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of sixty years, but she had not come to be seen, but
to see—to see the lover of her youth, whom Time
had never changed, who was still young and handsome
and warm-hearted.
She came from such a great distance that no tales
of the Broby parson had reached her.
The calash rolled up the hill on the summit of
which stood the parsonage.
“For mercy’s sake,” whined a beggar by the
wayside, “give something to a poor man!”
The lady gave him a silver coin, and asked if
that was Broby parsonage they saw before them.
The beggar turned a sharp, cunning glance upon
her.
“"That is the parsonage,” he said, “but the vicar
is not at home; there is no one in just now.”
The fragile, little old lady looked as if she would
quite fade away. The cool arbor disappeared; her
lover was not there! How could she expect, after
förty years, to find him there still!
“What may the gracious lady want at the parsonage?”
The gracious lady had come to see the vicar,
whom she knew in former years.
Forty years and forty miles[1] have separated them,
and for every mile she has left behind her she has
löst a year, with its burden of sorrow and saddening
memories—so that, as she stood at the
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