He felt quite frightened at the idea of calling a student a stupid boy, and, above all, in comparison with him.

"My brother is no stupid boy," he retorted.

"I don't know your brother," she said, with philosophic calmness; "perhaps he is not. Oh, I have grown ever so much older," she went on. "I took literature lessons, and from that I learned many beautiful things."

Tormenting envy awoke in him.

"Do pick up that book."

He did so.

"Do you know that?"

In gold letters he read on the red cover the words, "Heine's Buch der Lieder" (Heine's Book of Songs), and shook his head sadly.

"Ah, then you don't know anything! Oh, how much there is in that book! I must lend it to you. There, read that; it teaches one a great deal. And after reading it for a little while one generally begins to cry."

"Is it so sad, then?" he asked, looking at the cover with shy curiosity.

"Yes, very sad; as beautiful and as sad as--as--It only speaks of love, of nothing else; but you feel such a great longing overpower you, and that you would like to fly off to the Ganges, where the lotus blossoms, and where--" She stopped, and then she laughed merrily and said, "Oh, that is too stupid; is it not?"

"What?"

"What I am chattering about."

"No; I could listen to you for my whole life."

"No! could you? Oh, you know--it is so cosey here; I feel so secure when you are near me," and she stretched herself out in the net-work as if she wanted to lean her head on his shoulder.

A strange feeling of happiness and peace came over him, such as he had not felt for a long time.

"Why do you look away?" she asked.

"I don't look away."

"Yes, you do.... You must look at me. I like that.... You have such earnest, faithful eyes. Oh, I know now what to compare those poems with!"

"Well, with what?"

"With your whistling. That is also so--so--well, you know what I mean.... Do you still whistle sometimes?"

"Very seldom."

"And you have not learned to play the flute either, I suppose?"

"No."

"Oh, fie! If you love me, you will learn it.... I will give you a beautiful flute next time."

"I have nothing to give you in return."

"Oh yes--you shall give me all the songs which you play. And when your heart is very sad ... well, only read that book; everything is in there."

Paul looked at it from all sides. "What a wonderful book it must be!" he thought.

"And now tell me something about yourself," she said. "What are you doing? What are you working at? How is your dear mamma?"

Paul gave her a grateful glance. He felt he could speak to-day of all that was in his heart; then it suddenly occurred to him that the pause for breakfast was long over, and that the servant was waiting for him with the horses. By noon he must finish, for after dinner the cart was to drive to the town with a load of peat which he had had secretly cut.

"I must go to work," he faltered.

"Oh, what a pity! And when will you have done?"

"At dinner-time."

"I can't wait so long as that or mamma will be uneasy. But in the next few days do come and look here again--perhaps you'll find me. Now I shall lie here for another hour or so and watch you. It looks quite splendid when you walk up and down in your big snowy white cloth and the grain flies round you."

He gave her his hand silently and went away.

"I shall leave the book here," she called after him; "fetch it when you have finished."

The servant smiled knowingly when he saw him come, and Paul hardly dared to raise his eyes to him.

Each time when he pa.s.sed at his work the place where she was resting in the wood she raised herself up a little and waved to him with her pocket-handkerchief. About twelve o'clock she rolled up her hammock, stepped to the edge of the wood, and called out a farewell to him through her folded hands.

He took off his cap to thank her, but the servant looked the other way and whistled softly, as if he had seen nothing.

During dinner that day his mother could not take her eyes from her son, and when they were alone she went up to him, took his head in both her hands, and said,

"What has happened to you, my boy?"

"Why?" he asked, with embarra.s.sment.

"Your eyes sparkle so suspiciously."

He laughed loudly and ran away; but when at supper she still looked at him--inquiringly and sadly--he was sorry that he had not given her his confidence, and went after her and confessed all that had happened to him.

Then her haggard face suddenly lit up as by a ray of sunshine, and while he crept away ashamed, with glowing cheeks, she looked after him with moist eyes and folded her hands as if in prayer.

He sat up in his room till nearly midnight, his head leaning on his hands. The mysterious book was lying on his knee; but he could not read it, because his father had forbidden him to burn a light at night. He had to wait till Sunday.

He was musing on how she had altered. If only she had not laughed so often; her mirth estranged her from him, and the full blooming life by which she was surrounded removed her far away into that distant country where happy people live. And although she appeared as good and kind as ever, she could not fail to despise him sooner or later because he was nothing but a peasant, and stupid and awkward into the bargain.

A wild tumult of happiness, shame, and self-reproach raged within him, for he thought he might have behaved in a much more dignified manner.

An unaccountable fear was mixed up with it all which almost choked him, though in vain he racked his mind to find out whom this fear was connected with.

The next afternoon he could see from the yard, where he was putting up some poles, something white moving to and fro at the edge of the wood.

He set his teeth with pain and vexation, but could not make up his mind to abandon his work.