eyes. She had already turned to go, but observing it she stopped. She blushed crimson, turned and went to her place, then turned again and took another seat. Jon quickly followed her.

Ovind rose and went out; he passed through the house, and sat down on the steps of the adjacent porch, but did not know what he did it for. He got up, but sat down again, for he would not go home, and thought he might as well be there as anywhere else. He could not realise anything of what had happened, and he would not think about it, neither would he think of the future, it seemed so void.

"But what is it that I am thinking of?" he asked himself half aloud, and when he heard his own voice, he thought, "I can still speak; can I laugh?" And he tried: yes, he could laugh, and he laughed louder and louder, and then it seemed so curious to be sitting there quite alone and laughing, that at last he laughed at himself.

Now Hans his companion, who had been sitting by him in the dancing-room, had come out after him,--"Bless me, Ovind, what are you laughing at!" he exclaimed, and stopped in front of the porch.

Then Ovind ceased. Hans remained standing, as if waiting to see what would happen next. Ovind got up, looked carefully round, and then said in a low tone,--"Now I will tell you, Hans, why I have been so happy hitherto; it is because I have not really cared for anybody; from the day we care for any one we are no longer glad;" and he burst into tears.

"Ovind!" a voice whispered out in the garden; "Ovind!" He stood still and listened; "Ovind!" it said again a little louder. It must be, he thought.

"Yes," he answered also in a whisper, dried his eyes quickly, and stepped forth. Then he saw a woman's figure slowly approaching,--

"Are you there?" said she.

"Yes," he answered, and stopped.

"Who is with you?"

"Hans."

Hans would go; but Ovind said "No! no!"

She now came slowly up to them; it was Marit.

"You went so soon away," she said to Ovind.

He did not know what to reply. This made her feel embarrassed, and they were all three silent. Then Hans gradually withdrew. The two now stood alone, but they neither looked at each other nor moved. Then Marit said in a whisper, "I have gone the whole evening with this Christmas fare in my pocket for you, Ovind, but I have not been able to give it you before." She then drew out some apples, a slice of yule cake, and a little bottle of home-made wine, which she pushed to him and said he could keep.

Ovind took it. "Thank you," he said, and held out his hand; her's was warm; he let it go quickly as if he had burnt himself.

"You have danced a great deal this evening."

"I have so," she replied; then added, "but you have not danced much!"

"No, I have not!"

"Why have you not?"

"Oh!"

"Ovind!"

"Yes."

"Why did you sit and look at me so?"

"Oh!"

"Marit!"

"Yes."

"Why did you not like me to look at you?"

"There were so many people."

"You have danced a great deal with Jon Hatlen this evening!"

"Oh! yes."

"He dances well."

"Do you think so?"

"Don't you?"

"Why yes!"

"I don't know how it is, but this evening I cannot bear to see you dance with him, Marit!"

He turned away; it had cost him much to say it.

"I don't understand you, Ovind."

"I don't understand it myself; it is stupid of me. Goodbye, Marit, now I must go."

He went a step without looking round; then she called after him,--"It is a mistake that which you have seen, Ovind!"

He stopped,--"That you are grown up is at least no mistake," said he.

He did not say what she had expected, and therefore she was silent; but at this moment she saw the light of a pipe before her; it was her grandfather who had just turned the corner and now passed by. He stood still. "Are you there, Marit?"

"Yes."

"Who are you talking with?"

"Ovind."

"Who did you say?"

"Ovind Pladsen."

"Oh J the peasant lad at the little farm!--Come in directly!"

CHAP. V.

A NEW AIM IN LIFE.

When Ovind awoke the next morning it was from a long refreshing sleep, and happy dreams. Marit had been on the mountain and tossed grass down upon him; he had gathered it up and thrown it back again; it went up and down in a thousand shapes and colours, the sun stood high in the heavens, and the whole mountain looked dazzling in its brightness. On awaking, he looked round to see it all again; but then he remembered the events of the day before, and the same acute stinging pain at his heart returned. This will never leave me, he thought, and a feeling of helplessness came over him, as though the whole future were lost to him.

"You have slept long," said his mother, as she sat by his side and spun,--"Come now, and get your breakfast, your father is already in the forest, hewing wood."

It was as if the voice helped him; he got up with a little more courage. It may be the mother remembered her own dancing time, for she sat and hummed at her wheel whilst he took breakfast. This he could not bear; he rose from the table and went to the window; the same heaviness and indifference possessed him, but he sought to overcome it by thinking of his work. The weather had changed, it was colder, and that which yesterday threatened for rain fell to-day in wet sleet. He put on his sailor's jacket and mittens, his gaiters, and a skin cap, then said "Good morning," and took his axe on his shoulder.

The snow fell slowly in great white flakes; he trudged laboriously over the sledge hill to enter the forest from the left. Never before, either Winter or Summer, had he passed over the sledge hills without some joyful remembrance or happy thought. Now it was a lifeless, weary way; he dragged through the wet snow, his knees were stiff, either from dancing the day before or from lack of energy. He felt that the sledge play was at an end for this year, and, therefore, for ever. Something else he longed for, as he threaded his way among the trees where the snow fell noiselessly; a frightened ptarmigan screamed and fluttered a few yards off, and everything seemed to stand as though waiting for a word that never was said. But what it was that he longed for he could not exactly tell, only it was not to be at home, nor was it to be anywhere else; it was not pleasure, nor work, it was something high above or far away. Shortly after, it shaped itself into a definite wish; it was to be confirmed in the Spring, and there to be number one. His heart beat as he thought of it, and before he could hear the sound of his father's axe among the branches, this desire had stronger hold of him than any he had ever known since he was born.

As usual his father did not speak many words to him; they both hewed, and threw the wood together in heaps. Now and then they came into close contact, and once Ovind let slip the unhappy words,--"A poor peasant has much to endure!"

"As much as others," said the