“Farewell， he said， and sailed away. And many recollect that day. the ropes were of silk，the anchor of gold，And everywhere riches and wealth untold.”
these words would aptly describe the vessel from Spain， for here was the same luxury，and the same parting thought naturally arose：
“God grant that we once more may meet In sweet unclouded peace and joy.”
there was a favourable wind blowing as they left the Spanish coast， and it would be but ashort journey， for they hoped to reach their destination in a few weeks; but when they cameout upon the wide ocean the wind dropped， the sea became smooth and shining， and thestars shone brightly. Many festive evenings were spent on board. At last the travellers beganto wish for wind， for a favourable breeze; but their wish was useless—not a breath of airstirred， or if it did arise it was contrary. Weeks passed by in this way， two whole months，and then at length a fair wind blew from the south-west. The ship sailed on the high seasbetween Scotland and Jutland; then the wind increased， just as it did in the old song of “TheKing of England's Son.”
“ 'Mid storm and wind， and pelting hail，their efforts were of no avail. The golden anchorforth they threw;Towards Denmark the west wind blew.”
This all happened a long time ago; King Christian VII， who sat on the Danish throne，was still a young man. Much has happened since then， much has altered or been changed.Sea and moorland have been turned into GREen meadows， stretches of heather have becomearable land， and in the shelter of the peasant's cottages， apple-trees and rose-bushesgrow， though they certainly require much care， as the sharp west wind blows upon them. InWest Jutland one may go back in thought to old times， farther back than the days whenChristian VII ruled. The purple heather still extends for miles， with its barrows and aerialspectacles， intersected with sandy uneven roads， just as it did then; towards the west，where broad streams run into the bays， are marshes and meadows encircled by lofty， sandyhills， which， like a chain of Alps， raise their pointed summits near the sea; they are onlybroken by high ridges of clay， from which the sea， year by year， bites out great mouthfuls，so that the overhanging banks fall down as if by the shock of an earthquake. Thus it is theretoday and thus it was long ago， when the happy pair were sailing in the beautiful ship.
It was a Sunday， towards the end of September; the sun was shining， and the chimingof the church bells in the Bay of Nissum was carried along by the breeze like a chain of sounds.The churches there are almost entirely built of hewn blocks of stone， each like a piece of rock.The North Sea might foam over them and they would not be disturbed. Nearly all of them arewithout steeples， and the bells are hung outside between two beams. The service was over，and the conGREgation passed out into the churchyard， where not a tree or bush was to beseen; no flowers were planted there， and they had not placed a single wreath upon any of thegraves. It is just the same now. Rough mounds show where the dead have been buried， andrank grass， tossed by the wind， grows thickly over the whole churchyard; here and there agrave has a sort of monument， a block of half-decayed wood， rudely cut in the shape of acoffin; the blocks are brought from the forest of West Jutland， but the forest is the seaitself， and the inhabitants find beams， and planks， and fragments which the waves havecast upon the beach. One of these blocks had been placed by loving hands on a child's grave，and one of the women who had come out of the church walked up to it; she stood there， hereyes resting on the weather-beaten memorial， and a few moments afterwards her husbandjoined her. They were both silent， but he took her hand， and they walked together across thepurple heath， over moor and meadow towards the sandhills. For a long time they went onwithout speaking.
“It was a good sermon to-day，” the man said at last. “If we had not God to trust in， weshould have nothing.”
“Yes，” replied the woman， “He sends joy and sorrow， and He has a right to send them.To-morrow our little son would have been five years old if we had been permitted to keep him.”
“It is no use fretting， wife，” said the man. “The boy is well provided for. He is where wehope and pray to go to.”
they said nothing more， but went out towards their houses among the sand-hills. All atonce， in front of one of the houses where the sea grass did not keep the sand down with itstwining roots， what seemed to be a column of smoke rose up. A gust of wind rushedbetween the hills， hurling the particles of sand high into the air; another gust， and thestrings of fish hung up to dry flapped and beat violently against the walls of the cottage;then everything was quiet once more， and the sun shone with renewed heat.
the man and his wife went into the cottage. They had soon taken off their Sunday clothesand come out again， hurrying over the dunes which stood there like GREat waves of sandsuddenly arrested in their course， while the sandweeds and dune grass with its bluish stalksspread a changing colour over them. A few neighbours also came out， and helped each otherto draw the boats higher up on the beach. The wind now blew more keenly， it was chilly andcold， and when they went back over the sand-hills， sand and little sharp stones blew intotheir faces. The waves rose high， crested with white foam， and the wind cut off their crests，scattering the foam far and wide.