temple."

Signe was greatly surprised, and Rachel led her to a corner where they talked freely for some time. During the day they found occasion to continue their conversation, and that evening Signe went home with her new-found friend.

This was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Rachel knew enough of Henrik's little romance with Signe to make the acquaintanceship unusually interesting; besides, there came to be a strong affinity between the two. Rachel accompanied her friend to Dry Bench, and there soon became "Aunt Rachel" to Signe's four beautiful children. Then she wrote to Henrik, telling him of her wonderful "find." He replied that at their next visit to America, they would surely give Dry Bench a call.

Henrik, Marie, and two of the older children came that fall when the peaches were ripe and the alfalfa fields were being cut. And such delicious peaches, and such stacks of fragrant hay they found! Amid the beautiful setting of the harvest time, their several stories were told, in wonder at the diverging and the meeting of the great streams of Life. The Bogstad children practiced their book-learned English, while the Ames children were willing teachers. The boys bathed in the irrigation canal, rode on the loads of hay, and gorged themselves with peaches. The girls played house under the trees. And were it part of this story, it might be here told how that, later, Arnt Bogstad and Margaret Ames loved and mated—but it is not.

Henrik and Marie lived happily together for twelve years, and then Marie was called into the spirit world. Henrik was left with five children, the youngest but a few months old. With ample means, he could obtain plenty of household help, but money could not buy a mother for his children. A number of years went by, bringing to Henrik new and varied experiences. Then on one of his visits to the West he found another helpmate for himself and children—a kind-hearted, sweet-souled young woman, born of Danish parents, and reared among the Saints in the valleys of the mountains. Then the westward call became so strong that Henrik disposed of most of his interests in Norway and moved with his family to America, taking up his abode in a town not far from Dry Bench. Here they enjoyed the association of the Saints, and his children had the advantage of companionship of children of the faith.

Time, and the world with it, sped on. Peace and prosperity came to the people of this story. As years were added to years, their good works increased, until the Lord said to each of them, Enough. Then in their own time and place, they passed into the Paradise of God.

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