The care of him had at least the effect of turning Osla's thoughts
away from herself. Than sunshine and another's troubles there are
no better tonics.

Yet it was a dreary summer for the hermit's daughter, and it grew
all the drearier and more lonesome when the long, fresh days began
to shorten, and the sea was more seldom still and the wind more
often high. All the time, the old man grew slowly worse. He sat
continually in his cell; and though Osla would not acknowledge her
fears even to herself, she knew that death could not be far away.
Yet he lingered through the winter storms, and the end came upon a
February evening. All the afternoon the hermit had lain with shut
eyes, never speaking a word or giving a sign. It fell wet and
gusty at night, and Osla, bending over the couch, could hear
nothing but the wind and the roost she knew so well.

At length he raised his head and asked,--

"Are we alone, Osla?"

"There is no one here but me, father."

"Listen then," he said. "I have that on my mind that you must hear
before I die. My end is close at hand. I seem to have been long
asleep, and now I know that this wakefulness you see is but the
clearness of a man before he dies."

He took her hand as he spoke, and she tried to stifle a sob.