was a man.

The owner of a boat-the master of four men at Lofoten:-that had been the extent of it! What a boy he had been! But now he Now he would be a man, and do manly things. If it were not now too late! Thora was going. The pleasant day was over. Night was coming, a cold, dark Nordland night. Yet she had been a constant inspiration to him. She could still continue to be that, even if nothing more than a will-o'-the-wisp to lead him on. Then cousin Johan's words came again to him. They rang in his ears as a voice from the ocean. They spoke to him like an echo from over the hills of eternity. They stirred his heart as it had never been stirred before, and then and there, Harald Einersen projected another castle, and made a solemn vow that, with God's help, he would yet complete it from foundation stones to pinnacle.

Thora was to board the coast steamer at Lundholm, a small port a few miles from Sandstad. The steamer was due at Lundholm about midnight, and Harald was to take the passenger there in his sail boat. Dagmar said she would go along, too, but Thora said no. She bade them farewell with invitations for them to pay her a visit at Vangen some day. Harald carried her valise to the boat, helped her in, spread the sail to the breeze, and away they sailed.

"I have had such a good time, Harald, and I am eyer so much obliged to you all. I'll tell grandmother all about it, when I reach home."

"When do you expect to return to Vangen."

"From Tromso, I'm going to North Cape with papa, and then

I suppose we shall return directly home."

Thora trailed her fingers through the water, and looked down into the green waves as she asked: "Are you going to Lofoten next winter?"

"

"Yes; that's the place to earn money, and I must have some." "I suppose you will want to own a boat like your Uncle Erik?” "No; I want money to go to school. I'm going to school all I can just fish long enough to keep me supplied with means." "And then?"

"I don't know. Be scmething more than a mere fisherman, at least."

"You'll want to graduate. That will take a long time."
"Four or five years for that—ten for what I want to be."

"That's a long time—” she had no idea of what he was thinking. "Yes; but it takes persons who are at the bottom of the ladder longer to reach the top than those who are already half way up."

"That depends on the rate traveled by each."

"True; and the strength of the power that draws one on." The boat rounded a headland, and Lundholm was in sight.

"I think likely that I am through with school for a while," said she. Father wishes me to accompany him to England and perhaps farther, this fall, and I may be away for years."

He was silent. It was too true, then, that she was going, going for good. Why didn't she say so, and be done with it? Why had she come to Nordland? He would give her back the withered rose. He could keep it no longer. He took it from between the leaves of his note book. She was looking at him, and he hisitated with nervousness; but retreat he would not now. She was sitting with her back to the sail, directly facing him. He placed the rose in her lap, saying nothing.

"What is it?" she asked.

"A rose."

"A rose-and all withered. Where did you get it?" "You gave it to me, and now I suppose you want it back." "I-yes-now I remember. O, Harald, don't you want it?" Her voice trembled.

"Yes, but-but-what's the use, Thora. You don't care for me. Why should I keep it as a continual reminder of-of my foolishness-call it what you will."

"Don't say that, Harald."

"What else can I say. You are going away. I may never see you again. I have been foolish in thinking about you as I have, but I imagined that you loved me, something that you have done, trifling things, have led me to believe it. You have been to me as yonder Polar star is to the mariner, but now

"And why may I not be so still, Harald?" There were tears "The Polar star never changes."

in her eyes now.

The hour of midnight approaches. The sun sinks down be

hind the sea, yet it is as light as in the shade of noon-day. The breeze is gentle, and the sea is still, save for the shining swells which softly rise and fall. Then the sun comes forth again. First appears its upper curved edge, then more and more seemingly it rocks and bobs up and down on the waves until it rises above the sea-a round, blood-red disk, making a shining path from the horizon to the boat, a path paved with shimmering blocks of purple and gold. The whole sea is now tinged with red light. The clouds around the sun are bathed in blood, and the crimson reflection is cast on hills and rocks, waves and boat. Thora's face is rose-colored, and her whole form is bathed in the same warm tint. The mountains and the distant islands are enwrapped in a trembling haze of red. It is a golden night. Its beauty enters the soul, and banishes fears and worldly sorrow. Care departs into the mellow atmosphere. Earth-troubles sink into this sea of peace, and are lost. Faith comes back-faith in man and faith in God. The world is no longer a gray, lifeless larva, but a full-grown butterfly, floating on its shining wings in the balmy air of summer.

The black smoke of the steamer appeared behind a headland, and soon the boat was in sight. Harald steered towards the anchorage and lay to, awaiting its coming. Out from the shore came the boatman with the mail. The water gurgled softly under their own boat, and the little waves lightly patted its sides-that was all they heard until the swish of the steamer broke the silence, churning the water with its reversed propeller. The iron door in the vessel's side was opened, the mail was exchanged, and Thora was helped in. From the doorway, she reached out her hand to Harald, in the boat close alongside. He held it for an instant, then raised it to his lips. As he did so, the little withered rose which she was about to give him, slipped from her hand into the sea, and its dry, loose petals floated over the waves in every direction. The iron door was closed, the propeller churned the water again, and the steamer headed on its course.

From the deck of the steamer, Thora waved her handkerchief as long as she could distinguish the little boat which lay dancing on the waves of the shining sea.

(END OF PART ONE.)

(To be Continued.)

MARTHA JANE KNOWLTON CORAY.

BY MARTHA J. C. LEWIS.

[In this number, we print a portrait of Mrs. Martha Jane Knowlton Coray, who, at the dictation of Lucy Smith, wrote the history of the Prophet Joseph, now being printed in the ERA. The sketch of her life which follows was kindly furnished by her daughter, Martha, wife of the late Professor T. B. Lewis. In her note to the editors, she speaks of the portrait as only a poor representation of her mother, but it is the best in existence. The lines about her mother's mouth were strongly marked, though this copy of a poor photo does not show any lines at all. "The jet black hair, but slightly tinged with grey, should show a clear, straight parting exactly in the center. The artist should deepen the shadows in the upper lip from the nose to the mouth and nostrils, to make the figure look more like the original. But what can he do to restore the light to the flashing, brilliant, black eyes, having never felt their piercing power?" The editors acknowledge courtesies, also, from Messrs. L. L., Howard, and George Q. Coray who furnished a second photo from which our artist has received assistance to form the portrait herewith presented, which also has her autograph to her children.-EDITORS.]

Mrs. Martha Jane Knowlton Coray, was born June 2, 1821, in Covington, Kentucky. She was the daughter of Sidney A. and Harriet Burnham Knowlton, and great-grand-daughter of Lieutenant Daniel Knowlton, the splendid patriot who served his country so efficiently through the Continental and Revolutionary wars. Mrs. Coray was married to Howard Coray by Patriarch Hyrum Smith, and later sealed in the Nauvoo temple. She and her husband came to Utah in the fall of 1850. I think she joined the Church when about seventeen years of age. She was secretary of the Nauvoo Relief Society, and also the secretary of the

first relief societies organized in Salt Lake City, and later in Provo. She was a warm personal friend of the prophet and patriarch Joseph and Hyrum Smith. It was ever her custom when going to meeting to take pencil and note paper; she thus preserved notes of sermons that would otherwise have been lost to the Church. The late President Woodruff consulted her notes, when he was Church Historian, for items not to be obtained elsewhere.

I have heard her say that the cause of her writing the history of Joseph Smith was that she might preserve as much as possible of the history of our great prophet to read to her own children; she, accordingly, went to Mother Smith, and asked her permission to write what she could remember of her son's history. Mother Smith gave her glad consent, and my dear mother went to her daily, and wrote until Mother Smith would grow weary. She then read over, several times, what she had written, making such changes and corrections as Mother Smith suggested. The work was undertaken purely as a labor of love.

Mrs. Coray was a many-sided woman. Though, in a measure, self-taught, she was well taught; she was a rapid and lucid writer, a brilliant conversationalist, and a fine speaker on a wide range of subjects. She had a fair knowledge of law, philosophy, history, poetry, chemistry and geology-the latter two being her favorite studies. She could and did assay minerals, and distil herbs, write eloquent lectures, and cook dinners that would tempt the appetite of an epicure. She was a member of the first Board of Directors of the Brigham Young Academy in Provo, and, for many years, an earnest and efficient Sunday school worker; and always a tender devoted wife and mother; true to her friends, but not too quick to forgive an enemy. She was the mother of twelve children, all of whom lived to man and womanhood.

She died in Provo, Utah, December 14, 1881. Her husband, Howard Coray, now in his eighty-sixth year, and ten of their children, still live to mourn her loss and honor her memory.