sacrifice? No, certainly not. But what would my assertions have been worth in opposition to yours? - That was the miracle that I hoped for and dreaded. And it was to hinder that that I wanted to die. Helmer. I would gladly work for you night and day, Nora, bear sorrow and want for your sake. But no man sacrifices his honor, even for one he loves. Nora. Millions of women have done so. Helmer. Oh, you think and talk like a silly child. Nora. Very likely. But you neither think nor talk like the man I can share my life with. When your terror was over - not for what threatened me, but for yourself — when there was nothing more to fear then it seemed to you as though nothing had happened. I was your lark again, your doll, just as before-whom you would take twice as much care of in future, because she was so weak and fragile. (Stands up.) Torvald in that moment it burst upon me that I had been living here these eight years with a strange man, and had borne him three children. - Oh, I can't bear to think of it! I could tear myself to pieces! Helmer. (Sadly.) I see it, I see it; an abyss has opened between us. But, Nora, can it never be filled up? Nora. As I now am, I am no wife for you. Helmer. I have strength to become another man. Nora. Perhaps when your doll is taken away from you. Helmer. To part-to part from you! No, Nora, no; I can't grasp the thought. Nora. (Going into room on the right.) The more reason for the thing to happen. [She comes back with outdoor things and a small traveling-bag, which she places on a chair. Helmer. Nora, Nora, not now! Wait till to-morrow. Nora. (Putting on cloak.) I can't spend the night in a strange man's house. Helmer. But can we not live here, as brother and sister - ? Nora. (Fastening her hat.) You know very well that wouldn't last long. (Puts on the shawl.) Good-by, Torvald. No, I won't go to the children. I know they are in better hands than mine. As I now am, I can be nothing to them. Helmer. But sometime, Nora - sometime? Nora. How can I tell? I have no idea what will become of me. Helmer. But you are my wife, now and always! Nora. Listen, Torvald - when a wife leaves her husband's house, as I am doing, I have heard that in the eyes of the law he is free from all duties towards her. At any rate, I release you from all duties. You must not feel yourself bound, any There must be perfect freedom on both Give me mine. sides. There, I give you back your ring. more than I shall. Helmer. That, too? Nora. That, too. Helmer. Here it is. Nora. Very well. Now it is all over. I lay the keys here. The servants know about everything in the house - better than I do. To-morrow, when I have started, Christina will come to pack up the things I brought with me from home. I will have them sent after me. Helmer. All over! all over! Nora, will you never think of me again? Nora. Oh, I shall often think of you, and the children, and this house. Helmer. May I write to you, Nora? Nora. No never. You must not. Nora. Nothing, nothing. Helmer. I must help you if you need it. Nora. No, I say. I take nothing from strangers. Helmer. Nora can I never be more than a stranger to you? Nora. (Taking her traveling-bag.) Oh, Torvald, then the miracle of miracles would have to happen Helmer. What is the miracle of miracles? Nora. Both of us would have to change so that Oh, Torvald, I no longer believe in miracles. Helmer. But I will believe. Tell me! We must so change that? Nora. That communion between us shall be a marriage. Good-by. [She goes out by the hall door. Helmer. (Sinks into a chair by the door with his face in his hands.) Nora! Nora! (He looks round and rises.) Empty. She is gone. (A hope springs up in him.) Ah! The miracle of miracles! [From below is heard the reverberation of a heavy door closing. JEAN INGELOW JEAN INGELOW. Born in Boston, Lincolnshire, England, in 1830; died in London, July 19, 1897. Author of the "Round of Days," "Home Thoughts and Home Scenes," "A Story of Doom, and Other Poems," "Mopsa the Fairy," and "Little Wonder Horn." Jean Ingelow's writings are set to the music of the sea, and the tide is always running through them. In them, too, we find revealed the refined and gracious personality of the author, who gave to the needy three times a week a dinner paid for by her "copyright" money. THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE (1571) THE old mayor climb'd the belfry tower, "Pull, if ye never pull'd before; Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. The Lord that sent it, He knows all; The message that the bells let fall; By millions crouch'd on the old sea wall. I sat and spun within the doore, My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes; The level sun, like ruddy ore, Lay sinking in the barren skies; And dark against day's golden death She moved, where Lindis wandereth, My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. "Cusha! cusha! cusha!" calling, From the meads where melick groweth "Cusha! cusha! cusha!" calling. Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, From the clovers lift your head; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot. If it be long, aye, long ago, When I beginne to think howe long, Againe I hear the Lindis flow, Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong; And all the aire, it seemeth mee, That ring the tune of Enderby. Alle fresh the level pasture lay, . And not a shadowe mote be seene, Save where full fyve good miles away The steeple tower'd from out the greene; And lo! the great bell farre and wide Was heard in all the country side That Saturday at eventide. The swanherds where their sedges are "The Brides of Mavis Enderby." Then some one look'd uppe into the sky, And all along where Lindis flows To where the goodly vessels lie, And where the lordly steeple shows. They sayde, "And why should this thing be? "For evil news from Mablethorpe, They have not spared to wake the towne: I look'd without, and lo! my sonne (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath |