The Fisher Girl

by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson

X.

[IS MUSIC LAWFUL?]

On awaking she was still in the skies. The thoughts that day poured in upon her would follow, but were caught and carried away by something which filled the whole air,--it was the Sabbath bells. She sprang up and dressed herself, got something to eat in the breakfast room, wrapped herself warmly up, and hastened away;--never before had she been so thirsty for the Word of God!

When she arrived, they had just begun, and the door was shut. The dean was standing in front of the altar, she waited by the door till he had concluded, and the assistant had removed his gown; she then went up to the so-called bishop's pew, that stood in the choir, hung with curtains. The special pew for the minister's family was higher up; but if there was any one who felt a desire for seclusion, they retired to the bishop's pew. As Petra reached it, and glided in, she saw Signe seated at the farthest corner. She retreated a step out, but just then the dean turned to go from the altar to the vestry; she hastened back into the pew, and sat as near the door as possible; Signe had put down her veil. This grieved Petra. She looked over the congregation, crowded together in the high wooden pews, the men on the right hand, the women on the left; their breath lay above them like mist in the air; the ice was inches thick upon the windows, the rudely carved wooden images, the heavy drawling singing, the people muffled up,--it was all in unison, harsh and distant,--she thought of the impression nature made upon her that afternoon she left Bergen; here she was also only a timid wayfarer.

The dean ascended the pulpit, he too looked severe. His prayer was: "Lead us not into temptation." We knew that the talents God had given us, contained in themselves the elements of temptation; but He would be merciful and not suffer us to be tempted above that we were able to bear, for this we should always remember to pray;--for only by laying our talents at His feet, could they be of any real service to us. The minister enlarged upon the theme, setting forth our double duty--on the one hand to work out our life's calling according to our talents and position, and on the other to develope the spiritual life in ourselves, and in those committed to our care. One must be careful in the choice of a vocation, for there may be a vocation sinful in itself, and there may be one that would become so for us,--either because it did not suit us, or because it suited our lusts and passions. Again: as surely as everyone should choose a vocation according to his talents, so truly may a choice both right and good in itself, become a snare to us, if we allow it to take up all our time and thoughts. Our spiritual life must not be neglected any more than our duty as parents to our children. We must be collected in ourselves, that the Holy Spirit may have its constant work in us; we must plant and guard the good seeds of Christian life in our children. There is no duty, no pretext, that can liberate us from this, though the opportunities may vary. And now he went further--into THEIR calling that sat there, their houses, their conduct, their opinions. Then he drew examples from other conditions and nobler occupations, that cast their side rays down upon us.

From the moment the dean waxed warm in the pulpit, he was an entirely new man to those who knew him only in daily life. Even in appearance, he was changed; his reserved and powerful face had opened, revealing the play of thought within; his glance was full, and he looked earnestly as he set forth the glad tidings of salvation. The shaggy head stretched itself up like a lion. His voice rolled in thunder, or struck in short earnest variations, sometimes falling to a gentle tone, but only again to take new heights. Indeed he could never speak except in a great room, and with eternity over his thoughts; for his voice had no harmony till it rose, his countenance no clearness, his thoughts no striking perspicuity, till they burned with enthusiasm. Not that the material was first found then, no, if affliction had enriched his soul, reflection had done so too; he was a diligent worker. But he was not adapted to general conversation, he must have it to himself, at all events he must be able to inflect his voice. To open a discussion with him, was almost like attacking a defenceless man, but dangerous nevertheless; for his convictions were quickly expressed and with such force that reasons were left in the back ground; if at last he was pressed to give them, one of two things happened, either he completely overset the opposing party, or he became suddenly silent, because he was afraid of himself. No one could more easily be brought to silence than this powerful, eloquent man.

Petra had trembled as soon as the dean began his prayer; she felt whereto it tended. The further he got in his sermon, the more she felt he was true to himself; she crept together, and she saw Signe do the same. But he proceeded unrelentingly; the lion was out after his prey, she felt herself pursued from all quarters, shut in, and captured;--but that which was seized so vigourously was gently held in the hand of mercy. It was as if without a word of condemnation, she was simply folded in the embrace of Divine love. And there she prayed and wept; Signe did the same,--and she loved her for it!

As the dean descended from the pulpit, to go past into the vestry, the reflection of his communion with the Most High still overspread his countenance. His gaze fell directly and inquiringly upon Petra; and as she looked right up to meet it, a ray of mildness shone forth: he glanced quickly into the corner at his daughter as he passed on.

Signe rose soon after; her veil was down, so Petra did not venture to go with her; she therefore waited longer. But at dinner they all three met together; the dean spoke a little, but Signe was reserved. If the dean--who was evidently about to bring the recent events into conversation,--gave the slightest allusion to it, Signe turned his remarks in a shy delicate way, reminding him at once of her mother;--he became silent, and by degrees sorrowful.

There is nothing more painful than an unsuccessful attempt at reconciliation. They rose without being able to look at each other, to return thanks for the meal. In the dining room it became at last so oppressive, that all three would willingly have left the room, but no one wished to go first. Petra for her part, felt that if she went, it would be for ever. She could not see Signe again, if she might not love her, she could not bear to see the dean sorrowful for her sake. But if she was to go away, she must go without taking leave; for how could she take leave of these people? The mere thought of it agitated her so, that she could with the greatest difficulty suppress it.

An oppressive silence like this, when each is waiting for the other, becomes more insupportable every moment. We cannot move, because we feel it will be noticed, every sigh is heard, and if we are quite still it is heard too, for it is heard as harshness. We are kept in suspense because no one says anything, and we tremble lest any one should begin.--They all felt this to be a moment that would never return.--The walls that we build up between each other rise higher, our own guilt and that of the others increases with every breath; now we are in desperation, now in wroth; for the one that behaves so to us is unmerciful, wicked, we don't tolerate THAT, we don't forgive THAT! Petra could not bear it longer, she must either escape or scream.

But just then sledge bells were heard on the road, a man with a wolf skin coat dashed by, and turned in at the farm.--All breathed easier, and listened for the liberation. They heard the stranger in the hall, he put off his travelling coat and boots, and talked with the servant who assisted him; the dean rose to meet him, but turned so as not to leave the two girls alone,--they heard the stranger talking again, and this time nearer, so that his voice made all three look up, and Petra rose, fixing her eyes on the door,--there was a knock,--"Come in!" said the dean in an agitated tone; a tall gentleman with a light complexion and spectacles appeared in the doorway, Petra gave a scream, and fainted--it was Odegaard. He was expected at the deanery at Christmas, although no one had told Petra, but that he should come just at this juncture, must have been in the ordering of Providence; this was felt at once, and by them all.

When Petra recovered consciousness, he was standing beside her, and held her hand. He continued to hold it, but said nothing, nor did she; she was powerless even to rise. But while she continued looking at him, two tears rolled down her cheeks. He was very pale, but quite calm and kind; he withdrew his hand, and walked across the floor; then he went to Signe, who had crouched down among her mother's flowers in the furthest window.

Petra longed to be alone, and so withdrew. Domestic matters required Signe's attention, so the dean and Odegaard repaired to the study, to take a glass of wine, of which the traveller stood in need. Here he was briefly told the events of the last few days, it made him very thoughtful but he said nothing. They were interrupted in a singular way.

Two women and three men came past the windows, following one after the other; as soon as the dean caught sight of them, he sprang up: "There they are again!--now for a trial of patience."--In they came, first the women, then the men, slowly, silently. They placed themselves along the wall under the book shelves, opposite the sofa where Odegaard was seated. The dean set chairs, and brought others from the next room; they all took seats with the exception of a young man in a modern suit who declined, and leaned against the door post, not without a defiant expression and with both hands in his pockets.

After a long silence, during which the dean filled his pipe, and Odegaard who did not smoke surveyed the visitors, the conversation was at length opened by a pale light-haired woman of about forty. Her forehead was rather narrow, her eyes large, but shy; they did not know exactly which way to turn. "The father gave an excellent sermon to-day," she said, "it touched upon what we were just thinking about;--for up at Oygarene we have been talking much about temptation lately."--She sighed; a man with a small face and large forehead sighed also: "'Take away mine eyes from beholding vanity, O Lord, and quicken thou me in thy way.'" Then Else, she who had first spoken, sighed again and said: "Lord, wherewithal shall a young man cleanse his way? by taking heed thereto according to Thy word."--It seemed rather strange, for she was no longer young. But a middle aged man who sat with his head to one side, rocking backwards and forwards, his eyelids never really lifted, said as if half asleep:

"Temptation, Satan's fiery dart,
None is exempt from sharing--

Who taketh part in Jesu's death,

The name of Christ thus bearing."

The dean knew them too well not to be aware that this was only the introduction, so he waited as if nothing had been said, although there was again a long silence with repeated sighs.

A little woman, who became still less by stooping, and was enveloped in such a manifold number of shawls that she looked like a parcel,--her face almost lost,--now began to move uneasily in her chair, and at last a "hm, hm!" was heard. The light-haired woman was at once frightened up, and said: "There is an end to all music and dancing in Oygarene now;----but----" She stopped again, whereupon Lars, he with the great forehead and the short face, continued:--"But there is one man, Hans the musician, who WILL NOT give it up."--While Lars was thinking of the rest, the young man came out with it: "Because he knows that the dean has an instrument to which they both dance and sing at the deanery here."--"It certainly cannot be greater sin for him than it is for the dean," said Lars.--"And the music must be a temptation at the deanery too," said Else cautiously, as if to help the matter forward. But the young man added more strongly: "It is a stumbling block to the young, as it is written: 'And whosoever shall offend one of these little ones, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he were cast into the sea.'" And Lars continued: "We request therefore that you will send away the instrument, or burn it up, that it may cease to be a stumbling block--" "To your parishioners," added the young man. The dean smoked vigorously, and at last with an evident struggle for self command, he said: "To me music is not a temptation, it is refreshing and elevating. Now you know that that which can make our spirits free, makes us better able to receive and understand high things; therefore I believe most assuredly that music is of service to me."--"And I know there are pastors," said the young man, "who following the words of Paul, will nevertheless give it up for the sake of their parishioners."--"It may be that I understood his words so once," replied the dean, "but I do not now. One may well give up a custom or a pleasure; but one must with reluctance make oneself narrow-minded or foolish with those that are such. I should not be acting wrongly towards myself only, but also towards those to whom I should be a guide; for I should be giving an example against my convictions." It was seldom that the dean gave so long an explanation out of the pulpit. He added: "I will neither send away my piano, nor burn it; I will hear it often for I often feel the need of it,--and I wish that in all innocence you also could now and then refresh your spirits by song, and music and dancing; for I believe these things to be right and proper."

The young man bent his head to one side: "Twi!" spat he.

The dean's face grew scarlet, and deep silence ensued. Then the man rocking, with a loud voice struck in:

"O Lord, my God, I can testify,

His cross in patience bearing,

With poor and rich, with women and men,

'Tis a cause of anxious wearing;

For flesh and blood as frail and weak,

We all alike are sharing.----"

Then Lars said in a mild tone: "So you say that music and singing and dancing are right, do you? then it is right to rouse Satan through the senses; hm!--so that is what our pastor says; very well then, we know it now!--that all these things connected with idleness and sensuality are elevating and helpful, ... that that which is a temptation is right!" But now Odegaard,--who saw by the dean's face that things were going wrong,--hastened to interpose: "Tell me, my good man, what there is, that is NOT a temptation?"

All looked at him from whom these pointed and terse words came. The question was in itself so unexpected, that Lars could not at once tell what to reply; nor could the others. Then it sounded up as from a well, or out of a cellar: "Labour is not."--The voice came from the bundle of shawls, it was Randi, who spoke for the first time. An exulting smile came over Lars' face, the light-haired woman looked at her with a satisfied air, even the young man leaning against the door post for a moment lost the sneering curl of his lip. Odegaard understood that this was the head, although it was not to be seen. He therefore turned himself to her: "What can that labour be, that is without temptation?" She would not answer this, but the young man replied: "The curse says: 'In the sweat of thy brow, shalt thou eat thy bread;' labour then that brings us toil and trouble." "And nothing but toil and trouble? No profit for example?"--To this neither would he reply; but the short face felt a calling: "Yes, as much profit as one can get!"--"Then there must be temptation in work also, temptation to too much gain." In this strait, succour came again from the depths: "Then the gain is the temptation and not the work."--"Well, but how is it when the work is carried to excess for the sake of the gain?" She crept in again; but Lars went on: "What do you mean by the work being carried to excess?"--"Why, when it makes you like animals and binds you in thraldom."--"Thraldom it has to be!" said the advocate of the toil.--"But can it as thraldom lead to God?"--"Labour IS the worship of God!" shouted Lars.--"Dare you say that of ALL your labour?" Lars was silent. "No, be reasonable and admit that for the sake of gain, labour may be carried to excess, as if we lived only for it. Therefore labour also has its temptation."--"Yes, there is temptation in everything, children,--there is temptation in everything!" said the dean as he rose, and put out his pipe as if in conclusion! Sighs issued from the bundle of shawls, but no reply.

"Listen," began Odegaard again,--and the dean filled himself a new pipe--"now if labour yields fruit, i.e. profit, then we have certainly liberty to enjoy that fruit? If it should become riches, have we then liberty to enjoy these riches?"--This set them thinking, they looked from one to the other. "I shall answer, while you are thinking," said he; "God must have permitted us to try to make a blessing of his curse, for HE HIMSELF led the patriarchs, led His people to the enjoyment of riches."--"The apostles were to possess nothing," exclaimed the young man triumphantly.--"Yes, that is true; for God would place them beyond and above all human conditions, that they should look only to Him;--they were called!"--"We are all called!"--"But not in the same way;--are YOU called to be an apostle?"--The young man turned deadly pale, his eyes retreated under the wall of forehead above them: he must have his reasons for taking it so to heart.

"But the rich must also work," observed Lars; for work is God's command.--"Certainly he must, although his aim and method may be different, each one has his own task. But tell me: shall a man be ALWAYS at work?"--"He must also pray!" chimed in Else, and folded her hands, as if she remembered that she had too long neglected it.--"Then whenever a man is not working; he must pray? Is any man able to do this? What kind of prayer would it be, and what kind of work? Shall he not also rest?"--"We must rest only when we can do no more; for then we shall not be tempted by evil thoughts,--ah! then we shall not be tempted!" said Else again,--and Erik joined in:

"If ye are weary seek and find

In Jesu's name a peaceful mind,

How sweet is rest!

There comes a time when also ye

To the last resting place will flee,

An earthy nest!----"

"Be quiet, Erik, and listen to this," said the dean. And Odegaard knitted his eyebrows: "See here: labour has its fruit, and requires its rest: and it is my opinion respecting society, music, singing, and the rest, that they are not only the sweet fruit of our labours, but they also give rest and strength to the soul."

Here there was restlessness in the camp; all looked at Randi; she rocked and rocked, and at last it sounded slowly and quietly: "Worldly song, and music and dancing, afford no rest, for such excite the lust and desires of the flesh. THAT certainly cannot be the fruit of labour, which wastes and enervates."--"Ah! such things are full of temptation!" said Else with a sigh. This put Erik in mind of the verse of a hymn:--

"We see with shame and sorrow,
From virtue fain to borrow
The vices that abound
Increasingly are found;
They craftily ensnare
And with a pompous air----"

"Be quiet Erik!" said the dean; "you are only rambling."--"Oh well, that may be," said Erik--and began again:--

"If one will work upon you so
With ticing words that you shall go
In the broad, cursed way of sin,
Be strong, permit him not to win--"

"No, do give over Erik! The hymn is nice enough, but everything in its own time."--"Yes, yes, father, that is true,--everything in its own time:--

"Oh I every minute, every hour

Is Thine, it is Thy due,

Our hearts must beat to own Thy power,

And call to prayer anew--"

"No, no, Erik, or prayer itself would lead into temptation; you might become a Catholic, and go into the monastery--"--"God forbid!" said Erik, and opened his eyes wide, then shutting them, he began:

"As earth and dust to pure gold,

Are Catholics--"

"Now Erik if you can't be quiet, you must go out with the rest of it. Where was it we left off?" But Odegaard, much to his amusement had been following Erik, and could not remember. Then it came peacefully from the shawls: "I was saying that THAT cannot give rest or be the fruit of our labours, that--"--"Now I remember: that there was temptation in,--and then Erik came and proved that there may also be temptation in prayer. Let us therefore see, what these things may lead to. Have you ever observed that cheerful men work better than the dejected? Why?"

Lars caught the drift of this: "It is religion that makes us cheerful," he said.--"Yes, when it is not desponding; but have you never seen that there is a religion that makes everything so gloomy, that the world itself is like a prison?"

Else was sighing so, that the shawls began to move, Lars also looked sharply at her, and she gave over.--Odegaard continued: "Always the same, whether it is work, prayer, or play, makes you stupid and gloomy. You may grovel in the earth till you become an animal, pray till habit makes you a monk, and play till you are nothing better than a doll. But combine them and the mind is strengthened; work prospers, and religion becomes more cheerful."--"Then we have to be cheerful now!" said the young man, and smiled.--"Yes, and then you too would win sympathy: for it is only when we are cheerful, that we can see and admire the good in others, and only by loving others that we can love God."

As no one at once contradicted this, Odegaard made a second attempt to bring the bundle to the point; "Those things that disenthral, so that the Holy Spirit can work in us, (for in bondage He cannot work) those things that assist us, must have a blessing in them,--and that this does." The dean rose, he had again a pipe to put out.

In the silence which followed, unbroken by sighs, one could see the shawls working, and at last there issued softly: "It is written: 'Whatsoever thou doest, do all to the glory of God,'---but is worldly song, and music and dancing to the glory of God?" "Directly, no;--but may we not ask the same when we eat and sleep and dress? And yet these MUST be done. The meaning therefore can only be, that we shall do nothing that is sinful."--"Yes, but is not this sinful?"

For the first time Odegaard grew a little impatient, and he merely replied: "We see in the bible, that both singing and music and dancing were used."--"Yes, to the glory of God."--"Very well,--to the glory of God. But the reason why the Jews named GOD in everything, was because, like children, they had not learnt to make distinctions. To children, every man they do not know is 'the man,'--to the child's question, 'Where does, this come from, where that?' we answer always: 'from God'; but as men to men we name the intermediate as well, and not God the giver alone. So, for example, a beautiful song may relate to God, or lead to Him, even if His name never occurs in it; for there is much that points thither, although not directly. Our dancing, when it is the pure healthful enjoyment of the innocent, is, even if not directly, to the praise of Him who has given us health, and loveth the child in our hearts."

"Hear that, hear that!" said the dean; he knew that he himself had long misunderstood these things, and misrepresented them to others.

All this time, Lars had been sitting and thinking, now he was ready; the corn had fallen from the high forehead, to the short peevish face; there it had been crushed and ground, and now fell out: "Then all sorts of stories, tales, and nonsense,--all the fiction and invention that they fill the books with now-a-days, are they also allowable? Is it not written: 'Every word that proceedeth out of thy mouth shall be truth?'"

"I really thank you for this. You see it is with the mind as with the house you dwell in. If it was so narrow that you could scarcely get your head in and your legs stretched out, you would be obliged to widen it. And fiction elevates the mind and enlarges it. If those ideas were falsehood that are above absolute necessity, then those which ARE absolute necessity would surely become falsehood too. They would thus press you down in your house of clay that you would never reach eternity, and yet it was just there you wished to be, and it was these very same thoughts, that in faith should bear you thitherward."--"But fiction is something that has verily never been, and so it must surely be falsehood?" said Randi thoughtfully.--"No, it has often greater truths for us than that which we see," answered Odegaard. Here they all looked at him doubtfully, and the young man threw out: "I never knew before that the story of Askeladden was truer than that which I see before my eyes."--They all tittered.--"Then tell me if you always understand that which you see before your eyes?"--"I am not learned enough for that!"--"Oh, the learned certainly understand it still less! I mean those things in daily life that give us sorrow and trouble, and that 'worry us sore,' as the saying is. Are there not such things?" He did not reply, but from the bundle it sounded earnestly: "Yes, often."--"But if you heard a fictitious history, that resembled your own in such a way, that as you heard it, you understood your own,--would you not say of this story,--which gave you the comfort and encouragement that understanding gives--would you not say that it had greater truth for you than your own?"--"I once read a story," said Else, "that helped me so in a great sorrow, that that which had long been a trouble seemed almost a joy." It coughed from the bundle;--"Yes, that is true," she added timidly.

But the young man would not agree to this; "Can the story of Askeladden be a comfort to any one?"--"Everything has its own use. The amusing has great power, and this story proves in an amusing way, that that which the world thinks the least of may often be the best,--that everything assists him who is of good cheer, and that that man gets on, who makes up his mind to do so. Do you not think that it does many children good to remember it;--and many grown people with them?"--"But to believe in hobgoblins and trolls is surely superstitious?"--"Who said you must believe in them? They are figures of speech."--"But we are forbidden to use figures and images; for they are the wiles of the devil"--"Indeed;--where do you find that?"--"In the Bible."--Here the dean interposed: "No, that is a mistake, for the Bible itself uses imagery."--All looked at him, "It employs imagery on all sides, as the Eastern people abound in such. We ourselves use it in our churches, in wood, on canvas, in stone, and we cannot conceive of the Godhead except through imagery. And not this alone: Jesus uses figures, and did not the Lord Himself appear in varied forms, when He made Himself known unto the prophets; was it not in the form of a traveller that he came to Abraham in Mamre, and ate at his table? Now if GOD HIMSELF appears in varied forms, and uses imagery, surely man may do the same," They were about to assent, but Odegaard rose and gently tapping the dean on the shoulder: "Thank you! you have shewn most conclusively from the Bible, that the drama is allowable!"--The dean started in surprise; the smoke which he had in his mouth coursed slowly out of itself.

Odegaard went across to the bundle of shawls, and bent over to try to catch a glimpse of her face, but in vain, "Is there anything more you would like to ask," said he, "for you seem to have thought over several things?"--"Oh, the Lord help me, I do not think always right."--"Well; at first after the grace of conversion, one is so absorbed by its wonders, that other things appear useless and wrong; one is like a lover, desiring only the beloved."--"Yes, but look at the early Christians, we must still follow their example."--"No, their difficult position among the heathen is no longer ours; we have other duties; we must bring Christianity into the life that now is."--"But there is so much in the Old Testament against the whole spirit of what you say," said the young man, for the first time without bitterness.--"Yes, but those commands are now dead, they are 'done away,' as Paul says: 'We are the ministers of the New Testament; not of the letter, but of the spirit':--again: 'Where the spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.' And:----'All things are needful unto me,' says Paul further, 'but,' he adds, 'all things are not expedient.'--Now we are fortunate in having a man's life before us, that shows us what Paul meant. That is Luther's. Of course you believe that Luther was a good enlightened Christian?" Yes, they believed that.--"Luther's religion was cheerful, IT was the religion of the new testament. His idea of a gloomy faith was, that the devil was always on the watch behind it; and as for fear of temptation, those that fear the least are the least tempted. He used all the powers God had given, the powers of enjoyment too. Shall I give you a few examples? The pious Melancthon once sat so closely at a defence of the true doctrines, that he did not take time to eat; Luther snatched the pen from his hand: 'One does not serve God by work alone,' said he, 'but also in rest and quietness; therefore God gave us the third commandment and instituted the Sabbath.'--Again, Luther used figures of speech, the facetious as well as the serious, and he was full of good, often merry ideas. He also translated some excellent old popular tales into his mother tongue, and said in the preface, that next to the Bible, he scarcely knew any better admonitions than these. He played the lute, as perhaps you may know, and sang with his children and friends,--not psalms only, no, but lively old songs too; he was fond of social games, played at chess, let the young people dance at his house; he desired only that all should be modestly and well conducted.--A simple old disciple of Luther's, pastor Johan Mathesius wrote this down, and gave it to his parishioners from the pulpit. He prayed that it might be a guide to them,--and let us pray for the same."

The dean rose: "Dear friends, now we will conclude for to day." All rose up. "Many words have been spoken for our edification; may God grant His grace upon the seed sown! Dear friends, your homes are in remote parts; you live high up, where the frost more often cuts down the corn than the sickle. Such desolate mountain places ought not to be cultivated, and ought now to be left to tradition, and the grazing cattle. Spiritual life can scarcely flourish up there, it becomes gloomy like the surrounding vegetation. Life is overshadowed by prejudice,--as by the mountains under which they grow up. The Lord gather, the Lord enlighten!--I thank you for this day my friends, it has been a day of enlightenment for me also." He shook hands with each of them, and even the young man gave his cordially, yet without raising his eyes.

"You go over the mountain,--when will you reach home?" asked the dean when they were ready to go.--"Oh, to-night sometime," said Lars; "a good deal of snow has fallen now, and where it has blown off, there are ice-banks."--"Well, my friends, it is worthy of all honour to come to church under such difficulties.--I trust you will get home safely now!" Erik answered in a low tone:

"Is God for me, whate'er there is

That will against me fall,

I can with prayer, and joyfully,

Tread under foot it all!"

"That is true, Erik, this time you have hit the mark!"--"Yes, but wait a moment," said Odegaard just as they were going; "it is not strange that you do not know me;--but I should have relations up at Odegardene." They all turned to him, even the dean, who had known, it is true, but quite forgotten it. "My name is Hans Odegaard, son of Pastor Knud Hansen Odegaard, who once left you, long ago, with his knapsack on his back."--Then it sounded from the shawls: "Goodness,--that is my brother, that."--

They had all gathered round him, but no one was able to say anything. At last Odegaard asked: "Then it was with you I was staying when I was once up there with my father?"--"Yes, it was with me."--"And a little while with me," said Lars; "your father is my cousin."--But Randi said sorrowfully: "So this is little Hans;--yes, time goes."--"How is Else?" asked Odegaard.--"This is Else," said Randi, pointing to the fair-haired woman.--"Are YOU Else!" he exclaimed; "you were in trouble about a love affair then; you wanted to have the musician; did you get him?" No one replied. Although it was beginning to darken, he could see that Else turned very red, and the men looked either away or down--with the exception of the young man, who looked fixedly at Else. Odegaard saw that he had put an unfortunate question, the dean came to his assistance, "No, Hans the musician is unmarried; Else married Lars' son, but now she is free again, she is a widow."--Again she blushed scarlet, the young man saw it, and smiled haughtily.

Then Randi said: "Well, I suppose you have travelled far? you have learnt a good deal I can hear."--"Yes, hitherto I have been either reading or travelling; but now I mean to settle down to work."--"Well, well; that is the way:--some go out and get light and wisdom; others remain at home." And Lars added: "It is often hard to make a living at home; if we help one forward, whom we hope may be of service to us, he goes and leaves us."--"There are different callings; each must follow his own," said the dean.--"And the Lord sums up our work," said Odegaard; "my father's labours will yet tend hither again, if God will."--"Well, I suppose they will;" said Randi sadly; "but it is often hard to wait."

They departed; the dean placed himself in one window, and Odegaard in the other to look after them, as they went over the mountain; the young man went last. Odegaard learnt that he was from the town, where he had begun with several things, but had always some misunderstanding with the people. He thought himself called to be something great, an apostle in sooth; but strangely enough he remained up at the hamlet of Odegaard,--some thought from love to Else. He was a passionate soul, who had passed through many disappointments, and had many more to come.

They were now to be seen on the mountain; the roof of the barn hid them no longer. They laboured on, the trees hid them, they came forth again, ever higher and higher. There was no track in the deep snow, the trees were the way-marks in the waste, and far away to the side the snow mountains indicated the direction of their home.

In from the dining room sounded a lively prelude, and then:

"My song I give to the spring,
Though she scarce is on the wing,
My song I give to the spring,
As longing on longing laid.
So the two unite their aid
To lure and tice the sun,
That old winter overcome,
May slip a choir of brooks;--
Then with their merry looks
They'll chase him out of the air
With the perfume of flowers rare,--
My song I give to the spring."