CHAP. VII.
A VOICE FROM THE RIDGE.
The schoolmaster had judged well when he asked the pastor to prove whether Ovind could bear to stand Number One. In the three weeks intervening between this time and the confirmation he was with the lad every day. It is one thing for a pure young heart to yield to an impression, and another to hold fast the good qualities he possesses. Many dark hours came to the lad before he learnt to build his future on better things than vanity and pride. When sitting at his work he would suddenly leave it, saying hopelessly,--"What is the use? What do I gain?" But then a minute after, he would remember the kind words and goodness of the schoolmaster, and so each time he lost sight of his higher duties, he was enabled, by these human means, to bring them into view again.
At the little farm they were preparing at the same time, for his examination, and for his journey to the Agricultural School,--as the day after the confirmation he was to set off. The tailor and the shoemaker sat at work in the loft, the mother was baking in the kitchen, and the father was busy with a trunk. They were querying as to how much it would cost them in two years, and whether he could come home the first Christmas, perhaps he could not even come the second, and how hard it would be to be so long separated. They spoke also of the love he should bear to his parents, when they strove so hard to put their child forward. Ovind sat as one, who in his first trial at sea, had upset the boat, and been picked up by kindly sailors.
Such a feeling brings humility, and with it many other things. As the great day drew near, he felt himself to be fully prepared for it, and looked hopefully to the future. Every time the image of Marit presented itself to his mind, he strove carefully to put it aside, though it always gave him pain to do it. By practice in it he sought to strengthen himself, but instead he felt only a deeper pain. Therefore he felt weary the last evening, when, after a long self-proving, he prayed to God that in this matter He would not try him.
The schoolmaster came in in the evening. They all sat together, after having prepared themselves as it is customary to do, the evening before taking the Sacrament. The mother was much moved, and the father was unusually silent; separation lay behind the festival of the morning, and it was uncertain when they could all meet again. The schoolmaster took the Psalm-book, they had a little service and sang, and then he prayed from the heart as words came to him.
These four sat there until late in the evening; they gradually grew silent, each occupied with his own thoughts; then they separated with best wishes for the coming day, and the influence it would have.
Ovind thought when he went to rest that night that he had never been so happy before, and he gave his own special interpretation to it; never before, thought he, have I laid down so desirous of fulfilling God's will and so trustful in it. Marit's face soon presented itself again, and the last he remembered was, that he lay and proved himself:--not quite happy, not quite;--and that he replied:--yes, quite;--but again:--not quite;--yes, quite;--no; not quite.
When he awoke, he at once remembered what day it was; he prayed, and felt refreshed, as one does in a morning. He rose in good time and carefully tried on his new clothes, for he had never had such fine ones before. There was a round jacket especially that seemed strange to him; it was made of fine cloth, and he felt it again and again before he got used to it. When he had put his collar on, and for the fourth time tried on the jacket, he got hold of a little looking-glass, and, catching sight of the beautiful hair encircling his own self-satisfied face, it suddenly struck him that this again was vanity. Yes; but people may surely be well-dressed and clean, he argued, as he turned away from the glass as though it were sin to look in it. Well, but not to think so much of themselves for it. No, certainly, but the Lord must like that one should care to be tidy. That may be, but would He not like better that you should look well without thinking so much about it. Yes, but it's only because everything is so new. Well then, by-and-bye you will forget it. Then he began in the same way to prove himself first upon one point and then upon another, he felt so afraid lest any sin should blot that day.
When he came down his parents were all ready and waiting breakfast for him. He went up to them and thanked them for his new clothes; they wished him the customary, "Health to wear them and strength to tear them;" then they seated themselves at the table, said grace, and began the meal. When they had finished, the mother cleared the table and brought in the lunch basket for the journey to church. The father put on his jacket, and the mother her shawl, they took the Psalm-books, locked up the house and set off. On reaching the main road they met with a great many going to church, some driving and some on foot, a few of the candidates for confirmation among them, and now and then white-haired grand-parents, who tried to get to church just this once again.
It was an Autumn day without sunshine as, if the weather were about to break. The clouds, met and parted again; great masses broke into small patches, chasing each other far away and bearing with them orders for rain; down on the earth it was still quiet, the leaves hung dead and motionless, the air was a little oppressive; the people carried cloaks but did not require to use them. A large concourse of people had gathered round the solitary church; but the confirmation candidates all went straight in, to be placed before the service began. Then the schoolmaster in his blue dress coat and knickerbockers, high boots, stiff neck-cloth, and pipe sticking out of his pocket, walked about, nodding and smiling, patting one on the shoulder, and telling another to answer clearly and distinctly, until he reached the lower end where Ovind stood talking to his friend Hans, and answering all his questions about the journey. "Good morning, Ovind, you look very well to-day." He took hold of him by the coat saying confidentially, "I think a great deal of you; I have been talking to the pastor, and you are to have your right place as Number One; go up and take it and answer well."
Ovind looked up astonished at him; the schoolmaster nodded; the lad went a few steps forward, then stopped, then a few more steps, then stopped again; yes, it's true--he has spoken to the pastor for me,--and the lad went straight on.
"You are Number One after all," whispered one.
"Yes," said Ovind in a low tone, but scarcely knew yet whether he dare say it.
The placing being accomplished, and the pastor having come, the bell rung and the people streamed into the church. Ovind looked up and saw Marit Heidegaard standing straight opposite him. She also saw him, but they both of them felt so awed by the sacredness of the place that they dared not greet each other. He saw only that she was bright and beautiful, and that she wore nothing on her head. Ovind, who for half-a-year had had so many pleasant dreams of standing opposite to her, now that it was really come to pass, forgot both the place and her.
When all was over, his relations and friends came to offer their congratulations; then his companions having heard that he was to travel next day came to say good-bye; and many of the younger ones, whom he had driven in the sledges, and whom he had assisted at school, cried a little at the thought of his departure. At last Ovind and his parents left for home accompanied by the schoolmaster. On the way there were several more came to offer him their good wishes and to take leave; otherwise they did not speak much till they sat again in the quiet room at home.
The schoolmaster tried to help them to keep their courage up, but now that it was come to the point, they all three, never before having been parted for a single day, dreaded the separation for two whole years, but none of them wished to shew their feelings. As the time passed on Ovind grew worse and worse, and at last he went out of doors to quiet himself.
It was growing dark, he stood upon the steps and looked up listening to the gentle sighing of the wind. Then he heard his own name called down from the ridge, quite softly, yet there was no mistaking it, it was repeated twice. He looked up, and could just discern a woman's figure looking down from among the trees.
"Who is that?" he asked.
"I hear you are going away," she said in a low tone, "so I thought I would come and say good-bye to you, seeing you hadn't come to me."
"Dear, is that you, Marit! I'll come up to you."
"No, don't, I've been here so long, and then I should have to stay still longer, and no one knows where I am, so I must be quick home."
"It was kind of you to come," said he.
"I couldn't bear that you should leave in that way Ovind; we have known each other since we were children."
"Yes, we have."
"And now we haven't spoken to each other for half-a-year."
"No we haven't."
"We were separated so strangely that time too."
"Yes, I think I must come up to you."
"Oh no, don't! but tell me, I hope you are not grieved with me?"
"Dear, how could you think so?"
"Good-bye then Ovind, and thank you for all the pleasant times we have had together!"
"Marit!"
"Yes, but now I must go, they will miss me.
"Marit,--Marit!"
"No, I daren't stay longer, Ovind; farewell!"
"Farewell!"
The rest of the evening he was, as it were, in a dream, answering absently when they spoke to him. They attributed this to the thought of his coming departure, which was quite a natural thing, and which certainly did occupy his attention at the moment when the schoolmaster took his leave, and slipped something into his hand, which he afterwards found to be a five dollar piece. Soon, however, it passed out of his mind, and he thought only of the words that had come down from the ridge and gone up again.
CHAP. VIII.
BE SURE THAT YOU BURN IT.
Dear Parents,--We have a great deal more to read now, but as I am much more up to the others, it is not such hard work. When I come home I shall make great changes in father's farm, for there is a great deal that is very bad, and it is a wonder that things have hung together as they have. But I shall put all to rights, for I have learnt many things here. I should like to be in a place where I can have things as I now know they should be; so when I am ready I must seek for a good situation. All here say that Jon Hatlen is not so clever as they think at home, but he has his own farm, so that is no matter. Many who come from here get a very high salary, and they are so well paid because this is the best agricultural school in the country. Some say that there is a better in the next county, but that is not true.
There are two words here, the one is called Theory, and the other Practice; one is nothing without the other, but it is well to know them both; the last, however, is the best. Theory is to know the reason why a thing should be done, and practice is to be able to do it. Here we learn both. The Principal is so clever that nobody can come up to him. At the last General Agricultural Meeting he brought forward two subjects for discussion, while the principals from the other schools had none of them more than one, and in the discussions they found he was always right. But the last meeting, when he wasn't there, ended in nothing but talk. The lieutenant, who teaches us surveying, was engaged only because he is so very clever; the other schools have no lieutenant.
The schoolmaster asks if I go to church; yes, certainly I go to church, for now the pastor has got a curate who preaches so that everybody is terrified, and it is a pleasure to hear him. He comes from the college in Christiania, and people think he is too strict, but it is good for them.
At present we are reading history that we have never read before, and it is wonderful to see all that has happened in the world, especially in our country, for we have constantly conquered except when we have lost, and that has been only when we haven't been equal. Now we have more liberty than any other country except America, but there they are not happy; and our liberty we must prize above all things.
Now I must conclude for this time, for I have written a great deal. The schoolmaster will read this letter, and when he answers for you, ask him to tell me some news about one or another, for this he doesn't do.
With best love,
Your attached son,
Ovind Thoresen Pladsen.
Dear Parents,
I must now tell you that we have had an examination, and I stand very high in many things. I am high in writing, and land measuring, but not so good in composition. The principal says this is because I have not read enough, and he has given me some books by Ole Vig, which are very easy to understand.
Everything here is so small to what it is in other countries; we understand next to nothing, we learn everything from the Scotch and Swiss, but gardening most from Holland.
I have now been here nearly a year, and I thought I had learnt a great deal; but when I saw what those who left at the last examination knew, and thought that not even they knew anything in comparison to the foreigners, I felt quite disheartened. I am now in the first class, and must stay here another year before I am ready. But most of my companions are gone, and I long for home. It seems as if I stood alone, though I certainly do not, but it feels so strange when one has been long away.
What am I to do when I leave here? I shall naturally come home first, and then I must seek for some situation, but it must not be far away.
Good-bye dear parents. Remember me kindly to those who ask after me, and say I am well, but I long to come home.
Your attached son,
Ovind Thoresen Pladsen.
Dear Schoolmaster,
This is to ask you if you will be so good as to send the enclosed letter, but be sure and say nothing about it to anybody. If you will not, then it must be burnt.
Ovind Thoresen Pladsen.
To Marit Knudsdatter Heidegaard.
You will very likely be surprised to receive a letter from me, but you need not be, for I will only ask how you fare, and this you must let me know as soon as possible and in every respect.
Respecting myself, I have only to say that I shall be ready to leave here in one year.
Respectfully,
Ovind Pladsen.
To Ovind Pladsen,
At the Agricultural School.
I duly received your letter from the schoolmaster, and will answer it as you ask me, though I am rather afraid, because you are now so learned; I have a letter book but it doesn't suit. However, I will do my best, and you must take the will for the deed; but you musn't show it, or else you are not what I think you are; and you musn't hide it because any one might easily get hold of it, but you must burn it, that you must promise me. There are a great many things that I wanted to write about, but I dare not. We have had a good Autumn; potatoes are high, and here at Heidegaard we have plenty of them. But the bears have made sad havoc among the stock this Summer; they killed two of Ole Nedregaard's cows, and injured one of our tenant's calves so that it was obliged to be killed.
I am weaving a very large web like the Scotch plaid, and it is very difficult. And now I must tell you that I am still at home, though there are some who would have it otherwise.
I have nothing more to say this time, and so good-bye.
Marit Knudsdatter.
You must be sure to burn this letter.
To Ovind Thoresen Pladsen.
I have said to you Ovind, that he who walks with God shall have a good inheritance. And now listen to my advice: look not to the world with too much longing and anxiety, but trust in God and let not your heart be discouraged.
Your father and mother are both well, but I suffer a good deal, for now I feel the effects of the hardships I endured in the war. That which you sow in your young days you reap in your old, both in body and soul, and this is now my experience. But the aged should not complain, for sorrow teacheth wisdom, and affliction worketh patience, and strengthens for the last journey.
There are many reasons why I take the pen to write to you to-day, but first and foremost on Marit's account, for she has grown a good girl, though she is light of foot as a reindeer and is changeable. She would wish to keep to one, but it is not in her nature. I have often observed that with such tender hearts the Lord is merciful and lenient, and does not suffer them to be tempted above that they are able to bear.
I duly gave her the letter and she hid it from all but her own heart. If the Lord will further this matter I have nothing against it. That she finds approbation in the eyes of the young men can easily be seen, and she has abundance of this world's goods and also of the heavenly, but with the latter there is much unsettledness; the fear of God with her is like water in a shallow dam, it is there when it rains but away when the sun shines.
Now my eyes will not bear any more, for though I can see pretty well at a distance, they begin to water when I look closely at anything. Finally, let me remind you, Ovind, whatsoever you aspire to, take counsel of God, as it is written:--"Better is an handful with quietness, than both the hands full, with travail and vexation of spirit."--(Proverbs IV. 6.)
Your old schoolmaster,
Baard Andersen Opdal.
To Marit Knudsdatter Heidegaard.
Thanks for your letter, which I have read, and burnt as you told me to do. You write a great deal, but you don't say anything about that I want you to, and I dare not write about a certain matter until I know how you fare in every respect.
The schoolmaster says nothing to be depended upon, he praises you, but he calls you wavering. That you were before. Now I don't know what to believe; you must write, for I shall feel uneasy until I have heard from you. Just now I often think of that last evening when you came to the ridge, and of what you then said.
I will not write more this time, so good-bye.
With all respect,
Ovind Pladsen.
To Ovind Thoresen Pladsen.
The schoolmaster has given me a fresh letter from you, which I have now read, but I cannot understand it, which must be because I am not learned. You want to know how I fare in every respect. I am quite well. I have a good appetite and sleep at nights, and sometimes also in the day. I have danced a great deal this Winter, for there have been many delightful parties here. I go to church when there is not too much snow, but it has been very thick. Now you must have heard everything, but, if not, I don't know anything better than that you should write to me again.
Marit Knudsdatter.
To Marit Knudsdatter Heidegaard.
I have received your letter, but you appear to wish me to remain as wise as before. Perhaps this is an answer after all, I don't know. I dare not venture to write that which I wish to, because I don't feel to know you. Perhaps you don't know me any better. You must not think I am any longer the soft fellow that you crushed the spirit out of, as I sat and watched you dance; I have had many provings since then. Neither am I, as I used to be, like those long-haired dogs that hang their ears and shun people; but enough of this now.
Your letter was humorous enough, but the joking was just where it should not have been, for you understood me quite well, and you should have known that I did not ask in joke, but because lately I have not been able to think of anything else than that I asked you about. I waited anxiously, and then there came nothing but foolery.
Farewell, Marit Heidegaard. I shall take care not to look too much at you as I did at that dance. Grant you may both eat well and sleep well, and get your new web finished, and grant above all, that you may shovel away the snow lying before the church door.
With all respect,
Ovind Thoresen Pladsen.
To Ovind Thoresen.
In spite of my age and the weakness of my eyes, together with the pain in my hip, I must yet give in to the entreaties of the young, for they are glad to make use of the old people when they stick fast themselves. They call and cry till they are let loose, and then they run away again and will not hear us any more. This time it is Marit, who, with many coaxing words, has begged me to write a letter to send with hers, as she dare not trust herself to write alone. She had thought she had Jon Hatlen or another fool to deal with, and not one that schoolmaster Baard had brought up, but now the matter has come to a critical point. Yet you have been a little too hard, for there are some women who joke to keep from weeping. I am glad, however, that you look at serious things seriously, otherwise you could not laugh at that which is laughable. The position in which you stand to each other, is now apparent from many things. I have often had my doubts about Marit, for she is variable as the wind, but now I know she has refused Jon Hatlen, and greatly enraged her grandfather thereby. She was pleased when she received your letter, and it was not to repulse you that she wrote jokingly. She has suffered much, and that in waiting for the one she cared for, and now you will not have her but set her aside as a foolish child.
This was what I had to say to you, and if you take my advice you ought to be at one with her, for you will find enough besides to trouble you. I am like an old man who has seen three generations;--I know folly and its reward.
Your father and mother send their best love to you: they long to see you back. I have always avoided speaking of this before, lest it should make you home-sick. You do not know your father, and when you really learn to know him, you will marvel. He has been depressed and silent in respect of his affairs, but your mother made his mind easy, and now things look brighter.
Now my eyes grow dim, and my hand is unsteady, so I commend you to Him whose eye is ever watchful and whose hand stayeth not.
Baard Andersen Opdal.
To Ovind Pladsen.
I am grieved that you are vexed with me, for I didn't mean it as you have taken it. I am aware I have not always acted rightly towards you, and I wish to tell you so, but you must not show this to any one. Once when I got what I liked I wasn't good, and now no one cares for me any more, and I'm very unhappy. Jon Hatlen has written a song about me, and all the lads sing it, so that I daren't go anywhere. Both the old people know about it, and they are very cross. I am writing this alone, and you mustn't show it to any one.
I have often been down to see your parents. I have spoken with your mother, and we understand each other now, but I cannot tell you more for you wrote so strangely last time. The schoolmaster only makes game of me, but he knows nothing about the song, for no one dare sing such before him. I stand alone and feel to have no one to talk to. I often think of the time when we were children, when I always rode on your sledge, and you were so good to me. I could wish we were children again.
I dare not ask you to answer me any more, but if you will write just this once I shall never forget it, Ovind.
Marit Knudsdatter.
P.S.--I beg you burn this letter, I scarcely know if I dare send it.
Dear Marit,
It was a happy moment when you wrote that letter; and I thank you for it.
I feel as if I could scarcely stay here any longer Marit, I love you so much, and if you love me as truly, then Jon Hatlen's song and others' bitter words shall be like the chaff that the wind blows away. Since I received your letter I am like another man,--I feel so much stronger, and am not afraid of anything in the whole world. After I had sent my last letter I regretted it so, that it made me almost ill, and now you shall hear what this led to. The principal took me aside and asked me what was the matter; he thought I read too much. Then he said to me that when my year here was completed, he would allow me to stay a year longer free of expense; I should assist him in several ways, and he would give me a chance of learning more. Then I thought that work was the only thing for me, and I was very grateful, and even now, though I long so much to come to you, I do not regret it, for it will put me in a better position for the future. How happy I am! I do the work of three, and shall never be behind in anything. I will send you a book I am reading, for there is a great deal about love, and I read it at nights when the others are asleep; then I read your letter over too.
Have you thought of the time when we shall meet again? I think about it very often, and so must you, it is so delightful. I am glad I wrote so much before, though it was so difficult, for now I can open my whole heart to you. I shall send you several books to read, that you may see what those who truly love each other have had to go through, choosing rather to die of sorrow than to give each other up. And we should do so too. Though it will be two years before we see each other, and longer still before we really belong to each other, we must cheer our hearts by thinking that each day as it goes brings us one day nearer.
I have a great deal to write about, but I will leave it till next time, as I have not got any more paper to night, and the others are all asleep.
Now I shall go to bed and think of you till I sleep.
Your friend,
Ovind Pladsen.
CHAP. IX.
OVIND THROWS HIS CAP IN THE AIR.
One Saturday, at Midsummer, Thore Pladsen rowed over the lake to meet his son, who was coming that afternoon from the Agricultural School. The mother had had a charwoman for two or three days, and everything was made beautifully clean and tidy. Ovind's room had been ready some time, and the stove was set in order. To-day his mother decorated it with green, took the linen up, and made the bed, looking out between times over the water, to see if there was not a boat. The table was ready spread, and yet there was always something to be done,--flies to chase away, or dust, constant dust.
Still there was no boat. She seated herself in the window sill and looked out; then she heard footsteps on the other side and turned to see who was there; it was the schoolmaster, who came slowly along leaning upon a stick for his hip was very bad. He stopped a minute to rest, the expressive eyes moved quietly round; he nodded to her: "Not come yet?"
"No, I am expecting them every moment."
"Good hay weather to-day."
"But very hot for old people to be out."
The schoolmaster smiled: "Has somebody else been out in the heat to-day?"
"Yes, but she's gone again."
"Oh! well, may be they'll be meeting somewhere to-night."
"I suppose so, but Thore says they shall not meet in his house till the old people give their consent."
"Quite right."
"They are coming, I do believe!" the mother exclaimed.
"Yes, that is them."
The schoolmaster came in and rested a little, and then they went down to the lake, while the boat plied quickly along, for both father and son were rowing. When they came near, Ovind turned, rested his oars, and called "Good morning, mother; good morning, schoolmaster!"
"What a manly voice," said the mother, "but still the same light hair," she added.
Ovind sprang out, and shook hands; he laughed, and so unlike the peasants' way, he at once began to tell them all about the examination, the journey, the principal's testimonial, his prospects, &c.; then he asked about the harvest, and about his friends, all except one. And so they went home, Ovind laughing and talking; the mother smiling, not knowing exactly what to say; the schoolmaster and the father listening. Ovind was pleased with everything he saw,--first, that the house was painted; then, that the mill was enlarged; then, that the lead windows were taken out of the parlour, and white glass put instead of green.
When they came in, everything looked so exceedingly small, so different from what he had remembered it; but so cheerful, and all looked so inviting.
They seated themselves at the table, but there was not much eaten, for Ovind was constantly talking. Once when he was telling them a long story about one of his schoolfellows, and there came a moment's pause, his father said, "I can scarcely understand a single word of what you say, lad, you speak so exceedingly quick." They all laughed, and Ovind not the least; he knew it was true, but he seemed as though he could not help it.
All that he had seen and heard during his long absence, had so impressed and aroused him, that the powers which had hitherto lain dormant were now awakened, and the brain was constantly at work.
He was delighted with his little room; he thought he should like to stay at home for a time, assisting with the hay harvest and reading; where he should go after he could not tell, but it was all the same to him. They were afraid lest he should have grown thoughtless, but on the contrary he remembered everything; and it was he who thought of the boat and unpacked the things. He had gained a quickness and power of thought that was quite refreshing, and a liveliness in expressing his feelings, which, during the whole year, had only been repressed.
The schoolmaster looked ten years younger. "Now we have come so far with him," said he, as he rose to go.
The mother called Ovind aside, "Some one expects you at nine o'clock," she whispered.
"Where?"
"Up on the ridge."
Ovind looked at the clock, it was nearly nine. He could not wait in the house, but went out, clambered up the ridge, and looked round. The house roof lay close below; the bushes on the roof were very much larger, and all the small trees had grown; he could remember each one. And there lay the road, grey and sombre, and the wood with its varied foliage, and in the bay a vessel laden with planks, waiting for wind. The lake was bright and calm; some sea-birds flew over, but did not cry as it was late. He sat down waiting; the small trees prevented him from seeing very far over, but he listened to the slightest noise. For some time there were only birds that started up and deceived him; then again, a squirrel springing from tree to tree. But at last he heard a rustling, then it ceased; then it came again. He rose,--his heart beat fast, the blood rushed into his head; there was a movement in the bushes close to him, and a shaggy dog appeared; it was the dog from Heidegaard, and close behind, it rustled again; the dog looked back and wagged his tail; now comes Marit.
A bush caught her dress, she turned to release it, and so she stood when he first saw her; she had her hair plainly dressed, as was the custom with the peasant girls on week days; she wore a strong plaided dress without sleeves, and nothing on her neck except the linen collar. She had stolen away from her work, and durst not stay to tidy herself. She looked up and smiled, then she came forward, growing more and more red at each step. He went to meet her, and took her hand in both of his; she looked down, and so they stood.
"Thanks for all your letters," was the first he said, and when she then looked up a little and laughed, he felt that she was the most roguish little elf he ever could meet in a wood; but he was caught, and she not any the less.
"How you have grown!" she said, but meant something quite different.
They looked at each other but said nothing. Meanwhile the dog had seated himself at the edge of the ridge, and looked down upon the farm, and Thore observing his head from below, could not for his life think what it could be.
When, at last, the two began to talk, Ovind spoke so quickly that Marit couldn't help laughing.
"Yes, you see, it's when I am glad, really glad, you see, and when we came to understand each other it was as if a lock sprang open within me, sprang open, you see."
She laughed, then she said, "I know all the letters you sent me by heart."
"And I know yours too, but you always wrote such short letters."
"Because you always wanted them so long."
"And when I wanted you to write about one particular thing, you slipped away, and I never heard how you got rid of Jon Hatlen."
"I laughed."
"How?"
"Laughed, don't you know what it is to laugh?"
"Yes, I can laugh!"
"Let me see!"
"Did you ever hear such a thing! I must have something to laugh at first."
"I don't need it when I am happy."
"Are you happy now, Marit?"
"Do I laugh now, then?"
"Yes, that you do!"
He took both her hands, and clapped them together as he looked at her. Here the dog began to growl, then his hair stood on end, and he barked, and grew more and more angry till at last he seemed quite savage. Marit sprang up in fear, but Ovind went forward and looked down. It was his father the dog was barking at; he was standing close under the ridge, with both his hands in his pockets.
"What! are you there, too? Pray, whose is that savage dog?"
"It's a dog from Heidegaard," replied Ovind, rather taken aback.
"How in the world did it come there?"
The mother hearing the noise, had come out to see what it was, and understanding at once how things were, she laughed, and said: "The dog comes here every day, so it's nothing wonderful."
"But what a ferocious animal!"
"He'll be quiet if he's spoken to," said Ovind, and patted him. The dog ceased barking though he continued to growl. The father was satisfied and went down again.
"Safe this time!" said Marit, "but there's some one else to watch us."
"Your grandfather?"
"Exactly."
"But that won't do any harm."
"Not the slightest."
"You promise me?"
"Yes, I do Ovind."
"How pretty you are, Marit!"
"So said the fox to the raven, and got the cheese."
"You may think I want the cheese too."
"But you won't get it."
"I shall take it then."
She turned her head, and he didn't take it.
"I'll tell you something, Ovind," and she looked slily round.
"Well."
"How ugly you have grown."
"You'll give me the cheese though."
"No, indeed I won't," and she turned away again.
"Now, I must go, Ovind."
"I'll go with you."
"But not out of the wood, or grandfather will see you."
"No, not out of the wood,--dear, are you running?"
"We cannot go side by side here."
"But this isn't to go in company."
"Catch me then," and on she ran.
They stopped when they got to the end of the trees.
"When shall we meet again?" she whispered.
"To-morrow, to-morrow."
"Yes, to-morrow."
"Good bye;" she ran.
"Marit!" and she stopped.
"How strange that we should meet first up on the ridge."
"Yes, it is;" she ran again.
He looked long after her,--the dog ran before and barked, she after, trying to silence him. Ovind took his cap, and tossed it again and again; "Now, I believe, I really begin to be happy," said he, and sang as he went home.
CHAP. X.
TURN THE RIVER WHERE IT CAN FLOW.
When they were all making hay, one afternoon, in the summer, a little bare-headed, bare-footed boy came running down the ridge over the field to Ovind, and gave him a note.
"You are running fast," said Ovind.
"Yes, I am paid for it," answered the boy.
Ovind was a little perplexed when he opened the note, it was so carefully wrapped up and sealed; it ran as follows:--
"He is on his way now, but he goes slowly. Go into the wood and hide.
You Know Who From."