father, spat on his hands, and took the axe again.

When the tree was felled, and the father dragged it to the heap, Ovind remarked,--"If you were a rich farmer you wouldn't have to slave so."

"Oh, well there'd be other things to trouble me then," he replied, and worked away.

The mother came up with their dinner, and they seated themselves. The mother seemed in good spirits, she sat and hummed, and beat her feet together to the time.

"What will you be when you grow up, Ovind?" she said suddenly.

"Oh! for a peasant lad there isn't much to choose," said he.

"The schoolmaster says you must go to the training school."

"Can one go there free?" asked Ovind.

"The school fund pays," answered the father whilst he was eating.

"Would you like it?" asked the mother.

"I should like to learn something, but not to be schoolmaster."

They were all three silent awhile, she hummed again, and looked round. Ovind went away and sat by himself.

"We don't need to take from the school fund," said she, when the lad was gone.

Her husband looked at her: "Poor people like us!"

"I don't like, Thore, that you should always give yourself out for poor when you are not so."

They both of them peeped to see whether the lad could hear them where he sat.

Then the father looked sharply at her. "Nonsense! you don't understand things."

She laughed, then said seriously, "It seems like not thanking God that we have got on well."

"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."