One day Falkenberg declares he is all right again now. Going to save up and put aside a hundred Kroner this winter, out of tuning pianos and felling trees, and then make up again with Emma. I, too, he suggests, would be better advised to give over sighing for ladies of high degree, and go back to my own rank and station.

Falkenberg was right.

On Saturday evening we stopped work a trifle earlier than usual to go up and get some things from the store. We wanted shirts, tobacco and wine.

While we were in the store I caught sight of a little work-box, ornamented with shells, of the kind seafaring men used to buy in the old days at Amsterdam, and bring home to their girls; now the Germans make them by the thousand. I bought the workbox, with the idea of taking out one of the shells to serve as a thumbnail for my pipe.

"What d'you want with a workbox?" asked Falkenberg. "Is it for Emma, what?" He grew jealous at the thought, and not to be outdone, he bought a silk handkerchief to give her himself.

On the way back we sampled the wine, and got talking. Falkenberg was still jealous, so I took out the workbox, chose the shell I wanted, and picked it off and gave him the box. After that we were friends again.

It was getting dark now, and there was no moon. Suddenly we heard the sound of a concertina from a house up on a hillside; we could see there was dancing within, from the way the light came and went like a lighthouse beam.

"Let's go up and look," said Falkenberg.

Coming up to the house, we found a little group of lads and girls outside taking the air. Emma was there as well.

"Why, there's Emma!" cried Falkenberg cheerily, not in the least put out to find she had gone without him. "Emma, here, I've got something for you!"

He reckoned to make all good with a word, but Emma turned away from him and went indoors. Then, when he moved to go after her, others barred his way, hinting pretty plainly that he wasn't wanted there.

"But Emma is there. Ask her to come out."

"Emma's not coming out. She's here with Markus Shoemaker."

Falkenberg stood there helpless. He had been cold to Emma now for so long that she had given him up. And, seeing him stand there stupidly agape, some of the girls began to make game of him: had she left him all alone, then, and what would he ever do now, poor fellow?

Falkenberg set his bottle to his lips and drank before the eyes of all, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and passed to the nearest man. There was a better feeling now towards us; we were good fellows, with bottles in our pockets, and willing to pass them round; moreover, we were strangers in the place, and that was always something new. Also, Falkenberg said many humorous things of Markus Shoemaker, whom he persisted in calling Lukas.

The dance was still going on inside, but none of the girls left us to go in and join.

"I'll bet you now," said Falkenberg, with a swagger, "that Emma'd be only too glad to be out here with us."

Helene and Ronnaug and Sara were there; every time they drank, they gave their hands prettily by way of thanks, as the custom is, but some of the others that had learned a trifle of town manners said only, "Tak for Skjanken," and no more. Helene was to be Falkenberg's girl, it seemed; he put his arm round her waist and said she was his for tonight. And when they moved off farther and farther away from the rest of us, none called to them to come back; we paired off, all of us, after a while, and went our separate ways into the woods. I went with Sara.

When we came out from the wood again, there stood Ronnaug still taking the air. Strange girl, had she been standing there alone all the time? I took her hand and talked to her a little, but she only smiled to all I said and made no answer. We went off towards the wood, and Sara called after us in the darkness: "Ronnaug, come now and let's go home." But Ronnaug made no answer; it was little she said at all. Soft, white as milk, and tall, and still.



XX

The first snow is come; it thaws again at once, but winter is not far off, and we are nearing the end of our woodcutting now at Ovrebo—another week or so, perhaps, no more. What then? There was work on the railway line up on the, hills, or perhaps more woodcutting at some other place we might come to. Falkenberg was for trying the railway.

But I couldn't get done with my machine in so short a time. We'd each our own affairs to take our time; apart from the machine, there was that thumbnail for the pipe I wanted to finish, and the evenings came out all too short. As for Falkenberg, he had made it up with Emma again. And that was a difficult matter and took time. She had been going about with Markus Shoemaker, 'twas true, but Falkenberg for his part could not deny having given Helene presents—a silk handkerchief and a work box set with shells.

Falkenberg was troubled, and said:

"Everything is wrong, somehow. Nothing but bother and worry and foolery."

"Why, as to that..."

"That's what I call it, anyway, if you want to know. She won't come up in the hills as we said."

"It'll be Markus Shoemaker, then, that's keeping her back?"

Falkenberg was gloomily silent. Then, after a pause:

"They wouldn't even have me go on singing."

We got to talking of the Captain and his wife. Falkenberg had an ill-forboding all was not as it might be between them.

Gossiping fool! I put in a word:

"You'll excuse me, but you don't know what you are talking about."

"Ho!" said he angrily. And, growing more and more excited, he went on: "Have you ever seen them, now, hanging about after each other? I've never heard them say so much as a word."

The fool!—the churl!

"Don't know what is the matter with you to-day the way you're sawing. Look—what do you think of that for a cut?"

"Me? We're two of us in it, anyway, so there."

"Good! Then we'll say it's the thaw. Let's get back to the ax again."

We went on working each by himself for a while, angered and out of humour both. What was the lie he had dared to say of them, that they never so much as spoke to each other? But, Heaven, he was right! Falkenberg had a keen scent for such things. He knew something of men and women.

"At any rate, they speak nicely of each other to us," I said.

Falkenberg went on with his work.

I thought over the whole thing again.

"Well, perhaps you may be right as far as that goes, that it's not the wedded life dreamers have dreamed of, still...."

But it was no good talking to Falkenberg in that style; he understood never a word.

When we stopped work at noon, I took up the talk again.

"Didn't you say once if he wasn't decent to her there'd be trouble?"

"Yes, I did."

"Well, there hasn't been trouble."

"Did I ever say he wasn't decent to her?" said Falkenberg irritably. "No, but they're sick and wearied of each other—that's what it is. When one comes in, the other goes out. Whenever he starts talking of anything out in the kitchen, her eyes go all dead and dull, and she doesn't listen."

We got to work again with the ax, each thinking his own ways.

"I doubt but I'll need to give him a thrashing," said Falkenberg.

"Who?"

"Lukas...."

I got my pipe done, and sent Emma in with it to the Captain. The nail had turned out fine and natural this time, and with the fine tools I had now, I was able to cut well down into the thumb and fasten it on the underside, so that the two little copper pins would not show. I was pleased enough with the work.

The Captain came out while we were at supper that evening, to thank me for the pipe. At the same time, I noticed that Falkenberg was right; no sooner had the Captain come out than Fruen went in.

The Captain praised my pipe, and asked how I had managed to fix the nail; he said I was an artist and a master. All the others were standing by and heard his words—and it counted for something to be called an artist by the Captain himself. I believe I could have won Emma at that moment.

That night I learned to shiver and shake.

The corpse of a woman came up to me where I lay in the loft, and stretched out its left hand to show me: the thumbnail was missing. I shook my head, to say I had had a thumbnail once, but I had thrown it away, and used a shell instead. But the corpse stood there all the same, and there I lay, shivering, cold with fear. Then I managed to say I couldn't help it now; in God's name, go away! And, Our Father which art in heaven.... The corpse came straight towards me; I thrust out two clenched fists and gave an icy shriek—and there I was, crushing Falkenberg flat against the wall.

"What is it?" cried Falkenberg. "In Heaven's name...."

I woke, dripping with sweat, and lay there with open eyes, watching the corpse as it vanished quite slowly in the dark of the room.

"It's the corpse," I groaned. "Come to ask for her thumbnail." Falkenberg sat straight up in bed, wide awake all at once.

"I saw her," he said.

"Did you see her, too? Did you see her thumb? Ugh!"

"I wouldn't be in your shoes now for anything."

"Let me lie inside, against the wall," I begged.

"And what about me?"

"It won't hurt you; you can lie outside all right."

"And let her come and take me first? Not if I know it."

And at that Falkenberg lay down again and pulled the rug over his eyes.

I thought for a moment of going down to sleep with Petter; he was getting better now, and there was no fear of infection. But I was afraid to go down the stairs.

It was a terrible night.

Next morning I searched high and low for the nail, and found it on the floor at last, among the shavings and sawdust. I took it out and buried it on the way to the wood.

"It's a question if you oughtn't to carry it back where you took it from," said Falkenberg.

"Why, that's miles away—a whole long journey...."

"They won't ask about that if you're called to do it. Maybe she won't care about having a thumb one place and a thumbnail in another."

But I was brave enough now; a very desperado in the daylight. I laughed at Falkenberg for his superstition, and told him science had disposed of all such nonsense long ago.



XXI

One evening there came visitors to the place, and as Petter was still poorly, and the other lad was only a youngster, I had to go and take out the horses. A lady got out of the carriage.

"Is any one at home?" she asked.

The sound of wheels had brought faces to the windows; lamps were lit in the rooms and passages. Fruen came out, calling:

"Is that you, Elisabeth? I'm so glad you've come."

It was Froken Elisabeth from the vicarage.

"Is he here?" she asked in surprise.

"Who?"

It was myself she meant. So she had recognized me....

Next day the two young ladies came out to us in the wood. At first I was afraid lest some rumour of a certain nightly ride on borrowed horses should have reached the vicarage, but calmed myself when nothing was said of it.

"The water-pipes are doing nicely," said Froken Elisabeth.

I was pleased to hear it.

"Water-pipes?" said Fruen inquiringly.

"He laid on a water-supply to the house for us. Pipes in the kitchen and upstairs as well. Just turn a tap and there it is. You ought to have it done here."

"Really, though? Could it be done here, do you think?"

I answered: yes; it ought to be easy enough.

"Why didn't you speak to my husband about it?"

"I did speak of it. He said he would see what Fruen thought about it."

Awkward pause. So he would not speak to her even of a thing that so nearly concerned herself. I hastened to break the silence, and said at random.

"Anyhow, it's too late to start this year; the winter would be on us before we could get it done. But next spring...."

Fruen seemed to come back to attention from somewhere far away.

"Oh yes, I remember now, he did say something about it," she said. "We talked it over. But it was too late this year.... Elisabeth, don't you like watching them felling trees?"

We used a rope now and then to guide the tree in its fall. Falkenberg had just fixed this rope high up, and the tree stood swaying.

"What's that for?"

"To make it fall the right way," I began. But Fruen did not care to listen to me any more; she turned to Falkenberg and put the question to him directly:

"Does it matter which way it falls?"

Falkenberg had to answer her.

"Why, no, we'll need to guide it a bit, so it doesn't break down too much of the young growth when it falls."

"Did you notice," said Fruen to her friend, "what a voice he has? He's the one that sings."

How I hated myself now for having talked so much, instead of reading her wish! But at least I would show her that I understood the hint. And, moreover, it was Froken Elisabeth and no other I was in love with; she was not full of changing humours, and was just as pretty as the other—ay, a thousand times prettier. I would go and take work at her father's place.... I took care now, whenever Fruen spoke, to look first at Falkenberg and then at her, keeping back my answer as if fearing to speak out of my turn. I think, too, she began to feel a little sorry when she noticed this, for once she said, with a little troubled smile: "Yes, yes, it was you I asked."

That smile with her words.... Then came a whirl of joy at my heart; I began swinging the ax with all the strength I had gained from long use, and made fine deep cuts, I heard only a word now and then of what they said.

"They want me to sing to them this evening," said Falkenberg, when they had gone.

Evening came.

I stood out in the courtyard, talking to the Captain. Three or four days more, and our work on the timber would be at an end.

"And where will you be going then?" asked the Captain.

"We were going to get work on the railway."

"I might find you something—to do here," said the Captain. "I want the drive down to the high road carried a different way; it's too steep as it is. Come and see what I mean."

He took me round to the south side of the house, and pointed this way and that, though it was already dark.

"And by the time that's done, and one or two other little things, we shall be well on to the spring," he said. "And then there'll be the water, as you said. And, besides, there's Petter laid up still; we can't get along like this. I must have another hand to help."

Suddenly we heard Falkenberg singing. There was a light in the parlour; Falkenberg was in there, singing to an accompaniment on the piano. The music welled out toward us—the man had a remarkable voice—and made me quiver against my will.

The Captain started, and glanced up at the windows.

"No," he said suddenly; "I think, after all, we'd better leave the drive till next spring as well. How soon did you say you'd be through with the timber?"

"Three or four days."

"Good! We'll say three or four days more for that, and then finish for this year."

A strangely sudden decision. I thought to myself. And aloud I said:

"There's no reason why we shouldn't do the road work in winter. It's better in some ways. There's the blasting, and getting up the loads...."

"Yes, I know ... but ... well, I think I must go in now and listen to this...."

The Captain went indoors.

It crossed my mind that he did so out of courtesy, wishing to make himself, as it were, responsible for having Falkenberg in the parlour. But I fancied he would rather have stayed talking with me.

Which was a coxcomb's thought, and altogether wrong.



XXII

I had got the biggest parts of my machine done, and could fix them together and try it. There was an old stump by the barn-bridge from an aspen that had been blown down; I fixed my apparatus to that, and found at once that the saw would cut all right. Aha, now, what have you got to say? Here's the problem solved! I had bought a huge saw-blade and cut teeth all down the back; these teeth fitted into a little cogwheel set to take the friction, and driven forward by the spring. The spring itself I had fashioned originally from a broad staybusk Emma had given me, but, when I came to test it; it proved too weak; so I made another from a saw-blade only six millimetres across, after I had first filed off the teeth. This new spring, however, was too strong; I had to manage as best I could by winding it only half-way up, and then, when it ran down, half-way up again.

I knew too little theory, worse luck; it was a case of feeling my way at every step, and this made it a slow proceeding. The conical gear, for instance, I found too heavy when I came to put it into practice, and had to devise a different system altogether.

It was on a Sunday that I fixed my apparatus to the stump; the new white woodwork and the shining saw-blade glittered in the sun. Soon faces appeared at the windows, and the Captain himself came. He did not answer my greeting, so intent was he on the machine.

"Well, how do you think it will work?"'

I set it going.

"Upon my soul, I believe it will...."

Fruen and Froken Elisabeth came out, all the maids came out, Falkenberg came out, and I let them see it work. Aha, what did I say?

Said the Captain presently:

"Won't it take up too much time, fixing the apparatus to one tree after another?"

"Part of the time will be made up by easier work. No need to keep stopping for breath."

"Why not?"

"Because the lateral pressure's effected by the spring. It's just that pressure that makes the hardest work."

"And what about the rest of the time?"

"I'm going to discard this screw-on arrangement and have a clamp instead, that can be pressed down by the foot. A clamp with teeth to give a better grip, and adjustable to any sized timber."

I showed him a drawing of this clamp arrangement; I had not had time to make the thing itself.

The Captain took a turn at the saw himself, noticing carefully the amount of force required. He said:

"It's a question whether it won't be too heavy, pulling a saw twice the width of an ordinary woodcutting saw."

"Ay," agreed Falkenberg; "it looks that way."

All looked at Falkenberg, and then at me. It was my turn now.

"A single man can push a goods truck with full load on rails," I said. "And here there'll be two men to work a saw with the blade running on two rollers over oiled steel guides. It'll be easier to work than the old type of saw—a single man could work it, if it came to a pinch."

"It sounds almost impossible."

"Well, we shall see."

Froken Elisabeth asked half in jest:

"But tell me—I don't understand these things a bit, you know—why wouldn't it be better to saw a tree across in the old way?"

"He's trying to get rid of the lateral pressure; that's a strain on the men working," explained the Captain. "With a saw like this you can, as he says, make a horizontal cut with the same sort of pressure you would use for an ordinary saw cutting down vertically. It's simply this: you press downwards, but the pressure's transmitted sideways. By the way," he went on, turning to me, "has it struck you there might be a danger of pressing down the ends of the blade, and making a convex cut?"

"That's obviated in the first place by these rollers under the blade."

"True; that goes for something. And in the second place?"

"In the second place, it would be impossible to make a convex cut with this apparatus even if you wanted to. The blade, you see, has a T-shaped back; that makes it practically impossible to bend it."

I fancy the Captain put forward some of his objections against his own conviction. Knowing all he did, he could have answered them himself better than I. On the other hand, there were points he did not notice, but which caused me some anxiety. A machine that was to be carried about in the woods must not be made with delicate mechanism. I was afraid, for instance, that the two steel guides might be easily injured, and either broken away, or so bent that the wheels would jam. No; the guides would have to be dispensed with, and the wheels set under the back of the saw. Altogether, my machine was far from complete....

The Captain went over to Falkenberg and said:

"I want you to drive the ladies tomorrow; they're going some way, and Petter's not well enough, it seems. Do you think you could?"

"Surely," said Falkenberg; "and welcome."

"Frokenen's going back to the vicarage," said the Captain, as he turned to go. "You'll have to be out by six o'clock."

Falkenberg was in high spirits at this mark of confidence, and jestingly hinted that I envied him the same. Truth to tell, I did not envy him there in the least. I was perhaps a little hurt to find my comrade so preferred before myself, but I would most certainly stay here by myself in the quiet of the woods than sit on a box and drive in the cold.

Falkenberg was thoroughly pleased with himself.

"You're looking simply green with envy now," he said. "You'd better take something for it. Try a little castor-oil, now, do."

He was busy all the forenoon getting ready for the journey, washing down the carriage, greasing the wheels, and cleaning the harness after. I helped him with the work.

"I don't believe you can drive a pair at all, really," I said, just to annoy him. "But I'll give you a bit of a lesson, if you like, before you start."

"You've got it badly," he answered. "It's a pity to see a man looking like that, when a dose of castor-oil would put him right."

It was like that all the time—jesting and merriment from one to the other.

That evening the Captain came out to me.

"I didn't want to send you down with the ladies," he said, "because of your work. But now Froken Elisabeth says she wants you to drive, and not the other man."

"Me?"

"Yes. Because she knows you."

"Why, as for that, 'twould have been safe enough as it was."

"Do you mind going at all?"

"No."

"Good! Then that's settled."

This thought came to my mind at once: "Aha, it's me the ladies fancy, after all, because I'm an inventor and proprietor of a patent saw, and not bad looking when I'm properly got up—not bad looking by any means."

But the Captain explained things to Falkenberg in an altogether different way, that upset my vanity completely: Froken Elisabeth wanted me to go down to the vicarage once more, so that her father might have another try at getting me to take work there. She'd promised him to do so.

I thought and thought over this explanation.

"But if you get taken on at the vicarage, then it's all off with our railway work," said Falkenberg.

"I shan't," said I.



XXIII

I started early in the morning with the two ladies in a closed carriage. It was more than a trifle cold at first, and my woollen rug came in very handy; I used it alternately to put over my knees and wrap round my shoulders.

We drove the way I had walked up with Falkenberg, and I recognized place after place as we passed. There and there he had tuned the pianos; there we had heard the grey goose passing.... The sun came up, and it grew warmer; the hours went by; then, coming to cross-roads, the ladies knocked at the window and said it was dinner-time.

I could see by the sun it was too early for the ladies' dinner-time, though well enough for me, seeing I took my dinner with Falkenberg at noon. So I drove on.

"Can't you stop?" they cried.

"I thought ... you don't generally have dinner till three...."

"But we're hungry."

I turned off aside from the road, took out the horses, and fed and watered them. Had these strange beings set their dinner-time by mine? "Varsaagod!"

But I felt I could not well sit down to eat with them, so I remained standing by the horses.

"Well?" said Fruen.

"Thank you kindly," said I, and waited to be served. They helped me, both of them, as if they could never give me enough. I drew the corks of the beer bottles, and was given a liberal share here as well; it was a picnic by the roadside—a little wayfaring adventure in my life. And Fruen I dared look at least, for fear she should be hurt.

And they talked and jested with each other, and now and again with me, out of their kindliness, that I might feel at ease. Said Froken Elisabeth:

"Oh, I think it's just lovely to have meals out of doors. Don't you?"

And here she said De, instead of Du, as she had said before.

"It's not so new to him, you know," said Fruen; "he has his dinner out in the woods every day."

Eh, but that voice of hers, and her eyes, and the womanly, tender look of the hand that held the glass towards me.... I might have said something in turn—have told them this or that of strange things from out in the wide world, for their amusement; I could have set those ladies right when they chattered on, all ignorant of the way of riding camels or of harvest in the vineyards....

I made haste to finish my meal, and moved away. I took the buckets and went down for more water for the horses, though there was no need. I sat down by the stream and stayed there.

After a little while Fruen called:

"You must come and stand by the horses; we are going off to see if we can find some wild hops or something nice."

But when I came up they decided that the wild hops were over, and there were no rowan berries left now, nor any richly coloured leaves.

"There's nothing in the woods now," said Frokenen. And she spoke to me directly once again: "Well, there's no churchyard here for you to roam about in."

"No."

"You must miss it, I should think." And then she went on to explain to Fruen that I was a curious person who wandered about in graveyards by night and held meetings with the dead. And it was there I invented my machines and things.

By way of saying something, I asked about young Erik. He had been thrown by a runaway horse and badly hurt....

"He's better now," said Frokenen shortly.—Are you ready to go on again, Lovise?"

"Yes, indeed. Can we start?"

"Whenever you please," I answered.

And we drove on again.

The hours pass, the sun draws lower down the sky, and it is cooler—a chill in the air; then later wind and wet, half rain, half snow. We passed the annexe church, a couple of wayside stores, and farm after farm.

Then came a knocking on the window of the carriage.

"Wasn't it here you went riding one night on borrowed horses?" said Frokenen laughingly. "Oh, we know all about it, never fear!"

And both the ladies were highly amused.

I answered on a sudden thought:

"And yet your father would have me to take service with him—or wasn't it so?"

"Yes."

"While I think of it, Froken, how did your father know I was working for Captain Falkenberg? You were surprised yourself to find me there."

She thought quickly, and glanced at Fruen and said:

"I wrote home and told them."

Fruen cast down her eyes.

Now it seemed to me that the young lady was inventing. But she put in excellent answers, and tied my tongue. It sounded all so natural; she writes an ordinary letter to her people at home, and puts in something like this: "And who do you think is here? The man who did those water-pipes for us; he's felling timber now for Captain Falkenberg...."

But when we reached the vicarage, the new hand was engaged already, and there at work—had been there three weeks past. He came out to take the horses.

After that, I thought and thought again—why had they chosen me to drive them down? Perhaps it was meant as a little treat for me, as against Falkenberg's being asked into the parlour to sing. But surely—didn't they understand, these people, that I was a man who had nearly finished a new machine, and would soon have no need of any such trifles!

I went about sharp and sullen and ill-pleased with myself, had my meal in the kitchen, where Oline gave me her blessing for the water-pipes, and went out to tend my horses. I took my rug and went over to the barn in the dark....

I woke to find some one touching me.

"You mustn't lie here, you know; it's simply freezing," said Prastefruen. "Come with me, and I'll show you...."

We talked of that a little; I was not inclined to move, and at last she sat down herself instead. A flame she was—nay, a daughter of Nature. Within her the music of a rapturous dance was playing yet.



XXIV

Next morning I was more content with things. I had cooled down and turned sensible—I was resigned. If only I had seen before what was best for me, I might have taken service here at the vicarage, and been the first of all equals. Ay, and settle down and taken root in a quiet countryish life.

Fru Falkenberg stood out in the courtyard. Her bright figure stood like a pillar, stood there free and erect in the open courtyard, and her head was bare.

I greeted her Godmorgen.

"Godmorgen!" she answered again, and came striding towards me. Then very quietly she asked: "I wanted to see how they put you up last night, only I couldn't get away. That is, of course, I got away, but ... you weren't in the barn, were you?"

The last words came to me as if in a dream, and I did not answer.

"Well, why don't you answer?"

"Yes ... in the barn? Yes."

"Were you? And was it quite all right?"

"Yes."

"Oh, well, then ... yes—yes. We shall be going back sometime to-day."

She turned and walked away, her face all in one great flush....

* * * * *

Harald came and asked me to make a kite.

"A kite?" I answered all confusedly. "Ay, I'll make you a kite, a huge one, that'll go right up to the clouds. That I will."

We worked at it for a couple of hours, Harald and I. He was good and quick, and so innocent in his eagerness; I, for my part, was thinking of anything but kites. We made a tail several metres long, and busied ourselves with paste and lashing and binding; twice Froken Elisabeth came out to look on. She may have been every bit as sweet and bright as before, but I cared nothing for what she was, and gave no thought, to her.

Then came the order to harness ready to start. I should have obeyed the order at once, for we had a long drive before us, but, instead, I sent Harald in to ask if we might wait just half an hour more. And we worked on till the kite was finished. Next day, when the paste was dry, Harald could send up his kite and watch it rise, and feel unknown emotion within him, as I did now.

Ready to start.

Fruen comes out; all the family are there to see her off. The priest and his wife both know me again, return my greeting, and say a few words—but I heard nothing said of my taking service with them now. The priest knew me again—yes; and his blue-eyed wife looked at me with that sidelong glance of hers as she knew me again, for all she had known me the night before as well.

Froken Elisabeth brings out some food for the journey, and wraps her friend up well.

"Sure you'll be warm enough, now?" she asks for the last time.

"Quite sure, thanks; it's more than warm enough with all these. Farvel, Farvel."

"See you drive as nicely as you did yesterday," says Froken, with a nod to me as well.

And we drove off.

The day was raw and chilly, and I saw at once that Fruen was not warm enough with her rug.

We drive on for hour after hour; the horses know they are on the way home, and trot without asking. My bare hands stiffen about the reins. As we neared a cottage a little way from the road, Fruen knocked on the carriage window to say it was dinner-time. She gets out, and her face was pale with the cold.

"We'll go up there and have dinner," she says. "Come up as soon as you're ready, and bring the basket."

And she walked up the hill.

It must be because of the cold she chose to eat in a stranger's house, I thought to myself; she could hardly be afraid of me.... I tied up the horses and gave them their fodder. It looked like rain, so I put the oilskins over them, patted them, and went up to the cottage with the basket.

There is only an old woman at home. "Varsaagod!" she says, and "Come in." And she goes on tending her coffee-pot. Fruen unpacks the basket, and says, without looking at me:

"I suppose I am to help you again to-day?"

"Thank you, if you will."

We ate in silence, I sitting on a little bench by the door, with my plate on the seat beside me, Fruen at the table, looking out of the window all the time, and hardly eating anything at all. Now and again she exchanges a word with the old woman, or glances at my plate to see if it is empty. The little place is cramped enough, with but two steps from the window to where I sit; so we are all sitting together, after all.

When the coffee is ready, I have no room for my cup on the end of the bench, but sit holding it in my hand. Then Fruen turns full-face towards me calmly, and says with down-cast eyes:

"There is room here."

I can hear my own heart beating and I murmur something:

"Thanks; it's quite all right. I'd rather...."

No doubt but that she is uneasy; she is afraid lest I should say something. She sits once more looking away, but I can see she is breathing heavily. Ah, she need have no fear; I would not trouble her with so much as a word.

Now I had to take the empty plate and cup and set them back on the table, but I feared to startle her in my approach, for she was still sitting with averted head. I made a little noise with the things to draw her attention, set them down, and thanked her.

She tried to put on a housewifely tone:

"Won't you have some more? I'm sure you can't have...."

"No, thank you very much.... Shall I pack up the things now? But I doubt if I can."

I happened to glance at my hands; they had swelled up terribly in the warm room, and were all shapeless and heavy now. I could hardly pack up things with hands like that. She guessed my thought, looked first at my hands, then out across the room, and said, with a little smile:

"Have you no gloves?"

"No; I never wear them."

I went back to my place, waited till she should have packed up the things so I could carry the basket down. Suddenly she turned her head towards me, still without looking up, and asked again:

"Where do you come from?"

"From Nordland."

Pause.

I ventured to ask in my turn if Fruen had ever been there.

"Yes; when I was a child."

Then she looked at her watch, as if to check me from any more questions, and at the same time to hint it was getting late.

I rose at once and went out to the horses.

It was already growing dusk; the sky was darker, and a loose, wet sleet was beginning to fall. I took my rug down covertly from the box, and hid it under the front seat inside the carriage; when that was done, I watered the horses and harnessed up. A little after, Fruen came down the hill. I went up for the basket, and met her on the way.

"Where are you going?"

"To fetch the basket."

"You needn't trouble, thanks; there's nothing to take back."

We went down to the carriage; she got in, and I made to help her to rights with the rug she had. Then I pulled out my own from under the front seat, taking care to keep the border out of sight lest she should recognize it.

"Oh, what a blessing!" cried Fruen. "Why, where was it?"

"Under the seat here."

"Well.... Of course, I might have borrowed some more rugs from the vicarage, but the poor souls would never have got them back again.... Thanks; I can manage ... no, thank you; I can manage by myself. You can drive on now."

I closed the carriage door and climbed to my seat.

"Now, if she knocks at the window again, it's that rug," I thought to myself. "Well, I won't stop...."

Hour after hour passed; it was pitch dark now, raining and snowing harder than ever, and the road growing worse all the time. Now and again I would jump down from the box and run along beside the horses to keep warm; the water was pouring from my clothes.

We were nearing home now.

I was hoping there would not be too much light when we drove up, so that she recognized the rug. Unfortunately, there were lights in all the windows, waiting her arrival.

In desperation I checked the horses a little before we got to the steps, and got down to open the carriage door.

"But why ... what on earth have you pulled up here for?"

"I only thought if perhaps Fruen wouldn't mind getting out here. It's all mud on ahead ... the wheels...."

She must have thought I was trying to entice her into something, Heaven knows!...

"Drive on, man, do!" she said.

The horses moved on, and the carriage stopped just where the light was at its full.

Emma came out to receive her mistress. Fruen handed her the rugs all in a bundle, as she had rolled them up before getting out of the carriage.

"Thanks," she said to me, glancing round as she went in. "Heavens, how dreadfully wet you are!"



XXV

A curious piece of news awaited me: Falkenberg had taken service with the Captain as a farm-hand.

This upset the plan we had agreed on, and left me alone once more. I could not understand a word of it all. Anyhow, I could think it over tomorrow.... By two in the morning I was still lying awake, shivering and thinking. All those hours I could not get warm; then at last it turned hot, and I lay there in full fever.... How frightened she had been yesterday—dared not sit down to eat with me by the roadside, and never opened her eyes to me once through all the journey....

Coming to my senses for a moment, it occurs to me I might wake Falkenberg with my tossing about, and perhaps say things in my delirium. That would never do. I clench my teeth and jump up, get into my clothes again, scramble down the stairs, and set out over the fields at a run. After a little my clothes begin to warm me; I make towards the woods, towards the spot where we had been working; sweat and rain pour down my face. If only I can find the saw and work the fever out of my body—'tis an old and tried cure of mine, that. The saw is nowhere to be seen, but I come upon the ax I had left there Saturday evening, and set to work with that. It is almost too dark to see at all, but I feel at the cut now and then with my hands, and bring down several trees. The sweat pours off me now.

Then, feeling exhausted enough, I hide the ax in its old place; it is getting light now, and I set off at a run for home.

"Where have you been?" asks Falkenberg.

Now, I do not want him to know about my having taken cold the day before, and perhaps go making talk of it in the kitchen; I simply mutter something about not knowing quite where I have been.

"You've been up to see Ronnaug, I bet," he said.

I answered: yes, I had been with Ronnaug, since he'd guessed it.

"'Twas none so hard to guess," he said. "Anyhow, you won't see me running after any of them now."

"Going to have Emma, then?"

"Why, it looks that way. It's a pity you can't get taken on here, too. Then you might get one of the others, perhaps."

And he went on talking of how I might perhaps have got my pick of the other girls, but the Captain had no use for me. I wasn't even to go out tomorrow to the wood.... The words sound far away, reaching me across a sea of sleep that is rolling towards me.

Next morning the fever is gone; I am still a little weak, but make ready to go out to the wood all the same.

"You won't need to put on your woodcutting things again," says Falkenberg. "I told you that before."

True! Nevertheless, I put on those things, seeing the others are wet. Falkenberg is a little awkward with me now, because of breaking our plan; by way of excuse, he says he thought I was taking work at the vicarage.

"So you're not coming up to the hills, then?" I asked.

"H'm! No, I don't think so—no. And you know yourself, I'm sick of tramping around. I'll not get a better chance than this."

I make as if it was no great matter to me, and take up a sudden interest in Petter; worst of all for him, poor fellow, to be turned out and nowhere to go.

"Nowhere to go?" echoes Falkenberg. "When he's lain here the three weeks he's allowed to stay sick by law, he'll go back home again. His father's a farmer."

Then Falkenberg declares it's like losing part of himself to have me go. If it wasn't for Emma, he'd break his word to the Captain after all.

"Here," he says, "I'll give you these."

"What's that?"

"It's the certificates. I shan't want them now, but they may be the saving of you at a pinch. If you ever wanted to tune a piano, say."

And he hands me the papers and the key.

But, seeing I haven't his ear for music, the things are no use to me; and I tell him so. I could better handle a grindstone than a piano.

Whereat Falkenberg burst out laughing, relieved to find me ready with a jest to the last....

Falkenberg goes out. I have time to laze a little, and lie down all dressed on the bed, resting and thinking. Well, our work was at an end; we should have had to go anyhow. I could not reckon on staying here for all eternity. The only thing outside all calculation was that Falkenberg should stay. If only it had been me they'd offered his work, I'd have worked enough for two! Now, was there any chance of buying him off, I wondered? To tell the truth, I fancied I had noticed something before; as if the Captain were not altogether pleased to have this labourer about the place bearing his own name. Well, perhaps I had been wrong.

I thought and thought. After all, I had been a good workman, as far as I knew, and I had never stolen a moment of the Captain's time for work on my own invention....

I fell asleep again, and wakened at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Before I had time to get properly to my feet, there was the Captain himself in the doorway.

"Don't get up," he said kindly, and turned as if to go again. "Still, seeing you're awake, we might settle up. What do you say?"

I said it was as he pleased, and many thanks.

"I ought to tell you, though, both your friend and I thought you were going to take service at the vicarage, and so.... And now the weather's broken up, there's no doing more among the timber—and, besides, we've got down all there was to come. Well, now; I've settled with the other man. I don't know if you'd...."

I said I would be quite content with the same.

"H'm! Your friend and I agreed you ought to have more per day."

Falkenberg had said no word of this to me; it sounded like the Captain's own idea.

"I agreed with him we should share alike," said I.

"But you were sort of foreman; of course, you ought to have fifty ore per day extra."

I saw my hesitation displeased him, and let him reckon it out as he pleased. When he gave me the money, I said it was more than I had reckoned with. The Captain answered:

"Very pleased to hear it. And I've written a few lines here that might be useful, saying you've worked well the time you were here."

He handed me the paper.

A just and kindly man, the Captain. He said nothing now about the idea of laying on water to the house next spring; I took it he'd his reasons for that, and did not like to trouble him.

Then he asked:

"So you're going off now to work on the railway?"

I said I was not quite sure as to that.

"Well, well... anyhow, thanks for the time you've been with us."

He moved towards the door. And I, miserable weakling that I was, could not hold myself in check, but asked:

"You won't be having any work for me later on, perhaps, in the spring?"

"I don't know; we shall see. I ... well, it all depends. If you should happen to be anywhere near, why.... What about that machine of yours?"

I ventured to ask if I might leave it on the place.

"Certainly," said the Captain.

When he had gone I sat down on the bed. Well, it was all over now. Ay, so it was—and Lord have mercy on us all! Nine o'clock; she is up—she is there in the house I can see from this very window. Well, let me get away and have done with it.

I get out my sack and stow away my things, put on my wet jacket over my blouse, and am ready to start. But I sit down again.

Emma comes in: "Varsaagod; there's something ready for you in the kitchen."

To my horror she had my rug over one arm.

"And Fruen told me to ask if this wasn't your rug."

"Mine? No; I've got mine here with my things."

Emma goes off again with the rug.

Well, how could I say it was mine? Devil take the rug!... Should I go down to the kitchen or not? I might be able to say good-bye and thanks at the same time—nothing strange in that.

Emma came in again with the rug and laid it down neatly folded on a stool.

"If you don't hurry up, the coffee'll be cold," she says.

"What did you put that rug there for?"

"Fruen told me to."

"Oh, well, perhaps it's Falkenberg's," I muttered.

Emma asks:

"Are you going away now for good?"

"Yes, seeing you won't have anything to do with me."

"You!" says Emma, with a toss of her head.

I went down with Emma to the kitchen; sitting at table, I saw the Captain going out to the woods. Good he was gone—now, perhaps, Fruen might come out.

I finished my meal and got up. Should I go off now, and leave it at that? Of course; what else? I took leave of the maids, with a jesting word to each in turn.

"I'd have liked to say good-bye to Fruen, too, but...."

"Fruen's indoors. I'll...."

Emma goes in, and comes back a moment later.

"Fruen's lying down with a headache. She sent her very good wishes."

"Come again!" said all the girls as I set off.

I walked away out of the place, with my sack under my arm. Then suddenly I remembered the ax; Falkenberg might not find it where I'd put it. I went back, knocked at the kitchen door, and left a message for him where it was.

Going down the road, I turned once or twice and looked back towards the windows of the house. Then all was out of sight.



XXVI

I circled round all that day, keeping near to Ovrebo; looked in at one or two farms to ask for work, and wandered on again like an outcast, aimlessly. It was a chill, unkindly day, and I had need of all my walking to keep warm.

Towards evening I made over to my old working place among the Captain's timber. I heard no sound of the ax; Falkenberg had gone home. I found the trees I had felled the night before, and laughed outright at the ghastly looking stumps I had left. Falkenberg would surely have seen the havoc, and wondered who could have done it. Possibly he might have set it down to witchcraft, and fled home accordingly before it got dark. Falkenberg!... Hahaha!

But it was no healthy merriment, I doubt—a thing born of the fever and the weakness that followed it. And I soon turned sorrowful once more. Here, on this spot, she had stood one day with that girl friend of hers; they had come out and talked to us in the woods....

When it was dark enough I started down towards the house. Perhaps I might sleep in the loft again to-night; then to-morrow, when her headache was gone, she might come out. I went down near enough to see the lights of the house, then I turned back. No, perhaps it was too early yet.

Then for a time—I should reckon about two hours—I wandered round and sat down a bit, wandered again and sat down a bit; then I moved up towards the house again. Now I could perfectly well go up in the loft and lie down there. As for Falkenberg—miserable worm!—let him dare to say a word! Now I know what I will do. I will hide my sack in the woods before I go up, so as to look as if I had only come back for some little thing I had forgotten.

And I go back to the woods.

No sooner have I hidden the sack than I realize I am not concerned at all with Falkenberg and sleeping in the loft. I am a fool and a madman, for the thing I want is not shelter for the night, but a sight of just one creature there before I leave the place. And I say to myself: "My good sir, was it not you that set out to live a quiet life among healthy folk, to win back your peace of mind?"

I pull out my sack from its hiding-place, fling it over my shoulder, and move towards the house for the third time, keeping well away from the servants' quarters, and coming round on the south side of the main building. There is a light in the parlour.

And now, although it is dark, I let down the sack from over my shoulder, not to look like a beggar, and thrust it under my arm as if it were a parcel. So I steal up cautiously towards the house. When I have got near enough, I stop, stand there upright and strong before the windows, take off my cap and stand there still. There is no one to be seen within, not a shadow. The dining-room is all dark; they have finished their evening meal. It must be late, I tell myself.

Suddenly the lamp in the parlour goes out, and the whole house seems dead and deserted. I wait a little, then a solitary light shines out upstairs. That must be her room. The light burns for half an hour, perhaps, and then goes out again. She had gone to rest. Good-night!

Good-night for ever!

And, of course, I shall not come back to this place in the spring. A ridiculous idea!

* * * * *

When I got down on to the high road, I shouldered my sack once more and set out on my travels....

In the morning I go on again, having slept in a barn where it was terribly cold, having nothing to wrap round me; moreover, I had to start out again just at the coldest hour, about daybreak, lest I should be found there.

I walk on and on. The woods change from pine to birch and back again. Coming upon a patch of fine, straight-stemmed juniper, I cut myself a staff, and sit down at the edge of the wood to trim it. Here and there among the trees a yellow leaf or so still hangs, but the birches are full of catkins set with pearly drops. Now and again half, a dozen small birds swoop down on one of these birches, to peck at the catkins, and then look about for a stone or a rough tree trunk to rub the gum from their beaks. Each is jealous of the rest; they watch and chase and drive one another away, though there are millions of catkins for them to take all they will. And the one that is chased never does anything but take to flight. If a little bird comes bearing down towards a bigger one, the bigger one will move away; even a full-grown thrush offers no resistance to a sparrow, but simply takes itself off. I fancy it must be the speed of the attack that does it.

The cold and discomfort of the morning gradually disappear; it amuses me to watch the various things I meet with on my way, and think a little, idly enough, of every one. The birds were most diverting; also, it was cheering to reflect that I had my pocket full of money.

Falkenberg had chanced to mention that morning where Petter's home was, and I now made for that. There would hardly be work for me on so small a place; but now that I was rich, it was not work I sought for first of all. Petter would be coming home soon, no doubt, and perhaps have some news to tell.

I managed so as to reach the farm in the evening. I said I brought news of their son, that he was much better now, and would soon be home again. And could they put me up for the night?



XXVII

I have been staying here a couple of days; Petter has come home, but had nothing to tell.

"Is all well at Ovrebo?"

"Ay, there's nothing wrong that I know of."

"Did you see them all before you left? The Captain, Fruen?"

"Yes."

"Nobody ill?"

"No. Why, who should there be?"

"Well, Falkenberg said something about he'd hurt his hand. But I suppose it's all right now, then."

There was little comfort in this home, though they seemed to be quite well off. Petter's father was deputy to the Storting, and had taken to sitting reading the papers of an evening. Eh, reading and reading—the whole house suffered under it, and the daughters were bored to death. When Petter came home the entire family set to work reckoning out whether he had gotten his full pay, and if he had lain sick at Ovrebo for the full time allowed him by law, or "provided by statute," as his father, the deputy, put it. Yesterday, when I happened to break a window—a little pane that cost next to nothing—there was no end of whispering about it, and unfriendly glances at me from all sides; so today I went up to the store and bought a new pane, and fixed it in properly with putty. Then said the deputy: "You needn't have taken all that trouble over a pane of glass."

To tell the truth, it was not only for that I had been up to the store; I also bought a couple of bottles of wine, to show I did not care so much for the price of a pane of glass or so. Also, I bought a sewing-machine, to give the girls when I went away. We could drink the wine this evening; tomorrow would be Sunday, and we should all have time to lie abed. But on Monday morning I would start off again.

Things turned out otherwise, however. The two girls had been up in the loft, sniffing at my sack; both the wine and the sewing-machine had put fancies into their heads; they imagined all sorts of things, and began throwing out hints. Wait a bit, thought I to myself; my time will come!

In the evening I sit with the family in the parlour, talking. We have just finished supper, and the master of the house had put on his spectacles to read the papers. Then some one coughs outside. "There's some one coming in," I say. The girls exchange glances and go out. A little after they open the door and show in two young men. "Come in and sit down," says the wife.

It struck me just then that these two peasant lads had been invited on the strength of my wine, and that they were sweethearts with the girls. Smart young creatures—eighteen, nineteen years old, and already up to anything. Well, if they reckoned on that wine now, they'd be mistaken! Not a drop....

There was some talking of the weather; how it was no better than could be looked for that time of year, but a pity the wet had stopped the ploughing. There was no sort of life in this talk, and one of the girls turned to me and said I was very quiet this evening. How could it be?

"Maybe because I'm going away," I answered. "I've a good long way to go between now and Monday morning."

"Then perhaps we ought to have a parting glass tonight?"

There was some giggling at this, as a well-deserved thrust at me for keeping back the wine that miserly fashion. But I did not know these girls, and cared nothing for them, otherwise I had acted differently.

"What do you mean?" I asked. I've bought three bottles of wine that I've to take with me to a certain place."

"And you're going to carry it all that way?" asked the girl, amid much laughter. "As if there were never a store on the road."

"Frokenen forgets that it's Sunday tomorrow, and the stores on the road will be shut," said I.

The laugh died away, but I could see the company was no more kindly disposed towards me now for speaking straight out. I turned to the wife, and asked coldly how much I owed her for the time I had stayed.

But surely there was no hurry—wouldn't it do tomorrow?

I was in a hurry—thank you. I had been there two days—what did that come to?

She thought over it quite a while; at last she went out, and got her husband to go with her and work it out together.

Seeing they stayed so long away, I went up to the loft, packed my sack all ready, and carried it down into the passage. I proposed to be even more offended, and start off now—that very night. It would be a good way of taking leave, as things were.

When I came into the room again, Petter said:

"You don't mean to say you're starting out tonight?"

"Yes, I do."

"You've no call to heed the girls' nonsense, anyway."

"Herregud, let the old fellow go if he wants to," said his sister.

At last the deputy and his wife came in again, stiffly and stubbornly silent.

Well! And how much did I owe them?

H'm! They would leave it to me.

They were all alike—a mean and crafty lot; I felt myself stifling, and picking out the first note that came to hand I flung it at the woman.

Was that enough?

H'm! A tidy bit, for sure, but still.... And some might say 'twas enough, but....

How much was it I had given her?

A five-Kroner note.

Well, perhaps it was barely enough; I felt in my pocket for some more.

"No, mother, it was a ten-Kroner," said Petter. "And that's too much; you'll have to give him something back."

The old woman opens her hand, looks at the note, and turns so very surprised all at once.

"Why, so it is, ten Kroner, yes.... I didn't properly look. Why, then, 'tis right enough, and many thanks...."

Her husband, in embarrassment, starts talking to the two lads of what he'd been reading in the paper; nasty accident; hand crushed in a threshing-machine. The girls pretended not to notice me, but sat like two cats all the time, with necks drawn in and eyes as thin as knife blades. Nothing to stay for here—good-bye to them all.

The old woman comes out in the passage and tries making up to me.

"If only you'd lend us just one of those bottles now," she says, "'twould be a real kindness, that it would. With the two lads sitting there and all."

"Farvel," said I shortly, and would hear no more.

I had my sack over my shoulder, and the sewing-machine in one hand; it was a heavy load, and the muddy road made things no easier. But for all that I walked with a light heart. It was a miserable business altogether, and I might as well admit I had acted a trifle meanly. Meanly? Not a bit! I formed myself into a little committee, and pointed out that those infernal girls had planned to entertain their sweethearts with my wine. Well and good; but was not my ill-will towards that idea male selfishness on my part? If two strange girls had been invited, instead of two young men, should I not have uncorked the wine without a murmur? Certainly! And then as to their calling me an old fellow; after all, it was perfectly right. Old indeed I must be, since I took offence at being set aside in favour of stray plough-boys....

But my sense of injury cooled down in the course of that hard walking. The committee meeting was adjourned, and I toiled along hour after hour with my ridiculous burden—three bottles of wine and a sewing-machine. It was mild and slightly foggy; I could not see the lights of a farm till quite close up, and then mostly the dogs would come dashing out on me and hinder me from stealing into a barn. Later and later it grew; I was tired and discouraged, and plagued myself too with anxiety about the future. Had I not already wasted a heap of money on the most useless trash? I must sell that sewing-machine again now, and get some of it back.

At long last I came to a place where there was no dog. There was still a light in the window, and, without more ado, I walked up and asked shelter for the night.



XXVIII

A young girl sat at a table sewing; there was no one else in the room. When I asked for shelter, she answered brightly and trustingly that she would see, and went into a little room at the side. I called after her as she went that I would be glad only to sit here by the stove till daylight.

A little after the girl came in again with her mother, who was still buttoning her clothes about her. Godkvald! Shelter for the night? Well, well, there wasn't that room in the place they could make me properly comfortable, but I'd be welcome to the bedroom, such as it was.

And where would they sleep themselves?

Why, it was near day now, and the girl'd be sitting up anyhow for a bit with her sewing.

What was she sewing to sit up for all night? A new dress?

No, only the skirt. She was to wear it to church in the morning, but wouldn't hear of her mother helping.

I brought up my sewing-machine, and said jestingly that a skirt more or less was a mere trifle for a thing like this. Wait, and I'd show them.

Was I a tailor, then?

No. But I sold sewing-machines.

I took out the printed directions and studied them to see how it worked. The girl listened attentively; she was a mere child; her thin fingers were all blue with the dye from the stuff. There was something so poor-looking about those blue fingers; I brought out some wine and poured out for all of us. Then we go on sewing again—I with the printed paper, and the girl working the machine. She is delighted to see how easily it goes, and her eyes are all aglow.

How old was she?

Sixteen. Confirmed last year.

And what was her name?

Olga.

Her mother stands watching us, and would dearly like to try the machine herself, but every time she comes near, Olga says: "Be careful, mother, you'll despise it." And when the spool needs filling, and her mother takes the shuttle in her hand a moment, the child is once more afraid it may be "despised." [Footnote: Foragte, literally "despise." The word is evidently to be understood as used in error by the girl herself, in place of some equivalent of "spoil (destroy)," the author's purpose being to convey an impression of something touchingly "poor," as with the dye-stained fingers earlier and her awkward gait and figure later mentioned. Precisely similar characteristics are used to the same end in Pan, and elsewhere.]

The old woman puts on the coffee-pot, and tends the fire; the room is soon warm and cosy. The lonely folk are as trusting and kindly as could be. Olga laughs when I make a little jest about the machine. I noted that neither of them asked how much the thing cost, though I had told them it was for sale. They looked on it as hopelessly beyond their reach. But they could still take a delight in seeing it work.

I hinted that Olga really ought to have a machine like that, seeing she'd got the way of it so neatly all at once.

Her mother answered it would have to wait till she'd been out in service for a bit.

Was she going out in service?

Why, yes, she hoped so, anyway. Both her other daughters were in service, and doing well—thank God. Olga would be meeting them at church in the morning.

There was a little cracked mirror hanging on one of the walls, on the other a few cheap prints had been tacked up—pictures of soldiers on horseback and royalties with a great deal of finery. One of these pictures is old and frayed. It is a portrait of the Empress Eugenie, and evidently not a recent purchase. I asked where it had come from.

The good woman did not know. Must be something her husband had bought in his time.

"Did he buy it here?"

More likely 'twould have been at Hersat, where he had been in service as a young man. Might be thirty years gone now.

I have a little plan in my head already, and say:

"That picture is worth a deal of money."

The woman thinks I am making game of her, so I make a close inspection of the picture, and declare emphatically that it is no cheap print—no.

But the woman is quite stupid, and simply says: well, did I think so, now? The thing had hung there ever since the house was built. It was Olga's, by the way, she had called it hers from the time she was a little one.

I put on a knowing, mysterious air, and ask for further details of the case—where Hersat might be.

Hersat was in the neighbouring parish, some eight miles away. The Lensmand lived there....

The coffee is ready, and Olga and I call a halt. There are only the fastenings to be done now. I ask to see the blouse she is to wear with the skirt, and it appears that this is not a real blouse at all, but a knitted kerchief. But she has a left-off jacket that one of her sisters gave her, and that will go outside and hide all the rest.

Olga is growing so fast, I am told, that there's no sense in buying a blouse for her this twelvemonth to come.

Olga sits sewing on hooks and eyes, and that is soon done. Then she turns so sleepy, it's a sight to see; wherefore I put on an air of authority and order her to bed. Her mother feels constrained to sit up and keep me company, though I tell her myself to go back to bed again.

"You ought to be properly thankful, I'm sure," says the mother, "to the strange man for all the way he's helped you."

And Olga comes up to me and gives her hand to thank me, and I turn her round and shuffle her across to the bedroom door.

"You'd better go too," I say to her mother. "I won't sit talking any more, for I'm tired myself."

And, seeing I settle down by the stove with my sack under my head, she shakes her head with a smile and goes off too.



XXIX

I am happy and comfortable here; it is morning; the sun coming in through the window, and both Olga and her mother with their hair so smooth and plastered down, a wonder to see.

After breakfast, which I share with the two of them, getting quantities of coffee with it, Olga gets herself up in her new skirt and her knitted kerchief and the jacket. Eh, that wonderful jacket; lasting at the edge all round, and two rows of buttons of the same, and the neck and sleeves trimmed with braid. But little Olga could not fill it out. Nothing near it! The child is all odd corners and angles, like a young calf.

"Couldn't we just take it in a bit at the sides?" I ask. "There's plenty of time."

But mother and daughter exchange glances, plainly saying, 'tis Sunday, and no using needle or knife that day. I understand them well enough, for I would have thought exactly the same myself in my childhood. So I try to find a way out by a little free-thinking: 'tis another matter when it's a machine that does the work; no more than when an innocent cart comes rumbling down the road, as it may any Sunday.

But no; this is beyond them. And anyhow, the jacket must give her room to grow; in a couple of years it would fit her nicely.

I thought about for something I could slip into Olga's hand as she went; but I've nothing, so I gave her a silver Krone. And straightway she gives her hand in thanks, and shows the coin to her mother, and whispers she will give it to her sister at church. Her eyes are simply glowing with joy at the thought. And her mother, hardly less moved herself, answers yes, perhaps she ought....

Olga goes off to church in her long jacket; goes shambling down the hill with her feet turning in and out any odd way. A sweet and heartening thing to see....

Hersat now; was that a big place?

Yes, a fine big place.

I sit for a while blinking sleepy eyes and making excursions in etymology. Hersat might mean Herresate. [Footnote: Manor.] Or possibly some herse [Footnote: Local chieftain in ancient times.] might have held sway there. And the herse's daughter was the proudest maiden for far around, and the Jarl himself comes to ask her hand. And the year after she bears him a son, who becomes king....

In a word, I would go to Hersat. Seeing it was all the same where I went, I would go there. Possibly I might get work at the Lensmand's, or there was always the chance of something turning up; at any rate, I should see new people. And having thus decided upon Hersat, I felt I had a purpose before me.

The good woman gives me leave to lie down on her bed, for I am drowsy and stupid for lack of sleep. A fine blue spider clambers slowly up the wall, and I lie watching it till I fall asleep.

After a couple of hours I wake suddenly, feeling rested and fresh. The woman was cooking the dinner. I pack up my sack, pay her for my stay, and end up by saying I'd like to make an exchange; my sewing-machine for Olga's picture there.

The woman incredulous as ever.

Never mind, say I; if she was content, why, so was I. The picture was of value; I knew what I was doing.

I took down the picture from the wall, blew the dust from it, and rolled it up carefully; the wall showed lighter in a square patch where it had been. Then I took my leave.

The woman followed me out: wouldn't I wait now, till Olga came back, so she could thank me? Oh, now if I only would!

I couldn't. Hadn't time. Tell her from me, if there was anything she couldn't make out, to look in the directions....

The woman stood looking after me as I went. I swaggered down the road, whistling with satisfaction at what I had done. Only the sack to carry now; I was rested, the sun was shining, and the road had dried up a little. I fell to singing with satisfaction at what I had done.

Neurasthenia....

I reached Hersat the following day. At first I felt like passing by, it looked so big and fine a place; but after I had talked a bit with one of the farm-hands, I decided to try the Lensmand after all. I had worked for rich people before—let me see, there was Captain Falkenberg of Ovrebo....

The Lensmand was a little, broad-shouldered man, with a long white beard and dark eyebrows. He talked gruffly, but had kindly eyes; afterwards, I found he was a merry soul, who could laugh and jest heartily enough at times. Now and again, too, he would show a touch of pride in his position, and his wealth, and like to have it recognized.

"No, I've no work for you. Where do you come from?"

I named some places I had lately passed.

"No money, I suppose, and go about begging?"

No, I did not beg; I had money enough.

"Well, you'll have to go on farther. I've nothing for you to do here; the ploughing's done. Can you cut staves for a fence?

"Yes."

"H'm. Well, I don't use wooden fences any more. I've put up wire. Do bricklayer's work?"

"Yes."

"That's a pity. I've had bricklayers at work here for weeks; you might have got a job. But it's all done now."

He stood poking his stick in the ground.

"What made you come to me?"

"Every one said go to the Lensmand if I wanted work."

"Oh, did they? Well, I've always got a crowd here working at something or other—those bricklayers, now. Can you put up a fence that's proof against fowls?—For that's more than any soul on earth ever could, haha!—

"Worked for Captain Falkenberg, you said, at Ovrebo?"

"Yes."

"What were you doing there?"

"Felling timber."

"I don't know him—he lives a long way off. But I've heard of him. Any papers from him?"

I showed him what the Captain had written.

"Come along with me," said the Lensmand abruptly. He led me round the house and into the kitchen.

"Give this man a thorough good meal—he's come a long way, and...."

I sat down in the big, well-lighted kitchen to the best meal I had had for a long time. I had just finished when the Lensmand came out again.

"Look here, you...." he began.

I got up at once and stood straight as an arrow—a piece of politeness which I fancy was not lost on him.

"No, no, finish your meal, go on. Finished? Sure? Well, I've been thinking.... Come along with me."

He took me out to the woodshed.

"You might do a bit of work getting in firewood; what do you say to that? I've two men on the place, but one of them I shall want for summoners' work, so you'll have to go woodcutting with the other. You can see there's plenty of wood here as it is, but it'll take no harm lying here, can't have too much of that sort of thing. You said you had money; let me see."

I showed him the notes I had.

"Good. I'm an official, you see, and have to know my folk. Though I don't suppose you've anything on your conscience, seeing you come to the Lensmand, haha! Well, as I said, you can give yourself a rest today, and start cutting wood tomorrow."

I set to work getting ready for the next day, looked to my clothes, filed the saw, and ground my ax. I had no gloves, but it was hardly weather for gloves as yet, and there was nothing else I was short of.

The Lensmand came out to me several times, and talked in a casual way; it amused him, perhaps, to talk to a strange wanderer. "Here, Margrethe!" he called to his wife, as she went across the courtyard; "here's the new man; I'm going to send him out cutting wood."



XXX

We had no special orders, but set to work as we thought best, felling dry-topped trees, and in the evening the Lensmand said it was right enough. But he would show us himself the next day.

I soon realized that the work here would not last till Christmas. With the weather we were having, and the ground as it was, frost at night and no snow, we felled a deal each day, and nothing to hinder the work; the Lensmand himself though we were devilish smart at felling trees, haha! The old man was easy to work with; he often came out to us in the woods and chatted and made jokes, and as I never joked in return, he took me, no doubt, for a dull dog, but a steady fellow. He began sending me on errands now, with letters to and from the post.

There were no children on the place, no young folk at all save the maids and one of the farm-hands, so the evenings fell rather long. By way of passing the time, I got hold of some tin and acids and re-tinned some old pots and kettles in the kitchen. But that was soon done. And then one evening I came to write the following letter:

"If only I were where you are, I would work for two."

Next day I had to go to the post for the Lensmand; I took my letter with me and posted it. I was very uneasy. Moreover, the letter looked clumsy as I sent it, for I had got the paper from the Lensmand, and had to paste a whole strip of stamps along the envelope to cover where his name was printed on. I wondered what she would say when she got it. There was no name, nor any place given in the letter.

And so we work in the woods, the other man and I, talk of our little affairs, working with heart and soul, and getting on well together. The days passed; already, worse luck, I could see the end of our work ahead, but I had a little hope the Lensmand might find something else for me to do when the woodcutting was finished. Something would surely turn up. I had no wish to set out wandering anew before Christmas.

Then one day I go to the post again, and there is a letter for me. I cannot understand that it is for me, and I stand turning and twisting it confusedly; but the man knows me now; he reads from the envelope again and says yes, it is my name right enough, and care of the Lensmand.

Suddenly a thought strikes me, and I grasp the letter. Yes, it is for me; I forgot ... yes, of course....

And I hurry out into the road, with something ringing in my ears all the time, and open the letter, and read:

"Skriv ikke til mig—" [Footnote: "Do not write (skrive) to me."]

No name, no place, but so clear and lovely. The first word was underlined.

I do not know how I got home. I remember I sat on a stone by the roadside and read the letter and put it in my pocket, and walked on till I came to another stone and did the same again. Skriv ikke. But—did that mean I might come and perhaps speak with her? That little, dainty piece of paper, and the swift, delicate characters. Her hands had held it, her eyes had looked on it, her breath had touched it. And then at the end a dash. Which might have a world of meaning.

I came home, handed in the Lensmand's post, and went out into the wood. I was dreaming all the time. My comrade, no doubt, must have found me an incomprehensible man, seeing me read a letter again and again, and put it back with my money.

How splendid of her to have found me! She must have held the envelope up to the light, no doubt, and read the Lensmand's name under the stamps; then laid her beautiful head on one side and half closed her eyes and thought for a moment: he is working for the Lensmand at Hersat now....

That evening, when we were back home, the Lensmand came out and talked to us of this and that, and asked:

"Didn't you say you'd been working for Captain Falkenberg at Ovrebo?"

"Yes."

"I see he's invented a machine."

"A machine?"

"A patent saw for timber work. It's in the papers."

I started at this. Surely he hadn't invented my patent saw?

"There must be some mistake," I said. "It wasn't the Captain who invented it."

"Oh, wasn't it?"

"No it wasn't. But the saw was left with him."

And I told the Lensmand all about it. He went in to fetch the paper, and we both read what it said: "New Invention.... Our Correspondent on the spot.... Of great importance to owners of timber lands.... Principle of the mechanism is as follows:..."

"You don't mean to say it's your invention?"

"Yes, it is."

"And the Captain is trying to steal it? Why, this'll be a pretty case, a mighty pretty case. Leave it to me. Did any one see you working on the thing?"

"Yes, all his people on the place did."

"Lord save me if it's not the stiffest bit of business I've heard for a long time. Walk off with another man's invention! And the money, too ... why, it might bring you in a million!"

I was obliged to confess I could not understand the Captain.

"Don't you? Haha, but I do! I've not been Lensmand all this time far nothing. No; I've had my suspicions that he wasn't so rich as he pretended. Well, I'll send him a bit of a letter from me, just a line or so—what do you say to that? Hahaha! You leave it to me."

But at this I began to feel uneasy. The Lensmand was too violent all at once; it might well be that the Captain was not to blame in the matter at all, and that the newspaper man had made the mistake himself. I begged the Lensmand to let me write myself.

"And agree to divide the proceeds with that rascal? Never! You leave the whole thing in my hands. And, anyhow, if you were to write yourself, you couldn't set it out properly the way I can."

But I worked on him until at last he agreed that I should write the first letter, and then he should take it up after. I got some of the Lensmand's paper again.

I got no writing done that evening; it had been an exciting day, and my mind was all in a turmoil still. I thought and reckoned it out; for Fruen's sake I would not write directly to the Captain, and risk causing her unpleasantness as well; no, I would send a line to my comrade, Lars Falkenberg, to keep an eye on the machine.

That night I had another visit from the corpse—that miserable old woman in her night-shift, that would not leave me in peace on account of her thumbnail. I had had a long spell of emotion the day before, so this night she took care to come. Frozen with horror, I saw her come gliding in, stop in the middle of the room, and stretch out her hand. Over against the other wall lay my fellow-woodcutter in his bed, and it was a strange relief to me to hear that he too lay groaning and moving restlessly; at any rate there were two of us to share the danger. I shook my head, to say I had buried the nail in a peaceful spot, and could do no more. But the corpse stood there still. I begged her pardon; but then, suddenly, I was seized with a feeling of annoyance; I grew angry, and told her straight out I'd have no more of her nonsense. I'd borrowed that nail of hers at a pinch, but I'd done all I could do months ago, and buried it again.... At that she came gliding sideways over to my pillow, trying to get behind me. I flung myself up in bed and gave a shriek.

"What is it?" asked the lad from the other bed.

I rub my eyes and answer I'd been dreaming, that was all.

"Who was it came in just now?" asks the boy.

"I don't know. Was there any one in here?"

"I saw some one going..."



XXXI

After a couple of days, I set myself down calmly and loftily to write to Falkenberg. I had a bit of a saw thing I'd left there at Ovrebo, I wrote; it might be a useful thing for owners of timber lands some day, and I proposed to come along and fetch it away shortly. Please keep an eye on it and see it doesn't get damaged.

Yes, I wrote in that gentle style. That was the most dignified way. And since Falkenberg, of course, would mention it in the kitchen, and perhaps show the letter round, it had to be delicacy itself. But it was not all delicacy and nothing else; I fixed a definite date, to make it serious: I will come for the machine on Monday, 11th December.

I thought to myself: there, that's clear and sound; if the machine's not there that Monday, why, then, something will happen.

I took the letter to the post myself, and stuck a strip of stamps across the envelope as before....

My beautiful ecstasy was still on me. I had received the loveliest letter in the world; here it was in my breast pocket; it was to me. Skriv ikke. No, indeed, but I could come. And then a dash at the end.

There wasn't anything wrong, by any chance, about that underlining the word: as, for instance, meaning to emphasize the whole thing as an order? Ladies were always so fond of underlining all sorts of words, and putting in dashes here, there, and everywhere. But not she; no, not she!

A few days more, and the work at the Lensmand's would be at an end; it fitted in very well, everything worked out nicely; on the 11th I was to be at Ovrebo. And that perhaps not a minute too soon. If the Captain really had any idea of his own about my machine, it would be necessary to act at once. Was a stranger to come stealing my hard-earned million? Hadn't I toiled for it? I almost began to regret the gentleness of my letter to Falkenberg; I might have made it a good deal sharper; now, perhaps, he would imagine I was too soft to stand up for myself. Why, he might even take it into his head to bear witness against me, and say I hadn't invented the machine at all! Hoho, Master Falkenberg, just try it on! In the first place, 'twill cost you your eternal salvation; and if that's not enough, I'll have you up for perjury before my friend and patron, the Lensmand. And you know what that'll mean.

"Of course you must go," said the Lensmand when I spoke to him about it. "And just come back here to me with your machine. You must look after your interests, of course; it may be a question of something considerable."

The following day's post brought a piece of news that changed the situation in a moment; there was a letter from Captain Falkenberg himself in the paper, saying it was due to a misunderstanding that the new timber saw had been stated as being of his invention. The apparatus had been designed by a man who had worked on his estate some time back. As to its value, he would not express any opinion.—Captain Falkenberg.

The Lensmand and I looked at each other.

"Well, what do you say now?" he asked.

"That the Captain, at any rate, is innocent."

"Ho! D'you know what I think?"

Pause. The Lensmand playing Lensmand from top to toe, unravelling schemes and plots.

"He is not innocent," said he.

"Really?"

"Ah, I've seen that sort of thing before. Drawing in his horns, that's all. Your letter put him on his guard. Haha!"

At this I had to confess to the Lensmand that I had not written to the Captain at all but had merely sent a bit of a note to one of the hands at Ovrebo; and even that letter could not have reached there yet, seeing it was only posted the night before.

This left the Lensmand dumb, and he gave up unravelling things. On the other hand, he seemed from now onward to be greatly in doubt as to whether the whole thing had any value at all.

"Quite likely the machine's no good at all," he said. But then he added kindly: "I mean, it may need touching up a bit, and improving. You've seen yourself how they're always altering things like warships and flying-machines. Are you still determined to go?"

No more was said about my coming back here and bringing the machine with me. But the Lensmand wrote me a very nice recommendation. He would gladly have kept me on longer, it said, but the work was interrupted by private affairs of my own elsewhere....

In the morning, when I was ready to start, a little girl stood in the courtyard waiting for me to come out. It was Olga. Was there ever such a child? She must have been afoot since midnight to get here so early. And there she stood in her blue skirt and her jacket.

"That you, Olga? Where are you going?"

She had come to see me.

How did she know I was here?

She had asked about me and found out where I was. And please was it true she was to keep the sewing-machine? But of course it couldn't....

Yes, the machine was hers all right; hadn't I taken her picture in exchange? Did it work all right?

Yes, it worked all right.

We did not talk much together; I wanted to get her away before the Lensmand came out and began asking questions.

"Well, run along home now, child; you've a long way to go."

Olga gives me her hand—it is swallowed up completely in mine, and she lets it lie there as long as I will. Then she thanks me, and shambles gaily off again. And her toes turning in and out all odd ways.



XXXII

I am nearly at my goal.

Sunday evening I lay in a watchman's hut not far from Ovrebo, so as to be on the place early Monday morning. By nine o'clock every one would be up, then surely I must be lucky enough to meet the one I sought.

I had grown dreadfully nervous, and kept imagining ugly things. I had written a nice letter to Falkenberg, using no sharp words, but the Captain might after all have been offended at my fixing the date like that; giving him so and so much time.... If only I had never written at all!

Coming up towards the house I stoop more and more, and make myself small, though indeed I had done no wrong. I turn off from the road up, and go round so as to reach the outbuildings first—and there I come upon Falkenberg. He is washing down the carriage. We gave each other greeting, and were the same good comrades as before.

Was he going out with the carriage?

No, just come back the night before. Been to the railway station.

Who had gone away, then?

Fruen.

Fruen?

Fruen, yes.

Pause.

Really? And where was Fruen gone to?

Gone to stay in town for a bit.

Pause.

"Stranger man's been here writing in the papers about that machine of yours," says Falkenberg.

"Is the Captain gone away too?"

"No, Captain's at home. You should have seen his face when your letter came."

I got Falkenberg to come up to the old loft. I had still two bottles of wine in my sack, and I took them out and we started on them together; eh, those bottles that I had carried backward and forward, mile after mile, and had to be so careful with, they served me well just now. Save for them Falkenberg would never have said so much.