Chapter II: Part 2

"He can be thanked without wearing silver buttons," observed the father.

"Yes, but to let Ovind go as he went yesterday to the dance is not to thank Him."

"Ovind is a peasant lad."

"Yet he may dress decently when we can afford it."

"Say it so that he can hear it!"

"He can't hear, or else I should have a good mind to do it," she said, looking naively at her husband, as he glumly put his spoon away and took out his pipe.

"Such a poor farm we have," said he.

"I can't help laughing at you, you always talk of the farm and never speak of the mills!"

"Oh dear! you and the mills; I don't think you care whether they go or not."

"Yes, thank God, if they'd only go both night and day."

"But now they've been standing ever since before Christmas."

"No one grinds at Christmas time."

"They grind when there's water; but since they got the mill up at Nystrommen, there's nothing to be done."

"The schoolmaster didn't say so to-day."

"H'm-- I shall let a more discreet man than the schoolmaster manage our affairs."

"Yes, last of all he should talk with your own wife."

Thore did not reply to this, but lighting his pipe, he rose and leaned against the wood pile, looking first at his wife and then at his son, and finally fixing his gaze on an old crow's nest that hung deserted up in a pine tree.

Ovind sat by himself, with the future spread before him, like a long blank sheet of ice, along which, for the first time, he rushed restlessly from one side to the other. He saw clearly that poverty hemmed him in on every side, but this made him only the more determined to overcome it. From Marit it had certainly separated him for ever; he half regarded her as engaged to Jon Hatlen; but he resolved that with all his might he would strive to keep pace with them through life. Not to be any more humiliated as he had been yesterday, he would keep away, till, by God's help, he could become something more than he was at present, and he did not feel a doubt in his own mind but that he should succeed. He had a sort of feeling that he would do best to study, but what further that should lead to he must leave to the future.

There was capital sledge driving in the evenings; the children all came to the hill, but not Ovind. Ovind sat by the fire and read, he had not a moment to spare. The children waited long for him; at last they became impatient, and one and another came and peeped in and called to him, but he pretended not to hear. Evening after evening they came and waited outside in wonderment, but he turned his back to them and read, paying no heed to their entreaties.

Later he heard that Marit had not been to the sledge playing either. He read with such diligence that even his father thought it went too far. He grew thoughtful; his face, which had been so round and mild, became thinner and sharper, his eyes deeper; he seldom sang and never played, it was as if time were too short. When the desire to join his old companions came over him, it was as if something whispered, "Not yet, not yet,"--and continually, "not yet." The children played, shouted, and laughed awhile as before, but when they saw they could not by any means induce him to come, they gradually disappeared; they found other grounds and soon the sledge hill was quite vacated.

The schoolmaster soon observed that he was not the same Ovind who used to read because it fell out so, and play because it was necessary. He often talked with him, and sought to find the cause, for the lad's heart was not light as in former days. He spoke also with the parents, and by agreement he came one Sunday evening late in the Winter, and after sitting awhile, he said,--"Come, Ovind, let us go out, I want to talk with you a little."

Ovind got up and went with him. They took the path towards Heidegaard. The conversation did not flag, but they spoke of nothing important; when they came near the farms, the schoolmaster took the direction of the middle one, and as they got nearer they heard the sound of laughter and merriment.

"What is up here?" said Ovind.

"They are dancing," said the schoolmaster, "shall we not go in?"

"No."

"Will you not go to a dance, lad!"

"No, not yet."

"Not yet? When then?"

He did not answer.

"What do you mean,--not yet?"

As he did not reply, the schoolmaster said,--"Come now, no such talk!"

"No, I won't go."

He was very positive and seemed agitated.

"That your own schoolmaster should stand here and have to ask you twice to go to dance!"

There was a long silence.

"Is there any one you are afraid of meeting?"

"I cannot tell who there may be there."

"But could there be any one?"

No answer.

Then the schoolmaster went close up to him, and laid his hand on his shoulder,--"Are you afraid of meeting Marit?"

Ovind looked down, and breathed heavily and quickly.

"Tell me, Ovind."

Still no answer.

"You perhaps feel ashamed to confess it before you are confirmed, but tell me anyhow, and you will never regret it."

Ovind looked up but he could not say a word, and his eyes fell again.

"You are not light-hearted as you were; does she care for any one more than you?"

Ovind was still silent, the schoolmaster felt a little hurt, and turned away; then they went back.

When they had gone some distance, the schoolmaster waited till Ovind got up to him,--"You wish very much, that you were confirmed," said he.

"Yes."

"What do you then intend to do?"

"I should like to go to the Training School."

"And to be schoolmaster?"

"No."

"You think it isn't good enough?"

Ovind was silent.

"Then what would you be?"

"I haven't thought much about it."

"If you had money I suppose you'd buy a farm?"

"Yes, but keep the mills."

"Then it would be better to go to the Agricultural School."

"Do they learn as much there as at the Training School?"

"No; but they learn that which will afterwards be of use."

"Do they get numbers there?"

"Why do you ask that?"

"I should like to be amongst the first."

"You can be that without numbers."

They were silent again till they came in sight of the little farm; they could see a light shining from the room; the overhanging mountains looked black in the Winter evening, the lake below was one blank sheet of ice, and the moon reflected the shadow of the pine trees.

"It is a beautiful place!" said the schoolmaster.

Ovind could sometimes see it with the same eyes as when his mother told him stories, and as when they played with the sledges; this he did now,--all looked pleasing and bright.

"Yes, it is beautiful," said he, but sighed.

"Your father has found it sufficient; perhaps you might do so too."

The happy aspect of the place vanished at once. The schoolmaster stood as if waiting a reply, but getting none he shook his head and went in. He sat awhile with them, but was more silent than talkative. When he said good night, the parents both rose and followed him out, as if expecting that he had something to say. They stood waiting, and looked out upon the night.

"It has grown so quiet," said the mother at last, "since the children left off playing here."

"You have no longer a child in the house," said the schoolmaster.

The mother understood him,--"Ovind has not been happy of late," said she.

"No, he who is ambitious is not happy," and he looked up calmly into the quiet heavens.

CHAP. VI.

NOT QUITE FAIR.

Half a year after, in the Autumn, the confirmation being deferred till then, the candidates were all assembled in the school-room for examination, and among them Ovind Pladsen and Marit Heidegaard. Marit had just come down from the pastor, who had given her a book and much praise, and she laughed and talked with her friends on all sides. Marit was now quite grown up, free and easy in her manners, and the boys as well as the girls knew that Jon Hatlen, the first young man in the district was paying attention to her. She might well be glad they thought as she sat there.

Close by the door there stood a group of girls and boys who had failed in their examination, and these were crying, while Marit and her friends were laughing. Among them was a little boy in his father's boots and with his mother's church handkerchief,--"Dear, oh dear!" he sobbed, "I daren't go home again."

And those who had not yet been called up, were so affected by the power of fellow feeling that it caused a general silence. Fear seized them in the throat and eyes; they could not see clearly, neither could they swallow, though feeling a constant desire to do so.

One sat and reckoned up how much he knew, and although a few hours before he had found he knew everything required, he now saw with equal certainty that he knew nothing; he could not even read. Another called to mind all his wrong-doings from the earliest time he could remember, till now when he sat there, and he though it wouldn't be strange of God if He didn't let him pass. A third sat and took signs from everything around him. If the clock, which was on the point of striking, should not sound till he counted twenty, he would pass; if the footstep he heard in the passage was that of the farm-boy Lars, he would pass; if the great raindrop that ran down the window pane should get to the bottom, he would pass. The last and final proof should be, if he could get the one foot twisted right round the other, but this he always found to be impossible. A fourth felt sure that if they would ask him only about Joseph in the Bible history, and about baptism in the Catechism, or about Saul, or the Commandments, or about Jesus, or----he sat and was still proving himself, when he was called. A fifth had a strong partiality for the Sermon on the Mount, he had dreamt about the Sermon on the Mount, he was certain to be heard in the Sermon on the Mount; he said it over to himself, and he thought to go out and read it over again, when just then he was called up to be questioned on the Prophets. The sixth thought about the pastor, who was such a good man and knew his father so well, and of the schoolmaster, who had so friendly a face, and of God, who was so really good, and had helped so many before both Jacob and Joseph, and then he thought that his mother and sisters at home would be praying for him, and that would certainly help. The seventh sat and gave up in despair all the things he had thought he would be when he grew up. Once he had thought of being a general or a pastor, and once he had even dreamt of being king, but now that time was gone by. Up to the present he had thought of going to sea, and of becoming captain, perhaps a pirate, and thereby to attain great riches; now gave up first the riches, then the pirate, then the captain, and the mate, and he stopped at the common sailor, or, at the most, the boatswain, if ever he got to sea at all, but probably he must just take a place on his father's farm.

The eighth was more confident of himself, but yet not sure; the cleverest even was not sure. He thought of the clothes he was to be confirmed in, and what they could be used for if he did not pass; but if he passed he should go to town and get cloth clothes, and come home again at Christmas time and dance, to the envy of the youths and the astonishment of the girls. The ninth reckoned differently;--he made up a small account book between himself and God. On the one side he wrote, "Debit; He shall let me pass," and on the other side, "Credit; so shall I never lie any more, nor tell tales; always go to church, leave the girls to themselves, and never swear any more." The tenth thought that if Ole Hansen had passed last year, it would be more than injustice if he, who had always got on better at school, and besides was of better family, should not pass this year. By his side sat the eleventh, who revolved in his mind the most fearful plans of revenge in case he should fail, either to burn the school down, or else to leave the village and come again as the thundering judge of the pastor and the whole of the school commissioners, but proudly to let mercy go before justice. To begin with, he would take a place with the pastor in the neighbouring district, and there be number one next year, giving answers so as to astonish the whole church.

The twelfth sat by himself under the clock, with both his hands in his pockets, looking over the assembly with a dejected and sorrowful air. No one here knew what was his responsibility. One at home knew it; he was betrothed. A great daddy long-legs came crawling along the floor near to his feet; he used to tread upon the odious insect, but to-day he kindly lifted his foot to let it go in peace whithersoever it would. His voice was mild as a Collect; his eyes said continually that all men were good; his hands slowly moved out of his pocket and up to his hair, to smooth it down. If only he could squeeze himself through this dangerous needle eye, he would recover himself again at the other side, smoke tobacco, and make his engagement public.

Down on a low stool, with his legs crouched up together under him, sat the uneasy thirteenth; his small sparkling eyes looked round the whole room three times in a second, and through his strong rough head rushed all the thoughts of the twelve in broken disorder, from the brightest hope to the most despairing doubt, from the humblest promises to the most mighty plans of revenge; and, meanwhile, having bitten his poor thumb so that he could bite no longer, he began with his nails, and sent great pieces to all parts of the floor.

Ovind sat by the window, having been up and given correct answers to everything he had been asked; but neither the pastor nor the schoolmaster had commended him, though for a whole half-year he had been thinking what they both would say when they got to know how hard he had worked, and he felt very much disappointed as well as hurt. There sat Marit, who, for far less labour and knowledge, had received both encouragement and reward. It was just to be great in her eyes he had studied, and now she had reached laughing, the point he had toiled so hard to attain. Her laughter and joking touched him to the quick,--the easiness with which she moved wounded him. He had carefully avoided speaking to her since that evening; years should pass first he thought, but the sight of her now, so bright and lively, pressed him down, and all his proud resolutions hung as wet leaves.

He sought little by little to shake it off; much, however, depended on his being Number One to-day, and to know this he waited anxiously. The schoolmaster used to remain a little while with the pastor to consider the order in which the children should stand, and then he would come down and tell them the result; it was certainly not the final decision, but it was what they agreed upon together.

The conversation in the room became more and more lively as one after another was examined and passed; but now the ambitious began to separate themselves from those who were merely light-hearted. The latter either went at once to tell their parents and friends of their success, or they waited for their companions who had not yet been called up; the former, on the contrary, became more and more silent, their eyes directed constantly towards the door.

At last the young people were all ready, the last had come down, and the schoolmaster was consulting with the pastor. Ovind looked at Marit; she was one of those who had remained, but whether for her own sake or for others he knew not. How beautiful Marit had grown; exquisitely fine was her complexion, he had never seen its equal; her nose was well formed, her mouth smiling. Her eyes were dreamy when she was not directly looking at any one, but therefore her glance came with unexpected power when it did come; and she half smiled in the same, as if to say that she meant nothing by it. Her hair was more dark than light, it was wavy, and she wore long curls, which, together with the dreamy eyes, gave a depth and charm that captivated. One could not be certain who it was that she looked for, as she sat there among them all, nor what she really thought when she turned to any one to speak, for that which she gave she took as quickly back again. Under all this, Jon Hatlen is certainly hidden, thought Ovind, but yet he continued to look at her.

Then the schoolmaster came. They all with one accord rushed up to him.

"What number am I?" "And I?" "And I, I?"

"Silence! uproarious children,---no noise here; be quiet, and then I will tell you."

He looked slowly round him. "You are Number 2," he said to a lad with blue eyes looking beseechingly at him, and the lad danced out of the circle. "You are Number 3,"--he touched a red-haired quick little boy who stood and pulled at his coat; "You are Number 5;" "You Number 8," &c. He caught sight of Marit,--"You are Number One of the girls." She blushed crimson over her face and neck, but tried to smile. "You, Number 12, have been lazy, you idle worthless scamp;" "Number 11, you couldn't expect to stand higher, my lad;" "You, Number 13, must read diligently before the confirmation or else you won't succeed!"

Ovind could not bear it any longer. Number One had certainly not been named, and yet he had stood the whole time so that the schoolmaster could see him. "Schoolmaster?" He did not hear. "Schoolmaster!" Three times he had to call before he was heard.

At last the schoolmaster looked at him--"Number 9 or 10, can't say exactly which," said he, and turned quickly to another.

"Who is Number One then?" asked Hans, who was Ovind's best friend.

"Not you, you curly head!" and tapped him on the hand with a paper roll.

"Who is it then?" asked many. "Who is it?" "Yes, who is it?"

"He will get to know it himself!" said the schoolmaster decidedly. He would not have more questions.

"Now go nicely home children, thank God, and make your parents happy! Thank your old schoolmaster too, if it had not been for him you would not have been good for much!"

They thanked him and laughed, then went joyously home. One only was left, who could not quickly find his books, and when he found them, sat down as if to read again.

The schoolmaster went up to him, "Well Ovind, are you not going with the others?"

He did not answer.

"Why are you opening your books again?"

"I want to see what it is that I've answered wrong."

"You have not answered anything wrong."

Ovind looked at him, and the tears gathered in his eyes, he turned his head away while one after another rolled slowly down, but he did not speak a word.

The schoolmaster went in front of him,--"Are you not pleased that you have passed?"

His lips quivered, but he did not answer.

"Your father and mother will be very pleased," said the schoolmaster, and looked at him.

Ovind struggled some time to get a word out; at last he asked in slow broken sentences,--"Is it--because I--am a peasant lad--that I am Number 9 or 10?"

"Surely it must be so," said the schoolmaster.

"Then it is no use for me to work," said he hopelessly, and all his grand dreams vanished. Suddenly he lifted his head, raised his right hand, struck it on the table with all his might, cast himself down on his face, and burst into a violent fit of tears.

The schoolmaster left him to lay there and cry it out; he waited long, till at last his grief became more childlike. Then he rose took Ovind's head in both his hands, lifted it up, and looked into the tearful face.

"Do you think God has been with you?" said he, as he looked kindly at him.

Ovind sobbed still, but not so violently, the tears ran more quietly, but he dare not look at him who spoke, nor reply.

"This, Ovind, has been a deserved reward; you have not read from love to religion, nor your parents, but you have read from vanity."

There was silence in the room between each time of the schoolmaster's speaking, and Ovind felt his glance to be resting upon him, and grew softened and humbled under it.

"With such angry feelings in your heart, you could not have stood forth to have made a compact with your God, could you Ovind?"

"No," he stammered, as well as he could.

"And if you stood there conceitedly flattering yourself that you were Number One, would it not be wrong?"

"Yes," he whispered, and his mouth quivered.

"You are still attached to me, Ovind?"

"Yes." He looked up for the first time.

"Then I must tell you it was I who had your number placed low down; because I care for you so much, Ovind."

The old schoolmaster looked at him, blinked a few times, and the tears ran quickly down.

"You have not anything against me for it?"

"No." He looked up brightly though his voice trembled.

"My dear child, I will watch over you as long as I live."

He waited for him till he had gathered his books together, and then said he would go home with him. They went slowly along: at first Ovind was silent, battling with himself, but by degrees he overcame. He was convinced that that which had come to pass was the best that could have happened, and, before he reached home, this belief was so strong, that he thanked God, and told the schoolmaster so.

"Yes, now we shall hope to attain to something in life," said the schoolmaster, "better than running after blind men and numbers. What do you say to the Training School?"

"Yes, I should like to go there."

"You mean the Agricultural School?"

"Yes."

"That is certainly the best; it gives other prospects than those of a schoolmaster."

"But how can I get there? I do so wish it, but I have no means."

"Be industrious and good, and the means will be found."

Ovind was quite overwhelmed with gratitude. He felt the kindling in the eye, the lightheartedness, the endless fire of love, that comes when we experience the unexpected kindness of our fellow-men. The whole future presents itself for a moment, with that sort of feeling one has when walking in fresh mountain air, of being borne along rather than of walking.

When they came home, both the parents were in the sitting-room, quietly waiting there, though it was the busy time of the day. The schoolmaster entered first; Ovind after; both were smiling.

"Now?" said the father, laying aside a prayer-book, where he had just been reading a catechumen's prayer.

The mother was standing by the fire-place; she smiled, but did not say anything; her hands trembled, and she evidently expected good news though she did not wish to betray herself.

"I thought I must just come to give you the good news, that he has answered every question correctly, and that the pastor said, after Ovind was gone, that he had not examined a more promising candidate.

"Oh no!" said the mother, and was much moved.

"Well done!" said the father, and turned restlessly round.

After a long silence, the mother asked in a low voice, "What number is he?"

"Number 9 or 10," said the schoolmaster quietly.

The mother looked at the father, who looked first at her and then at Ovind,--"A peasant lad cannot expect more," said he.

Ovind looked at him in return; it was as if something would stick in his throat, but he forced it back by quickly thinking of one cheering thing after another.

"Now I must leave," said the schoolmaster, nodded, and turned to go.

As usual both parents followed him out; then the schoolmaster taking a quid, said smiling, "He will be Number One after all, but it is better not to tell him till the day comes."

"No, no," said the father, and nodded. "No, no," said the mother, and nodded too; then taking the schoolmaster's hand,--"Thank you for all you have done," said she. "Yes, thank you," said the father, and the schoolmaster went, but they stood long and looked after him.

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.