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“Who is Lars?” I asked.

“My son,” said she. “He is getting the horse ready. There is nobody else about the house to-night.”

Just then the door opened, and in came Lars. He was about twelve years old; but his face was so rosy, his eyes so clear and round and blue, and his golden hair was blown back from his face in such silky curls, that he appeared to be even younger. I was surprised that his mother should be willing to send him twenty miles through the dark woods on such a night.

“Come here, Lars,” I said. Then I took him by the hand, and asked, “Are you not afraid to go so far to-night?”

He looked at me with wondering eyes, and smiled; and his mother made haste to say: “You need not fear, sir. Lars is young, but he’ll take you safe enough. If the storm doesn’t get worse, you’ll be at Umea by eleven o’clock.”

I was again on the point of remaining; but while I was deliberating with myself, the boy had put on his overcoat of sheep-skin, tied the lappets of his fur cap under his chin and a thick woolen scarf around his nose and mouth so that only the round blue eyes were visible, and then his mother took down the mittens of hare’s fur from the stove, where they had been hung to dry. He put them on, took a short leather whip, and was ready.