The Story of an Outcast by Hjalmar Hjorth Boysen

Warm and gentle as it is, June often comes to the fjord-valleys of / Norway with the voice and the strength of a giant. The glaciers / totter and groan, as if in anger at their own weakness, and send huge / avalanches of stones and ice down into the valleys. The rivers swell and / rush with vociferous brawl out over the mountainsides, and a thousand / tiny brooks join in the general clamor, and dance with noisy chatter / over the moss-grown birch-roots. But later, when the struggle is at an / end, and June has victoriously seated herself upon her throne, her voice / becomes more richly subdued and brings rest and comfort to the ear and / to the troubled heart. It was while the month was in this latter mood / that Brita and her son entered once more the valley whence, twenty-five / years ago, they had fled. Many strange, turbulent emotions stirred the / mother's bosom, as she saw again the great snow-capped mountains, and / the calm, green valley, her childhood's home, lying so snugly sheltered / in their mighty embrace. Even Thomas's breast was moved with vaguely / sympathetic throbs, as this wondrous scene spread itself before him. / They soon succeeded in hiring a farm-house, about half an hour's walk / from Blakstad, and, according to Brita's wish, established themselves / there for the summer. She had known the people well, when she was young, / but they never thought of identifying her with the merry maid, who had / once startled the parish by her sudden flight; and she, although she / longed to open her heart to them, let no word fall to betray her real / character. Her conscience accused her of playing a false part, but for / her son's sake she kept silent.

Then, one day, -- it was the second Sunday after their arrival, -- she rose / early in the morning, and asked Thomas to accompany her on a walk up / through the valley. There was Sabbath in the air; the soft breath of / summer, laden with the perfume of fresh leaves and field-flowers, / gently wafted into their faces. The sun glittered in the dewy grass, the / crickets sung with a remote voice of wonder, and the air seemed to be / half visible, and moved in trembling wavelets on the path before them. / Resting on her son's arm, Brita walked slowly up through the flowering / meadows; she hardly knew whither her feet bore her, but her heart / beat violently, and she often was obliged to pause and press her hands / against her bosom, as if to stay the turbulent emotions.