allhisgreatmentalabilitieshadbeenlost,nothingbuthardship,sorrow,anddisappointmenthadbeenhisfate.hewaslikearareplant,tornfromitsnativesoil,andtosseduponthebeachtowitherthere.andwasthisoneofgod'screatures,fashionedinhisownlikeness,tohavenobetterfate?washetobeonlytheplaythingoffortune?no!theall-lovingcreatorwouldcertainlyrepayhiminthelifetocomeforwhathehadsufferedandlosthere."thelordisgoodtoall;andhismercyisoverallhisworks."thepiousoldwifeofthemerchantrepeatedthesewordsfromthepsalmsofdavidinpatienceandhope,andtheprayerofherheartwasthatjurgenmightsoonbecalledawaytoenterintoeternallife.

inthechurchyardwherethewallsweresurroundedwithsandclaralayburied.jurgendidnotseemtoknowthis;itdidnotenterhismind,whichcouldonlyretainfragmentsofthepast.everysundayhewenttochurchwiththeoldpeople,andsattheresilently,staringvacantlybeforehim.oneday,whenthepsalmswerebeingsung,hesigheddeeply,andhiseyesbecamebright;theywerefixeduponaplacenearthealtarwherehehadkneltwithhisfriendwhowasdead.hemurmuredhername,andbecamedeadlypale,andtearsrolleddownhischeeks.theyledhimoutofchurch;hetoldthosestandingroundhimthathewaswell,andhadneverbeenill;he,whohadbeensogrievouslyafflicted,theoutcast,thrownupontheworld,couldnotrememberhissufferings.thelordourcreatoriswiseandfulloflovingkindness-whocandoubtit?

inspain,wherebalmybreezesblowoverthemoorishcupolasandgentlystirtheorangeandmyrtlegroves,wheresingingandthesoundofthecastanetsarealwaysheard,therichestmerchantintheplace,achildlessoldman,satinaluxurioushouse,whilechildrenmarchedinprocessionthroughthestreetswithwavingflagsandlightedtapers.ifhehadbeenabletopresshischildrentohisheart,hisdaughter,orherchild,thathad,perhapsneverseenthelightofday,farlessthekingdomofheaven,howmuchofhiswealthwouldhenothavegiven!"poorchild!"yes,poorchild-achildstill,yetmorethanthirtyyearsold,forjurgenhadarrivedatthisageinoldskjagen.

theshiftingsandshadcoveredthegravesinthecourtyard,quiteuptothechurchwalls,butstill,thedeadmustbeburiedamongtheirrelativesandthedearoneswhohadgonebeforethem.merchantbronneandhiswifenowrestedwiththeirchildrenunderthewhitesand.

itwasinthespring-theseasonofstorms.thesandfromtheduneswaswhirledupinclouds;theseawasrough,andflocksofbirdsflewlikecloudsinthestorm,screamingacrossthesand-hills.shipwreckfolloweduponshipwreckonthereefsbetweenoldskagenandthehunsbydunes.

oneeveningjurgensatinhisroomalone:allatoncehismindseemedtobecomeclearer,andarestlessfeelingcameoverhim,suchashadoften,inhisyoungerdays,drivenhimouttowanderoverthesand-hillsorontheheath."home,home!"hecried.nooneheardhim.hewentoutandwalkedtowardsthedunes.sandandstonesblewintohisface,andwhirledroundhim;hewentinthedirectionofthechurch.thesandwasbankedupthewalls,halfcoveringthewindows,butithadbeenclearedawayinfrontofthedoor,andtheentrancewasfreeandeasytoopen,sojurgenwentintothechurch.

thestormragedoverthetownofskjagen;therehadnotbeensuchaterribletempestwithinthememoryoftheinhabitants,norsucharoughsea.butjurgenwasinthetempleofgod,andwhilethedarknessofnightreignedoutside,alightaroseinhissoulthatwasnevertodepartfromit;theheavyweightthatpressedonhisbrainburstasunder.hefanciedheheardtheorgan,butitwasonlythestormandthemoaningofthesea.hesatdownononeoftheseats,andlo!