Anne Lisbeth

								
Anne Lisbeth was a beautiful young woman, with a red and white
complexion, glittering white teeth, and clear soft eyes; and her
footstep was light in the dance, but her mind was lighter still.  She
had a little child, not at all pretty; so he was put out to be
nursed by a laborer's wife, and his mother went to the count's castle.
She sat in splendid rooms, richly decorated with silk and velvet;
not a breath of air was allowed to blow upon her, and no one was
allowed to speak to her harshly, for she was nurse to the count's
child.  He was fair and delicate as a prince, and beautiful as an
angel; and how she loved this child!  Her own boy was provided for by
being at the laborer's where the mouth watered more frequently than
the pot boiled, and where in general no one was at home to take care
of the child.  Then he would cry, but what nobody knows nobody cares
for; so he would cry till he was tired, and then fall asleep; and
while we are asleep we can feel neither hunger nor thirst.  Ah, yes;
sleep is a capital invention.

As years went on, Anne Lisbeth's child grew apace like weeds,
although they said his growth had been stunted.  He had become quite
a member of the family in which he dwelt; they received money to
keep him, so that his mother got rid of him altogether.  She had become
quite a lady; she had a comfortable home of her own in the town; and
out of doors, when she went for a walk, she wore a bonnet; but she
never walked out to see the laborer: that was too far from the town,
and, indeed, she had nothing to go for, the boy now belonged to
these laboring people.  He had food, and he could also do something
towards earning his living; he took care of Mary's red cow, for he
knew how to tend cattle and make himself useful.

The great dog by the yard gate of a nobleman's mansion sits
proudly on the top of his kennel when the sun shines, and barks at
every one that passes; but if it rains, he creeps into his house,
and there he is warm and dry.  Anne Lisbeth's boy also sat in the
sunshine on the top of the fence, cutting out a little toy.  If it
was spring-time, he knew of three strawberry-plants in blossom,
which would certainly bear fruit.  This was his most hopeful thought,
though it often came to nothing.  And he had to sit out in the rain
in the worst weather, and get wet to the skin, and let the cold wind
dry the clothes on his back afterwards.  If he went near the farmyard
belonging to the count, he was pushed and knocked about, for the men
and the maids said he was so horrible ugly; but he was used to all
this, for nobody loved him.  This was how the world treated Anne
Lisbeth's boy, and how could it be otherwise.  It was his fate to be
beloved by no one.  Hitherto he had been a land crab; the land at
last cast him adrift.  He went to sea in a wretched vessel, and sat
at the helm, while the skipper sat over the grog-can.  He was dirty and
ugly, half-frozen and half-starved; he always looked as if he never
had enough to eat, which was really the case.

Late in the autumn, when the weather was rough, windy, and wet,
and the cold penetrated through the thickest clothing, especially at
sea, a wretched boat went out to sea with only two men on board, or,
more correctly, a man and a half, for it was the skipper and his
boy.  There had only been a kind of twilight all day, and it soon
grew quite dark, and so bitterly cold, that the skipper took a dram to
warm him.  The bottle was old, and the glass too.  It was perfect in the
upper part, but the foot was broken off, and it had therefore been
fixed upon a little carved block of wood, painted blue.  A dram is a
great comfort, and two are better still, thought the skipper, while
the boy sat at the helm, which he held fast in his hard seamed
hands.  He was ugly, and his hair was matted, and he looked crippled
and stunted; they called him the field-laborer's boy, though in the
church register he was entered as Anne Lisbeth's son.  The wind cut
through the rigging, and the boat cut through the sea.  The sails,
filled by the wind, swelled out and carried them along in wild career.
It was wet and rough above and below, and might still be worse.
Hold!  what is that?  What has struck the boat?  Was it a waterspout,
or a heavy sea rolling suddenly upon them?

"Heaven help us!" cried the boy at the helm, as the boat heeled
over and lay on its beam ends.  It had struck on a rock, which rose
from the depths of the sea, and sank at once, like an old shoe in a
puddle.  "It sank at once with mouse and man," as the saying is.
There might have been mice on board, but only one man and a half,
the skipper and the laborer's boy.  No one saw it but the skimming
sea-gulls and the fishes beneath the water; and even they did not
see it properly, for they darted back with terror as the boat filled
with water and sank.  There it lay, scarcely a fathom below the
surface, and those two were provided for, buried, and forgotten.  The
glass with the foot of blue wood was the only thing that did not sink,
for the wood floated and the glass drifted away to be cast upon the
shore and broken; where and when, is indeed of no consequence.  It
had served its purpose, and it had been loved, which Anne Lisbeth's
boy had not been.  But in heaven no soul will be able to say, "Never
loved."

Anne Lisbeth had now lived in the town many years; she was
called "Madame," and felt dignified in consequence; she remembered the
old, noble days, in which she had driven in the carriage, and had
associated with countess and baroness.  Her beautiful, noble child
had been a dear angel, and possessed the kindest heart; he had loved
her so much, and she had loved him in return; they had kissed and
loved each other, and the boy had been her joy, her second life.  Now
he was fourteen years of age, tall, handsome, and clever.  She had
not seen him since she carried him in her arms; neither had she been
for years to the count's palace; it was quite a journey thither from
the town.

"I must make one effort to go," said Anne Lisbeth, "to see my

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