The Heritage of the Kurts, Volume 2 (of 2)

by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson

CHAPTER II

[THE STAFF]

Fair Milla and brown Tora,
Broad Tinka and slender Nora.

It was disputed where this remarkable verse with its rhythm and rhyme was heard for the first time, whether in the senior Latin or senior Commercial. The dispute can never be settled now, but when these girls showed themselves it was often shouted, sung, and bawled after them--at first in turns with another by Dösen, which ran, "Nora, Tora, ora pro nobis;" but as it was incomplete, the names of Tinka and Milla not being mentioned, it was dropped in favour of the former. This one was also given up; it was perfectly well known who was father to the latest name for them; Rendalen called them on a certain occasion "The Staff," and after him the whole school, after it the boys' school, and at last all who were inclined to pay them a compliment. We know three of the Staff already--that is to say, we know them from the others, not more than that. "Fair Milla" is no other than Emilie Engel; she looked like a picture in enamel in her mourning. Broad Tinka is Katinka Hansen, Augusta's sister, the contralto; and slender Nora is the Sheriff's daughter, the one who hid under the sail, the one with big eyes and wavy hair.

Brown Tora, on the other hand, we do not know, and she shall remain a little longer shrouded in mystery.

A year ago a new sheriff was appointed to that part of the country, a secretary in a government office, called Jens Tue, otherwise known as the ladies' man.[^[1]] Instead of becoming resident he went abroad with his wife, whose chest was rather delicate.

This lady had, by jealousy and insincerity, missed her true foothold in life, and both in her thoughts and actions she flitted like a bird from one interest to another; she wished to appear so immensely delighted, so taken up with intellectual questions and music--until one day her strength proved insufficient; she collapsed.

Her husband carried her off with him, and as during their tour he was all that was pleasant and amiable, her bird-like nature required nothing more. She came home again, well and happy.

It would have seemed more natural for Nora to remain at Christiania with her friends and relations. It was said certainly that Fru Rendalen's school was so very superior, but that could hardly be the whole explanation; all were curious about the Sheriff's daughter when she appeared. She was a fashionable young lady, tall and slender, and if not exactly elegant, still stylish in dress and manner; a little supercilious; still she did not give offence--she was too pliable for that, too quick as well, entirely taken up with the fancy of the moment. She gave an impetus to all she did, and people forgive a great deal for that.

But no one would forgive her letter-writing, or the incredible number of letters which she received weekly! Not the teachers, for she neglected the school work; not her companions, for she neglected them; nay, she had hardly looked at them! She went to sleep every night with inky fingers and a heap of letters beside her bed; either she was writing letters or reading letters, or crying over them. During every recreation time she ran upstairs to add a few lines, or to read a letter over again which she had just received. As she was worried by the pursuit of the others, she disappeared after every meal. Where was she? There was a hunt for her, and she was found up in the top attic, writing of course, this time upon a large barrel; she was blue with cold. She had left at least twenty particular friends behind her at Christiania; all the twenty wrote to her, and all received answers, long answers--one must never be shorter than the others. Happily, she had another passion, and it often chances that one thing counteracts another. She was crazy about music. She sang snatches of songs with great feeling, but, partly because at her age she could not sing much at a time, partly because she had not training enough to carry out a delicate interpretation, she could never properly render anything as a whole. But even so, she was much admired by her companions, and by none more than Tinka Hansen. For Tinka was herself musical, but in another and more unpretending fashion. Like her sister Augusta, she had developed early, especially in her powers of conversation. Katinka was even-tempered, bright, dependable; everything she played, and that was a great deal, she knew by heart. It was therefore she who obediently accompanied Nora's songs. But her execution was not worth much; Nora very soon took her in hand, and was not satisfied until she had brought her to the point she wished; Tinka was extremely grateful for all this.

One day Nora discovered Tinka's powerful contralto, and from that time there were duets and duets. Their age suggested prudence, and if Nora would not use moderation, Tinka both would and could. Nora was used to command, so there were quarrels; but Tinka was so accustomed to conquer when her conscience told her that she was right, that Nora was completely vanquished. This was the foundation of their friendship. To have a friend who at once admired and restrained her was especially safe and good for Nora. But Nora acted upon Tinka like a succession of impressions of art upon one who has seen nothing up to that time. As Nora was absolutely confidential, it seemed to the conscientious Tinka that this ought to be returned.

Every one knew it, but not to a living being would she have admitted it: Tinka was engaged. He, the man, had just gone to college; she had a letter from him once a week; for many reasons she did not wish to have them oftener. He was called Frederik--Frederik Tygesen; his father was the stipendiary judge Tygesen, here in the town. Nora was "the first person in the world" whom she had told this to.

How delighted Nora was! Really, properly engaged, with letters every week and the tacit consent of her parents. How had it come about? Well, that was the odd thing about it; they neither of them knew. They had once when she was eight years old, through an open door, heard Fru Rendalen and her mother talking about Augusta and Tomas Rendalen, about what he had said to his mother about Augusta, and what she had said to her mother about Tomas. Ever since then these children had been fond of each other, just as those other two had been; but they had never spoken about it--never. A sincere friendship was founded between Nora and Tinka upon this confidence, and Tinka's friendship brought others with it. Nora was obliged to recall some of her interests from Christiania, and by degrees to form a new circle of admirers.

She began to write less frequently to the friends in Christiania, and the letters would begin, "It is a terribly long time since," or "I really am a wretch who----," or "Procrastination is to blame."

But there was a limit to those whom she could conquer in the new senior class, and this did not please her; in fact, she principally coveted the friendship of those who withheld it, but all the same she could not pass this boundary. The fact was that a queen had reigned there before her--nay, was there still. Her ways of gaining power were different from Nora's; whether they were less or not, depended on who it was who measured them. First of all, she was the richest heiress in the town; secondly, if there were the slightest sign of rain, snow, or cold wind, a servant drove up to fetch her home, and then it was a question who should drive home with her.

She had almost always something good with her; her pocket-money was of that description that the more she spent, the more she had; the resources of her dainty little purse were incredible in this respect. She got money from her mother, from her father, from two unmarried uncles. As well as this she was pretty, discreet, attentive; no one had ever known her to use a hasty word, or be rough, even at the gymnasium; she was always very polite and a little subdued. In her eyes, to forget yourself was the worst of crimes. She had lived, so to say, wrapped up in cotton wool, and one felt this whenever one approached her. We know her already; she is Emilie Engel.

She was not specially gifted, but was industrious; she really worked hard when there was anything on foot. Every one liked her, several paid court to her, one or two absolutely raved about her.

Tinka Hansen belonged to none of these groups; if ever she devoted herself to any one it would be to her opposite; quiet, dutiful Milla was too like herself.

As Nora first attached herself to Tinka, and through Tinka to others, Milla was offended. When Nora turned to her it was too late; there was plenty of politeness and willingness to oblige, but not a word for her singing, not a smile for her Christiania witticisms; never so much as a glance when the whole class, during one of her lively descriptions, hung admiringly on her words.

Nora could not endure this indifference; she condescended to pay court to her in all those ways which are only known to a young girl. In vain. At last they divided into parties. Nora considered Milla insignificant, egotistic, cold, prim, missish; Milla considered Nora--no, Milla did not consider Nora anything, she let her friends talk and she listened. Nora's jaunty Christiania style of manner and speech were unbecoming, her caprices could not be endured by any one who respected herself; her accomplishments were all superficial, she was characterless; besides, it was considered that some of her remarks showed a want of religion, and Milla's party was religious.

Milla had been confirmed at Easter. The increasing weakness of Fru Engel had given a tone of enthusiasm to her religious thoughts and to the aspect of her mind; she found comfort through it, and need for it, and she endeavoured to lead her daughter in the same direction.

At the time of her confirmation Milla found a confidant in the niece of the Frökener Jensens, little Anna Rogne, who was extremely religious; she was two years her elder, but she was small and delicate; indeed, on more than one occasion her life had been despaired of. Anna had more religious knowledge than most grown people, and she enraptured Karl Vangen at the confirmation classes. Milla, whom she had imbued with some of her enthusiasm, had no objection to share in it to a slight degree. As soon as little Anna observed this reflection of her own thoughts, she rejoiced from the bottom of her heart, and declared Milla to be "spiritually minded." She was astonished that they had not discovered each other before.

Then came the time when Milla's mother was given up by the doctors. Little Anna's energy was more than natural; she watched beside the sick-bed with her friend, she read, she sang, she prayed; for Fru Engel's life must and should be saved; the doctor could not save her, but prayer could--how confident she was, how enraptured! And then when Fru Engel died notwithstanding, she would literally have rejoiced to have given her life for Milla; it was so beautiful to her to see the rich heiress, surrounded with all the comforts of life, pleading on her knees to Jesus; and now, when the prayers had not availed, she still trusted--nay, in the midst of her sorrow she thanked God with her, entirely submissive to His will. Little Anna felt from the bottom of her heart that a bond had been twined between them which death alone could sever.

Milla returned to school three weeks later than the others; she took a place next to Anna Rogne. They drove up together nearly every day, and they returned together in the carriage, for Milla was still living in the country, and Anna was almost always with her.

Milla's return made a stir. Her mourning suited her to perfection; her pale face and subdued manner accorded with it like dull silver work on velvet. The quiet gentleness with which she accepted everything, even Nora's eager worship, gained her much considerate kindness.

The first day or two seemed devoted to expressing sympathy with Milla.

But there was a new face among them, a new figure there on the form in front of her, a new voice, fresh ways--and what was not less important to Milla--a new dress. Especially when the new hat and mantle were added to it, a more daring choice of colours was presented, a more delicate cut, richer details, than she had ever seen before. She knew who the new-comer was--the daughter of the chief custom-house officer Holm, from Bergen, the one with the brown face, large dark eyes, and curly white hair: a curiously shy man, who drank, drank so that it was only through forbearance that he retained his post; he had ten children!

Tora was the eldest, and had been brought up, from her twelfth year, partly in England, partly in France, by an uncle who had been a shipbroker, first in the one country, then in the other; he had just died, leaving his adopted daughter a small annuity. Milla knew all this. Anna had also incidentally observed that Tora Holm was pretty.

But this was not the right word. Where were Anna's eyes? Tora was a beauty, and her beauty was singular and "foreign." Anna had used her ears as little as her eyes, for there was but one opinion about it.

Milla did nothing the whole of the first day but look at Tora, who, although her back was turned towards her, could not keep quiet, but twisted and turned as though she could feel the other's eyes on her neck. The more restless Tora became, the more calmly Milla studied her. At home, in the sitting-room, stood a head of the young Augustus in marble; it had been Milla's admiration from childhood. And now, there it was, on a girl's body, on the bench before her, moving in brightness and colour.

The brow was exactly the same, the whole shape of the head, broad above; the curve of the cheeks and chin, the arch of the eyebrows the same, all the same! The eyes were different and more full of life, for those of the Augustus gave the impression of dulness, or at least heaviness. These sparkled incessantly in changing shades of blue-grey, under long dark eyelashes. The mouth was full and curved, the hair black-brown, or brown-black, as the light fell upon it. The complexion was a sort of pale olive. Milla had no words to express it; it was a combination she had never seen before. There was a large, very large birth-mark on her cheek, perhaps it was that which disturbed her, for she never turned that cheek when she looked round at Milla. Her figure was developed, very strong and statuesque. Apparently she was a little over sixteen. She did not look well at the moment, she was flushed and had dark lines under her eyes; the perspiration stood on her face.

Her whole appearance was striking; Milla looked at her without a trace of envy. What taste this new girl had, beyond anything she had ever seen; how much she must know!

Every now and then Milla looked at her next neighbour. Anna sat there, spare and angular; her thin, blue, and inordinately long fingers especially occupied Milla to-day. What a contrast!

Should she speak to the new-comer, be friendly to her? Perhaps it would be a little forward. From the moment that she saw her during the next "recreation," walking arm in arm with Nora, this idea was dropped as a matter of course.

During the three weeks which preceded Milla's return, a good deal had happened; a revolution had silently begun which was not yet at an end.

Tora Holm made her appearance in the school rather untowardly. She arrived late, met no one in the hall, and did not know where to go; every one was assembled in the "laboratory" for morning prayers. At that moment Karl Vangen, who had been detained at the bedside of a sick person, rushed in and almost overturned her; then became as confused as only a young clergyman can, mistook her for the new teacher, and bewildered himself and her by his embarrassment. It was therefore some little time before she, in her Bergen sing-song, could explain who she was, and when he heard it, and it flashed into his mind that she was in trouble for her uncle's death and had returned to an unhappy home, he broke out, "We will all be so kind to you here; so"--he seized her hand--"welcome, welcome!" Before he could say more she began to cry. She was nervous and timid, everything was new and strange. He could think of nothing else to do than to open the door and call out "Mother."

And out came Fru Rendalen with her spectacles awry, and asked rather shortly (for Fru Rendalen was particular, and this should not have happened), "What is it, Karl?"

"Here is Fröken Holm, custom-house officer Holm's daughter, mother."

"Very well, let her come in," answered Fru Rendalen, opening the door wide. "How do you do?" she said, as she stood in the doorway and held out her hand to Tora in the half-lighted hall. There was far too much of a command in her tone for Tora not to advance. Fru Rendalen then saw that she had come crying to school like a little thing of five years old. She was surprised; she showed her a place, which Tora shyly took, and asked one of the teachers to help her off with her hat and cloak, which the little donkey had kept on--thought Fru Rendalen to herself.

They sang a hymn and Karl spoke about meeting--whenever one discovers anything good in a person, one meets God--that was his subject.

At the moment Tora was only conscious of the sound of a powerful voice, she was tormented by the remembrance of her unlucky entrance and the impression it had made; first and foremost upon Fru Rendalen, but also on the others; she had seen that plainly. She could not keep quiet; she turned away when any one looked at her, turned this way and that as though she wished both to be looked at and not to be looked at. If any one spoke to her, which happened after a while, she coloured, and answered something which she at once contradicted. This went on during the first three days. She knew neither Norwegian geography nor Norwegian history--indeed, she did not know a single thing except English and French, and coloured up when this was discovered; but when it was also discovered that she spoke both these languages fluently, she coloured up just as much. She would not do gymnastics on any consideration--at last she said she had no dress. She made herself one which was a masterpiece of coquetry; but this she denied, and declared it to be purely and simply ugly. She could not go on long with the gymnastics, strongly built as she was, but gave in completely and began to cry. Miss Hall, who superintended the gymnastics and introduced special exercises for some of the girls, led her towards the window and looked at her. Miss Hall had partly forgotten her Norse, and did not remember at the moment that Tora spoke English; she tried to find a word while she examined her. Tora misunderstood this and ran away from her, put on her things and went straight home, refusing to return to school. It required no little trouble before she could be brought back, not only to school but as a boarder; she needed better food than she got at home, for she was beginning in chlorosis; this was the word that Miss Hall could not remember. Tora now shared Miss Hall's room; she was the first, though afterwards one of the pupils always did so.

Little by little the new-comer forgot herself so far as to be able to sit still, but never if any one looked at her steadily, or talked about her. She must feel it in her back, her companions said. They tried experiments, and laughed when she really did by degrees become uneasy, and at last turned round and looked at them.

Nora had been a boarder during the past year, and was often up at the school. She did not speak to Tora except just in passing, but one Sunday Tora asked her if she might do her hair for her. This made as much stir among the boarders as though she had offered Nora some new hair. Word was sent from room to room; they all collected, big ones and little ones, to see Nora with new hair. They stood there, they leaned over one another, while the great work went on.

For what was done was nothing less; laughter soon changed to astonishment, to admiration, to applause.

One day, when Nora's hair was untidy, Tora had suddenly noticed that this was becoming to her. It suited the large, wide-open eyes, by far the most striking part of her little face. She had next to no forehead, very small cheeks, a little mouth with cherry lips, and a rather large nose, a real family nose; but it only seemed to set off the eyes, so that it was the eyes all the same--nothing but eyes. Now what was wanted was some way of raising the hair, so that it should help the eyes as well. Tora had seen a great deal, and often had "inspirations," but never as yet in hair-dressing. She had one now. Naturally she began by letting it all down and combing it out, then took the front hair and made it into two large rolls, one on each side, lightly twisted; it was very little in itself, and not at all striking, but the effect in this case was amazing. When her eyes grew large, the hair looked as though it would spread its wings and fly away, sometimes almost as though it flickered--the hair was naturally a little wavy.

Up to this time Nora had never been thought pretty, there were other qualities in her which one noticed; but now Rendalen himself, who very rarely looked closely at any one, stopped short as he was reading aloud, when, chancing to raise his eyes, he caught sight of Nora; the whole class knew what he thought. The one who was least concerned was perhaps Nora herself; now she had settled about her hair, and she need not think anything more about it; but when Tora Holm, as their friendship increased, began to rave about her talents, and, with her tendency towards exaggeration, declared that Nora was "all soul," that her music "absolutely carried one away," and that her chance remarks always "hit the right nail on the head," that really was something! She longed for more with insatiable voracity, and cultivated the friendship. Tora Holm constantly made discoveries; the most important one was that Nora was always right, even if she had been capricious towards others, hasty--nay, even when she had had a slight fit of untruthfulness, Nora was right, quite right--at the bottom.

It now struck Nora that Tora Holm was the first person who had ever thoroughly understood her: to think that a stranger who looked at her with fresh impartial eyes should have discovered this at once! The more they saw of each other, the more gifted they thought each other. Tora's talent for telling stories was the "greatest" Nora had "ever known;" she gathered all her set round her to listen, and the story-telling began. Fairy tales and romances by turns--what had not Tora read, what did she not remember? The girls would listen over and over again to the "Thousand and One Nights" (not the condensed edition, but the full one) as though they were little children. As well as this, they liked pictures of real life which did not go beyond their comprehension, though they preferred that the lovers (and by inference also themselves) should be noble and unhappy. These girls of fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen (Tora herself was nearly seventeen), for various reasons had, outside their school subjects, read only by stealth, with the results which naturally follow. The books which Rendalen had read to them had greatly widened their horizon and increased their desire to know more, so that Tora was doubly welcome.

But between the story-telling times Nora wished to have her to herself, really to possess her; Nora-Tora, Tora-Nora, wove themselves together, no one else could approach them. Nora announced this openly; they two preferred being by themselves.

Every one knew Nora, and understood that in a few days it would be over; they only laughed, but there was one who did not laugh.

Tinka Hansen could not endure faithlessness; she had taken Nora to task on one or two occasions and warned her. This time she was silent, and allowed the penalty to consist in punctiliously respecting their wish to remain apart. Nora could never get her to come with her.

Very soon Nora began to feel lonely among all these delightful Oriental palaces; she did not realise this till she discovered that without Tinka she did not feel free to do as she liked; without her she dared not always listen. Tora's romances were often very "French." For more than a year Nora had been used to the limits which Tinka imposed. She was not sure if she were now inside or outside them, and an uneasy conscience was the result. Tora had to suffer for this; Nora did not know what they ought to do; she peremptorily cut short a story which had been begun, ordered another, but stopped that as well; made promises and did not keep them, and felt bored. And it was just at the beginning of this period that Milla returned to school.

One Thursday evening, in Fru Rendalen's room, Tom as was going to read a new play to them. Tora Holm, who chanced to be near Milla, looked at her new black dress, which was a different one from that she wore in the schoolroom. Without touching the dress she said, showing with her fingers what she meant, the "trimming ought to have gone so, not so, and had better have been narrower." She did not wait for an answer, but walked farther on and sat down.

The day after, before morning prayers began, Milla came up to her and thanked her; she had tried it, and found that Tora was right. There was no time for more, but during the first "recreation" they involuntarily sought each other out. "How could you see that at once?" asked Milla.

"I tried it the other day on a doll," answered Tora.

"On a doll?" asked Milla with a slight blush. Tora felt that she ought not to have let this out; she was always doubtful about what she ought to do. What a delicate instinct Milla Engel must have, to blush on her account!

"So you dress dolls, do you?" said Milla, smiling, as she passed her the next day. Tora protested; it really was not clear what she protested, whether it were that she had one or two dolls, or that it was her sisters who had them, or that even married women often have dolls, so that there could be nothing odd in that, or else that she quite saw how unbecoming it was, since every age ought to suit with its.... She said all this, and a great deal more, in her Bergen sing-song, and Milla smiled. "Won't you come in and see me this afternoon? We are back from the country now."

Tora had not refused before Milla had said good-bye, but afterwards she felt dreadfully embarrassed about it. Nevertheless at six o'clock she was there.

Tora had a great wish to get up in the world--she would not be chained to a home such as hers was, to such a fate as threatened her.

Consul Engel's house was almost the only one in the town where the door was kept closed all day. When one rang, either a man-servant or a maid opened the door, and one entered a house where there was Brussels carpet in the passages and on the stairs, as well as in the rooms, and where, to begin with, one found oneself between two mirrors where one could see oneself from head to foot.

Tora was shown upstairs. "Fröken Engel's" room was there. She was heartily welcomed. The rooms were those which Fru Engel had occupied during the last years of her life; she had very rarely left them.

She had died here, and it was for that reason that the family had gone so late into the country this year, and had only just returned to the house.

Every comfort which a room can possess was there; the chairs and couches were all as soft as the cushions of an invalid, you seemed to sink into them; they were upholstered in moss-green silk, and the curtains and portières were of the same material and colour, the walls were a dark indefinite colour. There was an old-fashioned rosewood cabinet in inlaid work, with a number of small pigeon-holes and receptacles in it. Tora never wearied of looking at it. An Erard piano with carved heads and emblems, a bookcase in the same style. Pictures, especially landscapes, which made one long for the evening sun, with its hazy light and almost sultry heat.

Tora went from one to another; she looked at every single thing as though it were a person with whom she wished to make friends. From there she went to the bedroom, and admired the soft carpet into which her feet sank, the little chaise-longue in one corner, the bed with its rich hangings, the variety and elegance of the toilette apparatus. Milla's pleasure at seeing her was expressed in the one remark that she had never before taken any one up into her mother's rooms.

There was only one piece of furniture which did not please Tora; at last she could no longer contain herself, it assorted so ill with its surroundings. "What is there in that press, dear? Why is it here?" Milla replied, smiling, that it was very incongruous, she knew; it had not been there before--in fact, it was her own; she had had it ever since she was a child.

"But can't it stand in another place?"

"No, not very well."

There was something of reserve in this answer, she could not inquire further. As Tora was leaving Milla asked her to come again soon, but she had better let her know beforehand, so that they might be alone--that would be the pleasantest. Tora understood that this was meant for Anna Rogne, but that was no affair of hers.

It so chanced that the next time she sat telling stories in the twilight to Nora and her friends, who for convenience had settled themselves on the floor on some carpets and eider-downs, she let fall the remark, that "Of all the people I know, the one who is most like Gulnare is Milla Engel." This, to her audience, was much like saying before the king that he was not the wisest man in the kingdom. Nora was amazed, her friends almost broke out into open anger. Tora felt that she had done a foolish thing; she tried to explain herself by ascribing that "passive" beauty to Milla which was here implied. The expressions active and passive were at that time war cries in the senior class; there were "active" people and "passive" people, "active" eyes and "passive" eyes, "active" and "passive" colours.

"But, good gracious," said one of the girls, "Milla has not dark hair; she is fair."

"So is Nora," answered the thoughtless Tora.

"I certainly have no wish to be a passive beauty, or an Eastern princess," answered Nora angrily. "No, I did not mean that at all, I only meant ----" she stopped short, for she really did not know why she had said it.

"That was sheer nonsense," the others declared, and pressed Tora so hard that she declared, with tears in her eyes, that Milla was the most refined and the prettiest girl in the school. She (Tora) was only too happy to know any one who was so considerate, so full of tact; it was more than could be said of every one.

This was too much. Gina Krog herself, who was always forbearing, did not now scruple to announce that she had known for two days, but had not wished to tell, that Tora went to see Milla, and that they were bosom friends. There was a dead silence. Soon afterwards Nora left, and the others dispersed. Tora tried to explain, but they would not listen to her.

None of the boarders belonged to Milla's party; not a girl there had set her foot inside Milla Engel's door--for the reason that they had never been asked.

However much Tora tossed about and turned herself and her pillow that night, she could not sleep; it vexed and hurt her that she could not be friends with one without losing the friendship of the other. Now the whole school would look on her as a faithless wretch. Heaven knew that she was not, yet she might be sent to Coventry for it, it might always be remembered against her. It was a question of the future for her. She had been so tossed about, she felt so insecure; she was always stretching out her arms for something solid to cling to, which as constantly eluded her grasp. She cried bitterly; she liked them both so much, each in her own way, though they were so different. Why should she not if she liked? What could she do? She did not wish to sacrifice either of them.

The next day was Sunday; she had to go to church, but she would not wait for the others, who were going as well--so she went straight off to Milla. Milla was dressed for church; they met in the hall, but she was surprised when Tora asked if she might speak to her. She took her into her room and locked the door. Tora began to cry and told her everything exactly as it had happened; she did not conceal that she was fond of them both and why she was so, nor how lonely she felt, and what an effect this might have on her future. Nora had so much influence both among the boarders and the day girls.

In the midst of the story, just as Tora had paused for a moment to cry, Milla heard someone at the door; there was a knock, she opened it just wide enough to step through; in a little time she returned and said that she and Anna Rogne had made an engagement to go to church together, but that she had excused herself on the score of a headache; it was certainly the second Sunday that she had done so, but it could not be helped. Milla was sorry for Tora; she really was fond of her, it showed itself now. She promised not to take anything in bad part which Tora might devise, so as to keep on good terms with Nora and her numerous friends. Milla really was very sweet.

Tora had only time to put her arms round her and kiss her for this, for she must show herself in church. But might she come again in the afternoon? She was very much consoled, but she longed for more; she was so frightened, she must manage to talk everything over with her. Milla asked her to come again as early as ever she could.

Tora came again after coffee; as soon as she had locked the door, Milla whispered, as she put her arm round Tora's neck, that now she was going to give her a treat, she felt certain that it would please her. To no one, absolutely to no one, had she shown what Tora was going to see. The press there----

"The press, well----?"

"Once it held my dolls."

"Your dolls!"

"Every one knows that it does not now," said Milla; as she spoke she flung it open. The large double doors, both the upper and lower ones, flew back together, and the girls could see four storeys of a house; the bottom one a complete and marvellously dainty kitchen, scullery, and dining-room, above a drawing-room, a large elegant apartment with the most lovely furniture upholstered in silk, a black rosewood table, fireplace, looking-glass, clock. On the third storey a bedroom, with the sweetest little beds--real actual beds--and a wash-hand stand, where everything was to be found, down to the most minute details. On the fourth storey was the wardrobe, a magnificent doll's wardrobe. There were changes in silk, velvet, moiré antique, in different colours; a whole collection of materials which had not yet been made up; scraps of every description evidently collected with diligence and care during many years. All linen, even stockings, and other underclothing, all in duplicate, as well as hats, mantles, ornaments, belts.

Tora shrieked; she was down on her knees and up on tiptoe; she did not at first lay a finger on them, but devoured them with her eyes, unable to take in the whole--it could not be grasped all at once; there was too much, too great a variety, it was too wonderfully minute. She had not even counted the dolls yet. "One, two, three, four--five--six! seven!! eight!!!"

She had begun softly, but her voice rose at every number, so that Milla hastened to say, "Twelve, twelve, there are twelve."

"Twelve! actually twelve! Oh dear! oh dear! Have you kept all the dolls you have ever had in your life, never spoilt a single one?"

Well, yes she had, but never one since she was seven.

"Wait a minute." And solemnly, as though she were afraid they might disappear, Tora carefully put in her hand and took up the very, very sweetest doll in light red silk, with shoes and hat of the same colour, a dark red parasol, and a little fan stuck into her belt; her underclothes were made like a real person's, with lace and embroidery, a pocket in her dress with a pocket-handkerchief in it, and elegant French gloves which fitted her hands; as well a little brooch shaped like a forget-me-not, and bracelets and watch in the same style. Tora stood dumb with admiration, while she turned the doll round, inspected the cut and make of the dress, the underclothes; held it away from her, then close to her. At that moment there was a knock at the door. Some one had come right upstairs without the preoccupied girls having heard the least sound. They were startled. Milla held up her finger. She turned red and white. Of course it was Anna. But Anna had never seen the dolls, she would not understand.

There were, she explained later, two more dolls in mourning, but Anna had been with her so much lately that she had not been able to dress many of them, otherwise her plan had been to have them all in mourning, that would have been charming. Another knock, low and hesitating. They held their breaths; Milla was quite unnerved. They heard her go; they listened so intently that they could hear her step on the stairs. It was a most unlucky chance. Milla had given orders that if any one besides Tora came they were to say that she had gone out for a walk on account of her headache. But the maid who had received the order, Milla's own maid, could not have answered the door, although it was her time for doing so. What should Milla do? But from this consideration she was swept away by a whirlwind.

Nora lay on the bed in Tinka Hansen's room; a little wainscoted, blue-painted attic in shoemaker Hansen's new house in the market-place. As well as the bed there was an open bookshelf painted brown, one or two chairs, a large washstand intended for two, but for which no other place could be found; a high short sofa on which Tinka now sat, looking across at the bed, her right arm resting on her little desk which stood on the table before her.

Nora lay sobbing loudly, and Tinka sat calmly by and looked at her; Nora knew now what faithlessness was, how it tasted to be deserted for the sake of another.

But it was more than being forsaken--she was abandoned, deposed, made nothing of. Tora had lifted her up to the skies; she was "all mind," "could not make a mistake." And now this very Tora had dropped her--for Milla Engel! The world was nothing but lies and delusions. "Oh dear! Tinka, why cannot you be kind to me? You do not know how unhappy I am." But Tinka was silent. "I cannot do without you, Tinka--no, I cannot. I have discovered since this morning that I made nothing but mistakes. I have no stability--no, not a bit."

"No, that is it," said Tinka soothingly.

"Not a bit; oh dear, what shall I do? Won't you talk to me?" She cried dreadfully now.

"You only care for adoration, Nora."

"Not 'only,' Tinka; don't say 'only.'"

"No, no; but you are never happy unless you are adored, and one tires of that."

"What shall I do, Tinka? Goodness knows I am tired of it myself. Ah, you do not believe it, but it's true, especially now since Milla is adored as well. Ugh! it is disgusting to think of."

"That is merely because it is Milla, and not you."

"No indeed, Tinka," and she raised herself on her elbow. "Tora has given me so much of it that I am tired of it; yes, I am; and to think that she is with Milla now." She flung herself down again and cried, with anger and vexation. She raised herself again suddenly: "But I must get rid of all this; it is disgusting; I despise myself; you do not know what I have been thinking since this morning. Help me, Tinka; you are the only one of them all who speaks the truth to me."

Tinka was unmoved: Nora flung herself down again, turned away and cried.

"I cannot understand," said Tinka at length, "that you who rave so for----"

"Do not use that word"--Nora interrupted her while she made a gesture with her hand behind her--"it has become loathsome now that Milla does it too. Milla 'raves.' Can you imagine anything so----?"

"Well, well, I will not say 'rave.'"

"No, don't."

"Very well, I will say 'interest yourself--you who interest yourself so much in all that is just and great, and who are also so brave, for you would cheerfully die for what you think right----"

"Yes, I could, Tinka; I believe I could do that; ah, how nice it is to hear something good again, and especially from you; I feel quite astray."

"Yes, but now I am coming to what I want to say--do you understand? Is it not a shame that any one so excellent should all the same be such a peacock?"

"A peacock, Tinka?"

"Yes, a peacock; you are just like a peacock!"

"Am I? I think you are----"

"It was not I who said so."

"I thought as much."

"It was Tora who said so."

"Tora! the ungrateful----"

"Yes, but Tora is right; you are dreadfully like a peacock, Nora; that thin little face of yours, and then you are so slender."

"Come, I say, Tinka."

"Yes, it's true. All we friends agree as to that. We are all to be the eyes in your tail. Yes, that is it."

Nora threw herself down and howled, with her head and hands in the eider-down quilt.

"Yes, of course you have offended Tora--you offend every one. You are so capricious, you are so spoilt."

"Yes, that is what I am!" came from the eider-down.

"That is what you are. Frederik says so as well."

"What does Frederik say?"

Nora raised her red face quickly up from the eider-down. Frederik was an authority.

"I will read it to you," answered the other, opening the desk, and taking out a letter of at least five sheets.

"He writes," she said, as she turned to the fourth side of the fourth sheet, with the same calm deliberation with which she had opened the desk, looked for the letter, closed the desk again, and now read: "You must not be too severe with her either, for if that were her real nature, she would behave differently, and understand how to retain her worshippers. As it is, she is only a spoilt child, who has never done anything without being praised for it, and has besides become so capricious that she is tired to-day of those who praised her yesterday."

"Oh dear! how true that is, Tinka."

"But perhaps she will weary of caprice as well, for she certainly desires something more than that. I was impressed by that in the summer. But you must help her, Tinka."

"Yes, you must."

Nora had raised herself, and now sat on the edge of the bed. She had folded her hands, and looked at Tinka. "You must always be with me. I am not content with myself, when you are not with me. Oh, Tinka! I will never, never, never be like that again. If you see the slightest sign of it, you must take me to task for it. You know I do want to be something more than this. I want to be remarkable. Ah! don't laugh; in reality I have no wish to sing and make fun for the others, and be flattered and flattered; but it came so, I can't understand why. I don't want it; I wish to be able to do something, to take up something with an object. Yes, that is what I want. Sometimes I believe I must go off to the wars, or die with the Nihilists in Russia. Yes, I do believe it. Or else travel about and lecture; be hissed down and wounded. Yes, I could. I don't know why it should be, but I long for it. I don't say it to boast, Tinka, I only say it because I feel it so. Believe me, I do feel it in that way. If I fail, it will be because it is nothing but wishing; perhaps I am incapable of it. Well, all the same I have the wish. I have no wish for the sort of thing I do now, and for which I am praised. I have such an unconquerably strong, strong, strong longing."

She raised herself, her eyes sparkled through her tears; her hair stood on end, she had dishevelled it with her long arms whilst she was crying. She threw herself down again. Tinka could not resist all the pleasant remembrances which Nora had awakened. She walked across and bent her broad full figure over her. And there they sat for some time together, talking that endearing nonsense which is proper to the happiness of reconciliation. Tinka did not forget all that she had treasured in her memory for Nora's benefit, but the sting of it was gone. Nora's lively answers made it all appear stupid, and at last she was ready to laugh at what a little time before had seemed something very serious, immensely important.

In the midst of this, some one rushed up the stairs, step by step, up the first flight, like the beat of a drum. Then up the second, then the third, across to the attic, in the same wild unflagging whirl. There was only one who ever came in that fashion, but it could not very well be she. The door was not locked; there was no knock; it was pushed open. Yes, it was Tora! Good heavens!

The amazement, vexation, dignity of the two girls! It could not have been done better at Court, Tinka's perfect unconsciousness that there could be such a person as Tora Holm in the world, or Nora's noble and spiritual, "Don't disturb me," without a word spoken. It was splendid! Never did so fine a representation more utterly break down. Tora was beaming with delight, victory, and rejoicing. She talked about twelve dolls, some of which were as big as an ordinary child; of--she really believed---fifty dolls' dresses of different sorts, moiré antique, silk, and velvet, besides morning dresses, embroidered skirts and drawers, silk stockings, gloves and parasols; of beds and curtains; of a wash-hand stand, with all belonging to it, down to the most minute details; of everything from the kitchen to the drawing-room, and the drawing-room furniture; of a splendid plan about the dolls, who were all to go to a Court Ball on the King's birthday; about Milla, who was a hundred thousand times better than they dreamed of, who did not object, nay wished, that they should both come up with her and see it all now, at once, and help about the Court Ball--of course as the deepest of secrets. Yes, it was true; on her word of honour it was true. She told them how it had all happened; about Milla's room, what it was like, and that she had been there a number of times without hearing a word about the dolls. But to-day Milla had shown them to her, merely out of the goodness of her heart to comfort her. Now she wanted to show them to the others, if it could be managed, and all four be friends from this time forward.

Tora had proposed it; Milla had been startled, but she had come round, and at last thought it a capital plan. Milla was so good, and they must be so too; no hesitation--they must. Why should there be two parties? Milla had her ways, Nora hers.

They had never really done each other any harm, not the least bit; if they would only try to grasp the fact: "we can talk more about it as we go."

The two looked at each other, but Tora gave them no breathing time. "We must tell them at home that we are going to stay to tea, for that was what was meant. It would never do to refuse an invitation, a formal invitation, to the Engels."

Tora was a perfect whirlwind, carrying all before her, and the storm of excitement had brought fire to her eyes, her movements--she seemed to sparkle. She took possession of them.

Not long afterwards they all four stood before the press; the introduction, the embarrassment from the change of circumstances, apologies, counter-apologies, occupied the first few minutes; Tora took hold of Milla and pushed her gently forward to the front of the press.

"Open! open!--we can talk afterwards--open!" Milla herself felt that here action was better than words, and opened the door.

The cry of delight which was given by the newcomers fully rewarded her.

There was an amount of industry, order, loyalty, and sense of beauty in this little collection which she was aware of herself, and which made it dear to her heart. It was her treasure, never seen by many people, and for the last two or three years only by herself; there was therefore a special charm of secrecy in it; it would be enjoyed when some day it was opened before the astonished eyes of others. And now, how it was enjoyed!

Each one found a special pleasure in it. Tinka looked upon the dolls as so many little children, she talked baby talk to them: "Doodnes dacious" for "Goodness gracious," and "tweet" for "sweet." She began to undress one for the pleasure of dressing it again.

Tora delighted in the stuffs, felt each one, held them up against the light, laid them one against the other. There was a special piece of brocade which she now saw for the first time (Milla looked it out for her), which absolutely enraptured her; it suggested plan upon plan, she talked without a pause. Nora regarded the press as a collection of works of art. Milla became a new person in her eyes. It was evident what she thought of her now, one saw it in Milla's slightly heightened colour.

They treated each other the whole evening with a distinction which the others considered as only natural.

They were soon all sitting round the table with the dolls shared among them; the materials and everything which could be of use for this great object, a Court Ball, lay scattered before them, and eight eyes and forty fingers rummaged among them. They could not agree; Tora wished to have a costume ball, her endless chatter filled the air with fancies and varying colours, a perfect whirl of figures of damsels and rococo dames with ribbons, feathers, and hats. Milla preferred the present day, the fashion plates, especially some quite new ones.

Nora was sometimes on one side, sometimes on the other, according as some special thing took her fancy. Tinka opposed the idea; they could each one dress her doll according to her own fancy. Nora and Tora rebelled against this; there ought to be some style in it. Milla dealt with the proposal with more deliberation, but was against it. Nora quickly grew impatient at this, and then, by a sleight of hand which only girls understand, this discussion turned into a dispute about--Tomas Rendalen and Karl Vangen! Not between Tinka and the others, but Tora against Nora and Tinka. Tora being herself nervous, could not endure Rendalen's nervousness. It was either this, or that she was inclined to be in opposition; otherwise it cannot be explained how it was that from the first day she had been unable to get on with Rendalen. A speaking resemblance between a red-spotted stuff and Rendalen's hands had started the dispute. Nora had hastily answered that his hands were clever, really speaking hands; Vangen's, on the contrary, were "big and stupid, as broad at one end as the other."

When there are only two masculine teachers in a girls' school, the pupils very rarely praise both--one must be censured when the other is applauded; and at school it was generally honest Karl Vangen who was used as a foil whenever any one felt inclined to become enthusiastic over the intellectual Rendalen.

But on this point Tora was in opposition from the moment when Karl Vangen had grasped her hand in warm welcome, and had beamed down at her with his kind eyes, and besides had made their meeting the text of his address that day--since then she had been fond of him. And the more awkward and simple he was, the more she liked him--she fought for him until the others were forced to respect her.

This time it began very mildly; they merely taunted her with Karl Vangen's "thick head," his wide mouth, his long fingers, long legs and big feet; and she replied with allusions to Rendalen's red hair, screwed-up eyes, his feminine preciseness, his scented handkerchief; but it soon became more serious. Tora's quick wit cited instances of Rendalen's uncontrolled impetuosity, and what mistakes he made in consequence. Instances of his uneven temper--how sometimes he rushed up and down the class without speaking, without hearing, without seeing; at other times he was nothing but life, absolutely given up to fun--far too much so. The others considered that this was unjust, because if this were mentioned by itself, no one would have the least idea of Rendalen, who was, for all that, the best and cleverest teacher in the world. Tinka had a capricious talent for mimicry and not the slightest leaning towards piety, so that Karl Vangen very easily appeared to her in a ludicrous light; she now began to preach, or rather to bleat, like him, with eyes gazing fixedly heavenwards. Nora laughed violently, Tora cried, Milla could not prevent herself from laughing, but all the same, she now took Karl Vangen's part; she quietly remarked that she thought him "delightful"; she did not mention Rendalen. As Milla was the hostess and Nora and Tinka at her house for the first time, they said no more; but Tora would not give in; she now seriously began to sing Karl Vangen's praises. In order not to answer and admit that there might be some truth in it, Nora walked away humming and looked out of the window. "Good gracious! why, there goes Anna Rogne," she said.

"Has she been here?" asked Milla, turning pale; she got up and came towards the window. Yes, certainly she saw Anna hurrying away, she must be much disturbed; she herself, with as much speed as was becoming, hastened out of the door and down the stairs. Some time elapsed before she returned. She was silent and really upset; Anna had been right upstairs and therefore outside their door. There was general astonishment. Milla told them what had happened that morning, and how innocent she really was in the matter. Tora at once took it upon herself, and was terribly unhappy.

"No, the blame is mine alone," said Milla.

What should she do? She had ordered the carriage.

No one answered, but they looked involuntarily at Tinka.

"Yes," said Tinka, "we will all go together to fetch Anna and explain to her how it happened." Nora and Tora agreed at once that that was the only right thing to do. Milla, too, admitted that this would be best, but she had never said anything to Anna about the dolls; Anna did not care for such things, and now it could not very well be explained to her without offence. Nora and Tora were sensible of this; it would not do.

Tinka held to her opinion; she would gladly undertake it by herself.

No; if any one were to do so it should be Milla.

This put the idea into Milla's head to write. Simply say to Anna that the others were here, would she not come too? She sent the carriage. Yes, the others thought that would do.

"Go yourself!" said Tinka.

"No, I am not so discourteous as that to my guests," laughed Milla. She sat down to write.

The others were quiet for a time; at last Nora broke in with, "Tinka is certainly right; go yourself, we can easily go out just for that time."

"No," answered Milla, looking up from her letter; "Anna need not know that we saw her. Then it would be the most natural thing in the world for me to send a message to her when you are here." The others could not contradict this. She finished off the note and hurried down with it; as she came up again they heard the carriage drive out of the gate, at the side of the house. Milla smiled; "I said I would explain another time why you had come. I told Hans to be quick and to drive a little way round so as not to pass Anna; perhaps the carriage will be there before she is." It was evident that she was pleased at having proved equal to a difficult occasion.

They resumed their discussion on the dolls' festival; but before the carriage returned with Anna, the dolls and their things must be back in the press.

Suddenly Nora broke out: "If we are not to mention the dolls to Anna, why in the world could we not have all gone to her together?"

They looked puzzled at each other for a moment. It was true! They burst out laughing. What had given them the mad idea that for them all to go together would be to let out the secret of the dolls. They tried to recall the course of their conversation, but could not determine it; at all events, it showed that they had uneasy consciences. Tinka proposed in good time to put away the dolls, their wardrobe and stuffs, under Milla's superintendence; but Milla undertook to put the whole thing tidy later on, they could sit quiet while she did so. They all objected to this; it would be awfully amusing to put them away. And so it was settled.

The carriage returned without Anna--she had a headache. Tora looked at Milla, and Milla at Tora; this was a final good-bye. It put them all out of tune for a little while, but when they remembered that at all events they could take the dolls out again, the three guests soon consoled themselves.

As soon as they had got to work, the conversation naturally turned upon Anna; none of the three liked her; they thought her artificial, prétentieuse, as Tora expressed it in rather affected French; Anna was always trying to take up some special line; everything she said, or did, must be so dreadfully thorough. But they all agreed that she wrote well; it was true, for the two things went naturally together.

They then began to make fun of her extreme piety. Milla had said nothing about the first; as regarded the second, she contented herself by remarking that she had perhaps a little too much of it.

Nora was the first to forsake the table. She could not go on any longer; she must have a little music, she said. The grand piano was tried. Milla was afraid that it was not quite in tune; nor was it, but what a tone! Nora sang, while the others dressed dolls; then she worried Tinka to join her, but at first Tinka would not leave her blue doll; at last Milla asked her to do so. They had sung one or two songs when there was a knock at the door. Milla's maid announced that the Consul had arrived; there was great surprise, he was not expected. Milla hurried down. The others all agreed at once that they must go, it would be dull work having tea with the Consul. Tora especially shrank from it; her cuffs were not quite clean; would it do to ask Milla to lend her a pair? During this discussion the door was opened, in came Milla, quicker than any one believed it possible for her to move. "Father's coming," she whispered, and hurried to the table with the others after her. From there to the press, from the press to the table, from the table to the press; heads and shoulders were knocked together, toes trodden on, amid smothered cries, laughter, and scolding; everything was off the table and locked up as the Consul knocked at the door. Nora had pushed Tinka on to the sofa, she herself sat gravely on a chair, Milla and Tora stood by the press. The Consul came in, elegant and smiling as usual. He saw the four girls red with suppressed laughter, or whatever it might be, embarrassed, constrained. "What the deuce is it?" he thought, and came forward to Nora, the Sheriff's daughter, bowed politely, bade her welcome, and asked after her parents; then to the others as Milla introduced them, and then back again to Nora; he asked merrily if he might have the pleasure of taking her downstairs. He had just come from the steamer, and was as hungry as one only can be after a sea voyage.

She took his arm, but he wished the others to go first, which they hesitated to do; it seemed as though one were waiting for the other. Tinka could not understand why Tora did not move, and when the Consul turned towards her again she came forward, although it was rather embarrassing. Why did not Milla help her? She stood there too, as though she had taken root. The Consul gave his daughter a little push: "Avancez, mesdemoiselles." She was obliged to come a little forward, and the lower part of a doll become visible! It lay there, "naked and face downwards," as the song says. Tora tried to cover it up, but the Consul had caught sight of it, and with a "Pardon me, Fröken," he stooped and picked it up. Tora ran, Tinka ran, Milla ran, Nora let go his arm and ran, and the Consul after them with the doll. "What is this--what in the world is this?"

They all rushed into the dining-room and stood there in a group, convulsed with laughter, as the Consul followed them with the doll in the air like a flag. It was the blue doll which Tinka had undressed for the third time, and was going to put to bed just as the Consul came and everything was hurry-scurry. It must have slipped down and bashfully hidden itself under a skirt at the time the press was closed. Milla and Tora had discovered it at the same moment, and both placed themselves over it.

The Consul sat down with the doll in his arms; then he laid it down in his table napkin, and after looking at it once or twice he put it on the table with a teacup under its head. Milla snatched it from him.

"Do you really play with dolls?"

No, indeed; they had come to consult together about Christmas presents. Milla gave this answer.

"Why should you hide such a harmless thing?" asked the Consul.

"Because the doll was undressed, of course," answered his daughter. Nora soon joined in; she was used to this sort of thing. She also had a father who loved to tease girls.

The other two took but little part, but as against that the Consul kept his eyes on them almost continually. Tinka could quite understand that Tora might attract his attention, but why should she? She grew uneasy by degrees. Her dress might have come unsewn somewhere near the arm, it happened so to her sometimes; she looked as well as she could, but failed to discover anything; she felt as though she had no dress on at all.

The Consul was very merry; suddenly he turned all his attention to Tora, they had only been a short time at table and she had finished already! The fact was that the unlucky cuffs worried Tora to such an extent that they ran between her and her wits. The Consul looked at her suddenly; it was not the birth-mark that he was looking at, for she had been careful to have that side next to Milla; it was certainly not her face, his looks were directed lower than that. She put down her knife and fork and hid her hands under the table.

"You are not eating, my dear Fröken Holm; are you not well, missie? What's amiss with you? Or is there anything particular you want? Just say what it is. Milla, give Fröken Holm another cup of tea. No tea either? A glass of wine? Come now, just a glass of wine. Your good health, Fröken! But you won't drink any? Do you prefer Madeira? Good gracious, are you blushing about it? Headache? Dear, dear! Perhaps you would like----? Shall Milla help you? Not that either? Just say what you want, my dear. Have you often a headache, Fröken Holm? What, you have not got one? I once knew a girl who would have a headache merely if something were amiss with her cuffs. But, my dear Milla, I do not want to tease Fröken Holm. Is that what it is, Fröken Holm?"

Tora was overcome by a feeling of helplessness which would seize her for even a smaller cause than this, and which always made her cry. She had to leave the table and hasten upstairs.

Milla rose with a dignity which her friends admired, and followed her. When the others joined her, Tora was gone. Milla looked pale, but was completely silent as to what had passed. Nora and Tinka began to put on their things, Milla making no objection. She kissed them and begged them to come again, repeating her invitation down in the hall. It was only when she was upstairs alone, and had locked the door, that she burst into tears. Such a thing would never have happened if her mother had been at table, she could not fill her place; her father had vexed her terribly. Her mother had left her so much too soon. "Oh, mother, mother, mother!" There was a knock at the door. She asked who it was. Her father; of course she had to open, but she went back to the sofa and flung herself crying into the furthermost corner. He sat down quietly, and after a few moments he said very gently, almost in a whisper, "Listen, Milla; I am sorry for what has happened; I wish I knew better how it had come about. But it is annoying, of course, chiefly for your sake. I never thought she could take it so to heart. I was so pleased that your friends should come to see you. Especially these girls. All the same, and perhaps it was that feeling which influenced me, have you been careful enough in the choice of one of them, Milla?"

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing particular; don't be so vehement, my dear! You do not quite understand me. A girl who is so uncertain of herself and--well--whom one can so easily confuse--there might come a time when you would repent that you had been intimate with her."

Milla got up, literally as white as a sheet. She felt exactly as though he had spoken of her; there are very few girls of her age who would not have felt so. But she did not say a word. She cried bitterly as she went into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

The next day, the moment the time for recreation was sounded, Milla took Tora by the arm, and during every recreation it was the same thing. They were both beaming with good-humour; Nora and Tinka greatly admired Milla for this. They had not thought that she had so much heart and spirit.

This little occurrence, more than anything else laid the foundation of their friendship.

The Staff was formed.

CHAPTER III

[THE SOCIETY]

It was soon noticed that the whole of the senior class and that next to it had come under a single influence.

Rendalen was so much struck by the alteration, without understanding the ground for it, that at last he made inquiries, and it was explained to him. He was much amused, gave the four girls their celebrated name, and at the same time suggested that they should form a "Society." It was true that they already had social evenings at his mother's, and they would continue these, but it would be better if they took the whole affair into their own hands; select the subjects for readings and lectures, or for discussion, among themselves. The last especially. Girls had so many "fancies" in their heads that they ought to learn in early life to be able to carry out a thought, to pursue a special interest. A Society! The senior class is to institute a Society. They may invite their friends from the town or the elder girls from the second class. They will be allowed to speak at the meetings on what subjects they choose, invite whom they like to take part in the readings and music, they and no one else. They were to be empowered to make rules, elect a president and secretary, impose fines! What fancies this awakened, not in the senior class alone, but in all of them, down to the little ones who learned to spell and sing songs about the cat. What a stir at meal-times, what a whispering during lessons, what commotions at play-time! When a school is excited by a question which must not be openly discussed in lesson hours, it causes despair among the teachers. No one studies, no one listens, no one keeps order or remembers anything. If one wishes really to be amused by the suppressed excitement of the class, one must not stand in front of them; there they restrain themselves.

No, take up your position behind them and observe their plaits; you might imagine that they had gained an independent life--they jump, they dance, they curl and uncurl themselves. The changes of colour during this extreme restlessness are comical. All the fiery red, sandy and brown-red, up to black, look as though they were wet or shining with oil, or take a dead colour like coffee grounds. There are locks which are black above and brown underneath, and those of absolute raven black; there are light ones in every shade of ashen, of yellow, or an ugly mixture of both, with green for a foundation. All these assume the wonderful changes of colour which belong to their years. The braids are as excited as though they were chattering to each other, playing tricks on one another, springing towards each other. The life behind is a perfect reflex of that in front.

At the first--that is to say, the preliminary--meeting of the Society, Nora was elected president; Tinka was so accustomed to have all the work put upon her that she knew beforehand that she would be chosen secretary; she was right, she was chosen unanimously.

It had this advantage, Nora considered, that she would thus be able to copy the minutes of the proceedings for Frederik. It was true that their earliest determination was that the proceedings should not be made public, but then Tinka was engaged.

Otherwise they began without written rules, but Frederik wrote from Christiania requiring the most clearly defined ones. He sent a draft. There were fines for non-attendance, fines for disregarding the rules therein set down, fines for every other kind of disorder, fines for omitting to vote. But the girls took it more practically than he--the donkey--as Tinka called him on this occasion. Nora and she worked out, quite quietly, a new set of rules; they were discussed at the next meeting amid some disorder; rules did not appear to be to their taste.

A great deal of fun was made in the town over the "Society;" there were some, however, who considered it unbecoming, some thought it dangerous, but when a theatrical company visited the town and its most select representation fell on the same day as a meeting of the Society, and the members, with a few exceptions, were with difficulty persuaded to sacrifice this meeting, it was allowed that a proof had been given of their zeal. No one thought it worth while to raise the question again as regarded the chief representation; they were left in peace.

Very soon a serious error showed itself in the rules of the Society. Any one might anonymously propose a subject for discussion to the president, and it was decided by vote whether it should be placed on the agenda.

Thus it was anonymously proposed to discuss "Immortality," but this did not obtain a single vote. The proposer was evidently not a member. Another proposal ran, "Ought men to be allowed to wear moustaches?" and this was written in the same hand. It was now suggested that no notice should be taken of any communication which was not laid on the secretary's table during the course of the meeting. It was objected that the proposal in this case would no longer remain anonymous, but they were sufficiently confident in their own adroitness, for it was adopted.

Although the discussions were absolutely private, it was maintained in the town that one young lady in the course of her lecture had declared that it was most pitiful of men that they could not keep their vows of chastity so well as women. It was then that Dösen composed his famous "Nora, Tora, ora pro nobis."

With this exception it was not certain what the girls discussed, they had agreed to pretend that everything that was said about them was true, a roguish Freemasonry kept this joke going.

One of those who teased them the most was Consul Engel. He had soon made his peace with the Staff, having sent his apologies through his daughter. Besides this, he had presented Tora with a nest of Japanese boxes, in the smallest of which was a charming pin. In order to make everything smooth again, he gave a "Reconciliation Dinner," to which Milla invited several of her friends. An enormous doll had been sent by grande vitesse, which he set up on the table and ceremoniously introduced to the four girls. It was magnificent; Tinka had put on her stoutest dress; Tora, who was in a wild mood, sat next to Milla. She chattered without stopping for a moment, so that Milla had to pinch her under the table to make her be silent, at which Tora laughed as though she were mad. Nora ran to the piano in the middle of dessert, to sing a song which the Consul had never heard. He declared afterwards that he had never amused himself more innocently. His only notion of talking to them was to tease them, his favourite theme was the Society. They laughed at his jokes and kept them up, but they would not give in; for women are used to having the things they are fond of held up to contempt. The Society was a new thing in their lives, soon it became something more. But to show this we must return to one who is waiting for us. Anna Rogne did not come to school that Monday; Milla came up to muster with her heart full of self-reproach. Directly after school she drove round to see her, but Anna was ill; her aunts came out smiling and told her that she could not be disturbed. The next day Milla came again. She asked if she might not at least be allowed to see the invalid. Anna and she had begun to read Fabiola together; might she not read aloud to her? "Little Anna hoped she would excuse her," they said smiling, and Milla went away. Anna was away three weeks, and Milla called two or three times more, but did not see her. After that she gave up the attempt.

Anna was not ill, she told her aunts openly what was the matter; she had been deceived and slighted--nay, more than that, she had been robbed. What she meant by this last she would not explain for a long time; she could not. She must be quite alone. They could hear her the whole day walking about in the attic, and sometimes in the night as well; they were terribly frightened, but did as she wished. They always told her when they were going to have prayers, but she would never join them; when she noticed their increasing astonishment and anxiety, she at last told them that that had been her greatest loss; for all that she valued most she had shared with Milla. Not to speak of their mutual profession, there was not a prayer, not a hymn, not a favourite passage of Scripture which had not been exchanged between her and her friend, as lovers exchange their betrothal rings, make presents to each other, and kiss each other's portraits.

She could no longer bear to see, to be present, to hear or think any more about the subject.

She did not cry, at all events not when any one saw her; little Anna had a strong will. She looked on what had happened as one foe looks at another. Her feelings did not take the form of pain, but of anger. She hated the others, she pitied herself. The misapprehension she had laboured under, up to the last hour of that last day when she stood before Milla's door and heard the others laughing inside--could anything more absurd be imagined! What had she not, in utmost seriousness, shared with a girl like that, and the inward strength with which she had credited her; there were no bounds to her sense of shame when she thought of it, and yet she was obliged to think of it. She forced herself to confess it to her aunts, she forced herself to probe down into the most remote causes; it became an employment which brought others in its train. She roused herself, began to stir about, to take long lonely walks, and at last to read. At the end of three weeks she returned to school, rather paler than usual and a little thinner, but in all other respects, apparently, just as before. She did not take her old place, but was still friendly with every one, even with Milla. Milla made no further attempts at explanation, though it was not perhaps without her knowledge that Tora did so. Anna listened to her, and asked for a little yellow cotton; she would return it the next day. She attended all the meetings of the Society most regularly; it was evident that it interested her, but she took no active part.

Just before Christmas Rendalen was invited, on a suggestion of Nora, to tell them something about Henrik Ibsen's "Ghosts." He refused this, but asked leave to speak to them a little on hereditary responsibility; he considered that in this, when it had been thoroughly worked out and realised, were contained several new moral laws--indeed, that a revolution would be caused by it in many things.

There was great eagerness over this; they looked forward to a quiet and interesting account, but were given a wild though stirring lecture. The girls were not less frightened by Rendalen's personal agitation than by his words. At the end he shouted out that those who passed on an hereditary disease to their children--those, for example, who had frequent insanity in their families, and nevertheless, married; those who, though weakened by debauchery, brought children into the world; those who, for the sake of money, married cripples or unhealthy people and endowed their children with these afflictions--were worse than the greatest scoundrels, worse than thieves, forgers, robbers, murderers; that he would maintain.

Something must have happened: for several days Fru Rendalen had gone about with red eyes, and he himself had been away, probably to Christiania. Anna came forward and thanked him for his lecture in her own prétentieuse manner; after he had gone, she said it was the best she had heard. Only one person agreed with her, and that was Miss Hall; the others said nothing, there was a painful silence. At last some one said that the lecture appeared to her to be terribly violent. Little Anna replied that people must be roused, everything was made into an amusement. There was too much of that in the Society itself. This caused still greater discord; Nora was annoyed, and asked if Anna would not in that case do something to help it. Anna coloured, but to every one's astonishment she replied: "Yes, she would try."

She disappeared from school for several days; but she announced that she would give a lecture at the next meeting. She wished that Rendalen, Fru Rendalen, and Karl Vangen should hear it; this was certainly not hiding her light under a bushel, her companions thought. Of course the invited guests came.

When little Anna arrived she looked overstrung, her hands trembled as her thin fingers turned the pages of her manuscript and arranged the lights on the tribune. Her voice and delivery were measured, sometimes almost sharp; she did not often raise her large eyes, but when she did so it was with a significance which was most irritating. She read her lecture--the opening was especially pointed:

"Woman does not labour to improve herself in the same degree that she expects man to do. She does not lay aside the failings which she acquired when in another and worse position. I will this evening mention one fault--lying. In her position as the weaker, woman has accustomed herself to lying, but she is no longer so defenceless as to need this. Thus I consider that in making herself appear so gentle, so pious, so modest, so lovable before strangers, even if only one is present, she lies. It is the same thing when, a straight course being disagreeable to her, she at once takes a crooked one; she gives a false reason, she makes excuses. If there is anything to be done which has grown distasteful she pleads a headache; if any one calls whom she does not wish to see, she is 'out,' though she is sitting in the parlour. It does not disturb her in the least to make her servant, her daughter, or her friend lie for her when she cannot do so herself.

"Some ladies, possibly a large proportion, have so accustomed themselves to giving untrue reasons, or to concealing the real ones, to making up excuses, that they do it without any necessity; they delight in it as in a kind of coquetry.

"Would this were only in their relations with mankind, but it is the same towards God. I will quote a writer on the subject; he says, 'It is difficult to judge woman's religious faith so long as religion remains her single intellectual interest; but when one sees a hundred, two hundred, three hundred ladies round one fashionable preacher, one suspects mischief. The easiest thing to think of is to allow oneself to be guided by another's words; it is only a step further to be enthusiastic about the preacher himself, easiest of all to feign an enthusiasm which others feel.

"'The faith which has lost its ideals on earth, and therefore transfers them to heaven, is certainly not so secure of a good reception there as the clergy promise. As a rule, there does not remain much more than a vague need.

"'There are besides many women who are very cautious; it is best to make things safe for them and theirs. I often wonder what our Lord says when they begin.'"

She quoted further, and many of the quotations aroused laughter. Karl Vangen was especially amused. From this she passed on to woman's share in societies for charitable objects; how the needs of the poor furnished an excuse for gay dances ("the proceeds for the poor," as they say); how amusing balls and even theatrical performances are organised in aid of the sufferers from shipwreck or fire.

She described how a society such as this trifled with great questions and raved about particular lecturers. Anna was severe, as young people generally are when they take upon themselves to criticise.

When she left the tribune she did not grasp what was said to her; she answered at cross purposes, or asked them what they had said, but little by little she recovered herself; when she looked for Rendalen he was gone.

She was utterly astonished; she slipped across to Fru Rendalen to hear the reason. Of course, she had to begin by asking her what she had thought of it.

"Yes, my child, there is a great deal of right in what you say, but I fear that you will all inflate it into something to be taken seriously. Poor things, you will learn then to lie to some purpose. Few women can take this seriously, my child, but they can affect to do so and overstrain themselves as well--ah yes, they often become horribly unnatural----"

At last, slowly and cautiously, came Anna's question, "Why did Herr Rendalen go?"

"Heaven knows!" She sighed, looked towards the door where he had disappeared, got up, and left the room.

Karl Vangen was talking to Tora; he now saw that Anna was disengaged, and came up to her to say that he had been "very much delighted" with some of the quotations; he knew the book. Karl Vangen had been on the high road to become a fashionable preacher; happily he had escaped, but the terror still remained with him. Anna knew this from her aunts, so she had the secret key to his remarks. He believed entirely in woman's religious convictions, he said, and did not quite agree with her.

She asked him his opinion in other respects. "I know so little about women in other ways," he said, colouring slightly, "I dare not enter into it."

As soon as ever the elders were gone, the enthusiasm of the girls broke out. "Little Anna" was the eldest of them, a thing people very easily forgot--she was so undeveloped in appearance. They had never thought her capable of such an effort. "What a remarkable point of view! how well expressed! and that by one of ourselves."

Nora and Tora were especially charmed. "That is just what we are, just as untruthful, principally in little things of course. And how we play with serious questions. We must have deeds as well, or if not deeds, then----"

"Snuff," said somebody, and the whole party burst into roars of laughter, but they began again: "It is true, Heaven knows it is true. It must be altered; it is shameful to be as we are."

As a beginning they would all escort Anna home. Yes, they would! And so they did, and the two crooked old aunts were startled out of their sleep when, between eleven and twelve at night, they heard the swarm buzzing before the house, and the call of "Good-night, good-night, good-night," from twenty ringing girls' voices. And little Anna herself! She had to go in and tell them what it was all about, but she merely said they had come home with her. She could not say more just then. She felt so uncertain. She had written this lecture with her heart's blood; she had turned her bitterest feelings into an assault; she had felt certain that she would be assailed for it, hated for it, and lo and behold, she had been thanked for it over and over again; nothing had been heard but exultation and praise.

She lay in bed, but could not sleep. Was it from pleasure? Was it from fear? Or had she been for the first time moved by them? It was not disagreeable.

At the same time more than one little head lay pondering what course should be pursued. The impulse to take this seriously, to be terribly truthful, must have nourishment, otherwise it would certainly die. And they found something real to do!

Milla was in mourning; Milla could not go to balls this Christmas. They would none of them go to balls this Christmas either. Yes, laugh if you like, but it was unanimously determined upon. One does not desert a friend in sorrow: not one of the Staff would go to a dance the whole winter through. Milla felt flattered by so much sympathy, but---- "No buts!" Immovable, unanimous determination.

And that should not be all, they would think of something more.

The young fellows of the town mourned over the loss of so many merry young partners that Christmas, but all unavailingly. Indeed, it pleased the girls that their absence was regretted.

As has been said, it was not to end here.

CHAPTER IV

[ON THE STEPS]

This union of the leaders among the girls, this real desire for knowledge and independent thought, even if it had to endure criticism and even a little derision, was still an incontrovertible proof that the school was now on the high road to success. Even if there were derision expressed in the town, there could be no doubt that every one was struck by the decided, and above all intelligent, comprehension which the superiority of the apparatus, experiments, and method aroused in the scholars on subjects which every one understood, and which belonged to the most special needs of life.

At home the girls overflowed with narrations and desire for information, and constantly asked permission to buy materials for experiments in chemistry and physics, microscopes, and historical pictures which illustrated beliefs and habits of life through all ages.

There was no longer any comparison between girls and boys when energy and information were in question.

This made the lesson hours happy; the great gatherings for "breakfast" at twelve o'clock were feasts, and the pupils ran down the slope in the afternoon without books, unburdened by lessons--free, free, free!

But the happiest of them all remained behind, Fru Rendalen and Karl Vangen.

How Fru Rendalen hurried about with her spectacles awry, a habit she had acquired in later years; it was like meeting a load of hay at hay-harvest, it smells so sweet from such a distance, and one so gladly stands aside to let the mighty, useful, close-packed object pass. Karl Vangen was one constant smile; he had no time to leave off. He beamed with delight if any one so much as looked towards the school, and would tell, over and over again, all the little incidents which occurred there: they were every one either remarkable or amusing.

It was only Tomas who was not quite in accord with them, but there never was much "comfort" about him, if by that one understands confidential intercourse, and even good temper. He either wanted tall Vangen to "give him a back" out in the garden walks, or even sometimes in the sitting-room, while he jumped over him as one boy jumps over another; or he walked up and down, up and down, generally whistling, with his hands in his pockets, till it made one giddy to look at him; or else he would play the piano by the hour together. Sometimes he worked for, and in, the school without intermission; or read a new book regardless of any interruption; or he took endless walks or read aloud, and amused himself with the girls as though they were all comrades; or else he could not bear them, or the school, or anything which belonged to it.

At such times his mother had to take the literature lesson for him, Miss Hall the chemistry and physics, Nora the singing; he would not, he could not.

Then he would come back again, brighter and happier than ever, and do the work of two. His mother put this down as the result of all the years he had lived without regular employment. If they had company he did not appear at all, or else came and carried everything before him, or came and sat silent. If he spoke to any one, it was "Yes, just so," "Quite right." And then he would leave the room and not return. Looked at in a certain way, this showed genius: there was something of a genius about Tomas Rendalen.

Before he went to America he had "discovered" a history teacher: he was very great at "discoveries." She was called Karen Lote, and taught needlework, writing, and drawing. Rendalen had noticed her acquirements in the different kinds of drawing, and found out that the girl possessed a by no means insignificant knowledge of history. "Extend that into the history of civilisation," he said. He was never tired of giving this advice. "Here at home the history of civilisation is worse than meagre, and it is the only one which is worth anything in a school."

He had then begun to make the large collection of historical pictures which the school now possessed, and through these he captivated her interest; he kept it, while he was abroad, by sending a number of these pictures to her, as well as books and advice; and he was hardly home again before he undertook the history lessons of the whole school to explain to her what his ideas were; he sought to show development and connection by a clear historical summary accompanied by maps and pictures; he made it slight for the younger, and more elaborate for the elder ones; only using details as characteristics. He made it one-sided, but there was power and colour in its historical representations. Karen Lote was captivated; the novelty of his appearance, his opinions, his wonderful talent for teaching, his inimitable way of making one believe there was nothing in the world for him beyond what was before him at the moment; his exquisite taste in dress, his well-ordered person, even the slight odour of delicate scent which always followed him, all gave the girl a deep interest in him. Nothing in the six-and-twenty years of her life had ever in the slightest degree approached it. To think of being helped in her work by him every day! The misunderstandings and persecutions which he went through, and his sufferings under them, brought her feelings to a pitch of enthusiasm. But she did not trouble any one with it. Then came the time when he became the principal of the school. He would come and listen to her teaching whenever he had a spare moment, share eagerly in it, or go away without saying a word; remain away for a long time, then come again every day, and take the whole lesson out of her hands; or else walk up and down, up and down, and then remain away again.

Just before Christmas Karen Lote went to Fru Rendalen, and told her that she could not stay a day longer in the school. If she merely heard Rendalen's step in the passage she trembled; when he was near she could not relate the simplest occurrence or give an explanation. "But why?" He treated her with the greatest contempt; she burst into tears. "Contempt?" Yes! either he continually interrupted her, took the whole lesson away from her, or else he did not consider her worth correcting, turned his back on her, did not bow, did not come at all. There was no end to her complaints.

Fru Rendalen assembled the teachers and laid Fröken Lote's complaint before them, convinced that it must be the most extraordinary misunderstanding. But the teacher who had succeeded Fröken Lote as drawing mistress assured her that if she had not had a mother to support, she would have left long ago; she would not have borne his continual corrections in the children's hearing; he was an unbearable tyrant.

Everything must be done in one particular way, without the least variation. He had made her so nervous that she trembled if she even heard him in the passage. And she cried too.

The startled Fru Rendalen turned quickly to the others. "What could this mean? The teachers of languages, her pupils from their childhood, her friends, who through her help had improved themselves abroad, they must speak." They felt sure that Rendalen had not the least idea that he "set people right," and as little that he offended people by interfering, so that the children noticed his immense air of superiority, but all the same it was often very annoying. He was so uncertain both with teachers and children, he never took things twice in the same way, it was always according to his temper. The conclusion which they all came to was that he was most unfit to direct a school. Miss Hall herself, who otherwise had no complaint to make, agreed with this.

Fru Rendalen implored them, for God's sake, to reconsider it; surely they did not wish to ruin the school; she was much agitated, and said that provisionally she would resume the direction. But they must not let this be known. She broke down with all the violence which was natural to her. The others were frightened, there was a touching scene; they praised her son, one against the other; nay, any one who had not heard what had gone before, would have believed that they were all glowing with enthusiasm for him. After all, to form a wonderful plan for a school, according to all the best examples of modern times, and himself to be an exceptional teacher, was something quite different, and a great deal more than to be an able principal. They and his mother soon agreed over this, and consoled themselves with it as well as they could.

But this school had been the object of Rendalen's life; if he were to lose this there would be nothing left for him. From the time that Augusta died, and he learned that it would be better that he should not found a family, the idea of taking his mother's school, and making it all that she had dreamed of, but had not accomplished, had been betrothal, marriage, and the foundation of a family to him. He was proud of it. This gave the intense energy to his early youth, to his work, to his sense of right. It was the object of Karl Vangen's unfailing admiration, the secret text for Fru Rendalen's conversations and letters.

Notwithstanding this, temptations came, and his unruly nature did not always emerge victorious from them, but each time he was seized with a feeling of shame for his ideal, which amounted to dread--that awful dread which his mother had felt while she bore him under her bosom. She had often described this in vivid colours, but it was nothing compared to what he had gone through; it had been terrible. This drove him back to his mother's confidence, and made him hold that confidence fast. There was sober earnest between these two, they had a common aim in life. It might have been that he would have cast her, his aim of life, and this dread to the winds, if his passions had concentrated themselves on, or been seized by, any one person, for there was a wild energy in him which would have made him cling closely to another; but the hereditary restlessness in his nature mingled one impression with another, his dread had time to come between them with ever stronger force, and it became at last the most powerful of all. The aim of life was saved. From the time that he had conquered, a dissatisfied feeling developed itself; it had always been there; it reminded one of his father's power of imagination, his love of perfection.

His studies were forced. Never one thing at a time, but one clashing with the other. If the examination subjects had not in such a special degree been necessary for him, he would never have passed one at all; he was ready long before the time with some things, and was as much behind with others. He was always in advance with the subject he was full of at the moment, it was a link in a visible or ideal entirety. To Karl Vangen, who knew his method of study, it was amazing what he accomplished. It was the same thing with his intercourse with his fellow-creatures; he often seemed to be inattentive, and yet he received original impressions, but they were all on the same lines. He saw images and demonstrations in any thing he was engaged in; not people, but phenomena; not facts, but ideas. As long as Karen Lote was learning his historical method she interested him deeply, but afterwards not in the least; it was much the same with the other teachers, excepting Miss Hall; her teaching was new, and he was eager to see the result of it--first intellectually, then morally.

But his own work? When the long restless rush about the world after appliances and methods was over, after the plans for the school, conceived years ago, and since then endlessly arranged and drafted, were at last set going; especially after the rude resistance from without was overcome, what was it that gradually came over him? Could he not? Would he not? Was it no longer enough for him?

Everyone round him rejoiced in the school, his mother's delight in especial was touching. "This is the school that I have dreamed of, my son, my dear Tomas!" He heard it nearly every day, he thanked her and kissed her for it, he needed it; but all the same.... As for teaching, his principal talent, he could interest himself in making a thing absolutely clear, and in having the main points properly remembered, the most difficult ones understood; it could delight him to give a new view of something to the elder pupils, or to direct their attention to a question of the day. Whenever a problem presented itself, he would take it up with patient ingenuity; beyond that there was nothing--no, nothing! He realised his failings thoroughly, self-occupied though he was; they harassed him more and more. There were times when he could not endure the school. Then he felt himself without spirit, without aspiration, without--he could almost have said without affection--if his mother had not been there, and Karl as well; he was deeply attached to Karl.

This was no longing for a wife and family, at all events in no special degree; indeed, he felt no particular attraction to anything.

Was this the cause of his unhappiness--that he could not attach himself firmly to any conditions? He had been able to do so as a child.

A man who has deliberated in this way from one day to another, and at last, one evening, receives his mother's tears and lamentations because the teachers can no longer endure him as principal, does not start up as at something unexpected. Tomas remained at the piano, where he had been seated when she came in; he touched it with one finger now and then during her long and interrupted narration; he saw her despair and concealed his own. He felt as though now he had nothing more to do here.

He observed quietly that perhaps she had better resume the direction of the school for a time; he went on strumming as he said this, as though it had no further significance. She answered that she had already promised them to-do so. He grew as white as a sheet. She hastened to add, that of course only he could superintend his own plan; she begged him to speak to the teachers at once; he never would speak to any one, they entirely misunderstood him; he offended them by showing no confidence in them, and he was not always considerate. Did he not like them?

This was too much for Tomas; he flung himself down on the piano and cried, got up hastily, put on his hat and coat and went out, heedless of his mother's prayers to him to stay and talk it over with her, as they used to do in old days. He could not do it; for there was something in his mother's behaviour towards him which wounded him. When he had come home she had received him with the greatest admiration, everything he said and did was right; but after the lecture she began to doubt. This had gradually increased, until now she put a note of interrogation to everything he said. At the first complaint from the teachers she had taken the school from him; and she could reconcile this with her pride in his way of ordering it, and a crooning quiet delight over its success.

Not that her doubt was greater than a practical understanding like hers had perhaps a right to; he did not blame her for it, but he could not bear it.

This affair with the teachers was dreadful. He really considered them most excellent, none more so than Karen Lote, otherwise he would never have troubled himself about her.

There must be something at the very root of his behaviour towards people, which was terribly astray when he could be thus utterly misunderstood. Perhaps his own feeling of emptiness and distaste arose from the same cause.

These ladies had raved about him. They and the senior class, and.... Was that, too, nothing but a delusion, or was it past and gone?

"Raved about him." What is that? He drove it from him with contempt, yet once it pleased and deluded him. He had believed it would always continue.

No, he who would have the affection of others must show affection to them. And he could not do it--in the way that others could.

After all that was not strange. His race had perhaps exhausted its power of winning human affection.

Was not that the natural result when generation after generation broke down mankind's precepts of fidelity, and flung aside man's good opinion? The race itself had been ruined, as each one weakened himself and his offspring--ay, and others and their offspring as well.

He walked into the country to the left--the same walk that he had taken that spring evening after he had given his lecture. He recalled to his mind how happy had been his return from America, how he had dreamed of giving his countrymen an example which, if they would follow it, would shine throughout the world. What was nobler for a small country than to centre its greatest powers on the teaching of its children, to expend its surplus there; let the great nations waste theirs on armies!

He remembered how it then delighted him to think that in this way the sins of his forefathers might be expiated.

Everything on earth had been thus developed.

Awakening had come to the strongest races. Instinctively they had felt their failings, and had sought to combat them by an admixture of fresh blood. Everything, therefore, that is strong and good has some family for its progenitor, whose sufferings have been the foundation of its needs, its needs the foundation of its work; its work, its self-command, the foundation of its discoveries--all gathering round the original discovery. When the school should be alive with a hundred young creatures; when sparkling eyes gazed upon the aim which he had set up; when the elder ones among them, influenced by him, and in their turn influenced others--hoisted their colours--it would be remembered that they had lived in the house of one particular family, from that family they would have received their instruction. It was he who had made the school.

But there lay an inherent weakness in its inmost recesses. The germs of destruction lay in him who had built it up. He could not advance it further. He did not possess the necessary long-suffering gentleness. Plenty of foresight, energy, ambition, but--talents for war, perhaps, but not for peace.

As he had walked along that evening after the lecture, sick at heart, anxious--ah! how anxious! because the certainty of years had been baffled, Karl Vangen had trudged silently by his side like a great long-legged dog with honest eyes. He went the same way now, only it was winter, and he was alone; he was ashamed to have any one with him. The suspicion of insecurity which had shaken him the first time was now a certainty. He could not go on--O God! he could not: he was a blight in the school.

The snow in the fields had melted, but farther away it lay in patches, looking ghostly in the moonlight. It still lay thick under the fir-woods; and here and there on the road, which had frozen hard with deep ruts in it, and small sharp stones and solid horse-dung. Where it was bare, or partly bare, it was difficult to walk. He came back so weary in body and mind that he never remembered to have felt more tired. By the new churchyard, where his father and grandfather lay, and where the sea washed up to the other side of the roadway, rolling and black, he felt that a little might bring him into the one or beyond the other--or perhaps to both--they were not incompatible.

It was past twelve, as on the night of the lecture; he would not go home before he felt certain that his mother had given up waiting for him. Under ordinary circumstances she went to bed between nine and ten. But as he struggled up the avenue, he saw that there was a light in the sitting-room; and as he got a little further, that there was one in Karl's room as well. If he had not been so utterly weary he would have turned back, but now things must go as they could.

His mother met him in the hall with a light in her hand. "Oh, Tomas, how you have frightened me!" she whispered.

What did she mean by that? He looked at her; poor thing, she appeared at least ten years older, with such red eyes--so upset, so miserably overdone.

She began, "Tomas, just let us----"

"No, mother," he waved her away with his hand; "I am so fearfully, oh, so fearfully tired." He went slowly across her room to the inner passage without a good-night, without looking round.

She heard his step in the passage, heard him open the door of his room, shut it, and turn the key on the inside! It always awakened memories, that dreadful sound!

Why did he do it? It seemed as though he were shutting her away from him.

As he was lighting his candle he heard Karl at the door between their rooms. Tomas set down the candle, came out from behind the curtain, and saw Karl's pale, anxious face looking in from the doorway.

Why had he and his mother sat up, each in their own room? Evidently so that the mother should be able to talk to her son alone when he came in.

Tomas flung himself on Karl's neck and sobbed violently. All that he had held back, when he saw his mother, now found vent. Karl's firm confidence in him was his chief support. That confidence was there now, he could see it through all his distress precisely as he saw the light streaming behind Karl's head and body in the doorway. It was dark between them. "No, dear Karl, not to-night, I am so tired." Slowly, noiselessly, Karl drew his long legs back again and shut the door behind him. The door-handle was turned, oh, so gently.

Tomas went straight to bed, and slept at once and without interruption through the night. When he woke, raised himself and looked at the clock, it was past eight. The sorrows of yesterday, which had at once rushed upon him, yielded before this proof of a long sound sleep. "There cannot possibly be so much the matter as I believed, if I am not worse than this." He jumped up. "There must be some other work in life reserved for me, if this is not to be the one." He dressed himself quickly, and while doing so determined to go away for several days. He wished to consider, and to be calm while he did so.

This was all the information which his mother received when she came in as he sat at breakfast. He sent a message to Karl, and left at ten o'clock. This was not altogether disagreeable to Fru Rendalen. "He has such sudden changes," she thought. "He will very likely return home a different man." His great failing, of talking and acting according to the temper of the moment, made her take this view, made her question all he said. He was conscious of this now. He hated it.

This time, however, she was mistaken; he returned exactly the same as he had gone away, only she noticed the first time that she talked to him that he was a little bitter against the teachers: "ungrateful asses," he called them. He had taught them more than it was in the power of any human being to do who had not travelled as he had done, and had his experience and reading; he would have nothing to do with them. He annoyed them by his elegant courtliness. This amused him; he was really dreadful with them. He resumed his teaching, with the exception of the singing, which was given over to Nora, who was now both pupil and teacher. He declared that she possessed the gift of teaching in the highest degree.

"Perhaps he could interest himself in the school again," thought Karl, "if there were a new staff of teachers." He spoke of this to Fru Rendalen. She would try to find out, and began by talking to Tomas about the observatory which they had arranged in a small way in the tower. They had been obliged to stop for want of money. By next summer she hoped to have the means to set it going.

"God knows where I shall be then," he answered, and hurried away. "If I were to speak plainly to the teachers," thought his indefatigable mother, "if I could induce them to beg his pardon." She assembled them one day just before Christmas, and told them, betraying emotion as she did so, that her son had repeatedly let fall remarks which showed that he intended to go away. There was a movement of dismay.

Fröken Lote, on whom all eyes were fixed, at last broke the silence. She had not meant it in that way, she had only meant--she had really not meant anything--but she was so dreadfully nervous. She thought he was not pleased with her. The drawing and needle-work mistress, a clear-headed, tall, fair woman, coloured furiously. The Spenser method of drawing which Rendalen had introduced was not clear to begin with, she said, but he was always beyond her; but for all that she ought not to have said anything, indeed she ought not. She began to cry.

The teachers all protested that they felt the greatest gratitude; he had, of course, seen and heard so much on every subject, but it was most embarrassing that he treated them like dirt beneath his feet.

Fru Rendalen took off her spectacles, wiped them, and put them on again; pulled them off again, rubbed them, and put them on.

Well then, Miss Hall would say what was the matter. It was that he treated everything and everybody so unevenly. This made the teachers uncertain, and destroyed the children's sense of justice, and that was almost the greatest loss that a child could sustain. She would so gladly have spoken to Rendalen, said the little American, but he made himself so unapproachable. To-day, too, she felt nervous.

This destroyed Fru Rendalen's plan; she did not know what to answer. All further negotiations were meanwhile broken off.

A loud chorus of joyous girls' voices sounded from the steps, and they all hurried to the window. It was Nora and her pupils. These last few days before Christmas, the pupils had but few lessons to do, and therefore had employed themselves in practising some part songs, the practice always concluding out on the steps--one of Nora's many fancies.

This gave such immense pleasure, that not only all the little ones, who did not join in the singing, waited up there till the great moment, but people would collect in the avenue. As soon as the girls came racing round the corner in walking dress and mounted the steps, the crowd in the avenue increased and drew nearer; Fru Rendalen and the teachers had put on their things, and were now standing at the open windows. The girls had arranged themselves from top to bottom of the steps; the little ones, who did not sing, occupied the sides. Right at the bottom stood Nora, with her fair hair turned back under the hood which was always on the back of her neck.

She had adopted Rendalen's method of conducting--the only thing that restless being did quietly; he merely moved his right wrist, and gave the sign with his left hand. Nora carefully held her right hand in the same place as he did, before her breast. She heard about it often enough.

The song sounded grandly from the steps, the notes were powerfully given. It might be, too, that the view before them heightened the effect by its beauty; perhaps, too, "An Old Manuscript,"[^[2]] which had just been printed in a Christmas number, and which every third person in the town, from twelve years old knew, at first, second, or third hand, may also have enhanced it, for perhaps those dark voices from the past were heard at the same time, and by the power of contrast made the girls' song brighter, and the moment fairer.

Below them lay the town, with the harbour between the two points of land; now that winter was here, full of ships from side to side. At the head of the bay, along the clay banks, were all the workshops and the great timber-yards. To the left, the mountain, with the crowd of houses at the top, the boat harbour below, and out beyond the mountain and the town, the islands and the open sea. Weather on the coast is uncertain; generally, as they looked out, taking in the view as they sang, there were either driving clouds or gleams of sunlight over the landscape, or if it were peaceful and bright inland, it was threatening out to sea. Perhaps this may explain why the girls generally chose melancholy songs.

For the teachers as well as for the pupils, the singing on the steps, from its first beginning, had been the glory of the school. If the work from every class during every week in the year could have woven itself into a thousand delicate threads, and fallen on them as crowns; if all the fruitful incentives, small determinations, uncertain beginnings, could have joined in harmony in those voices, the singing could not have made them happier. As far as the teachers were concerned, perhaps for the very reason that, at the same time, something had occurred to pain them.

The elder girls, especially the members of the Society, looked upon this time as one for exchange of thought. All those higher ideas which one has in common with others, come to the front when there is singing; all strivings after the ideal, have a natural relationship to harmonised notes.

But he who felt it the most was one who had hidden himself behind a closed window, because he would on no account be seen.

He saw Nora beating time, standing there in her light cloak, her hood flung back on her neck.

The song, which sounded out over the town, the one which had first been heard by Fru Engel's grave, contained, as it sounded from these girlish voices, all that he wished for on earth.

How miserable it made him now! He tried, as a counterpoise, to remember all that he had conquered before in many a hard struggle. It was something to remember.

It was not an ordinary victory which he had achieved: was it to end in sorrow? Would the singing soon cease, or sound again after he was gone? He thought of his mother. It was he in reality who was "on the steps." Was it to be in or out?

The whole troop tore away in merry groups down the avenue. The Staff last of all, for Tora had something either to tell or propose; they walked slowly, often pausing. Yes, that was what it all depended upon; to be able to share one's joys and sorrows with others.

V

[THE HUNT]

[CHAPTER I]

Child or woman, which is she?
Hard to answer that will be.
Wouldst thou then a woman snare?
See a child in captive there!
And when thou bidd'st the child to stay,
A woman from thee flies away.

Spring had come betimes, and great rejoicing thereat rose, from all the pupils, to the soft skies.

The spring was in their blood, bringing a restless feeling, a power of invention, glorious plans, subdued noise, effervescing spirits in its train; these were days when the whole school routine threatened to be destroyed, and when orders seemed a mere joke. Much commotion, with scoldings, smacks, increased attention, and many arts were required before this small sphere could be guided through the dangerous region of spring without too severe collisions and shocks.

Even the Society itself was shaken. It was not possible, when the trees in the garden were bursting into leaf, to go off to the back premises and pretend that there was something in a friend's composition on ladies' modern dress. If the meeting had been held in the wood, they might have allowed modern dress to roll about in the heather till it was torn to pieces, or they could have hung it up in a tree. They could have let the birds sing songs over it. Now they gave modern dress to the deuce, it could all be learned from a fashion book; they simply held no meetings.

Nora employed all her powers of persuasion, all her inventive genius, in vain. A great event, however, occurred, also perhaps born of the spring and spring impulses, and the Society recovered itself.

Miss Hall had energetically sought to lay some foundation, in the senior class, for the lectures which she delivered to them on her special subject. Both she and the eldest girls in the class had really all been obliged to exert themselves. But a further result was, that during this hard work they had gained confidence in the little lady; everything belonging to women's constitution and health, and to the tending of children, was spoken of with perfect openness. The mothers kept up as long as possible an appearance of shamefacedness on behalf of their children, who would not be shamefaced themselves. The fathers helped their better halves in this; they were bashful to a degree. But as the shameless maidens continued to acquire knowledge, this answered no purpose.

As concerned the Society, this information, and especially this confidence with Miss Hall, had the result that, by degrees, the woman question began to be looked at in its physical aspect, and its real foundations were sought there.

A book in our literature was again brought forward, which asserts that the freedom which man allows himself before marriage, and sometimes afterwards, destroys his character and woman's position, carrying faithlessness and tyranny from generation to generation.

Karen Lote had, in her studies in the history of civilisation, especially noted the history of the development of races. She knew now that the compromise which was often proposed, of giving woman the same freedom that man took for himself, would be a step in the wrong direction, an unheard-of breach of development. She advocated strongly that inviolable monogamy should be as sacred for men as for women. Miss Hall took up the subject at the next meeting, from its physical side. Can it be physically proved that man has stronger temptation than woman, and therefore has a greater excuse? She declared, on the contrary, that woman's temptation might be very much greater. Notwithstanding which, the rule was that woman respected marriage in a chaste life, while for man's part the rule might still be said to be the contrary.

This aroused violent feeling.

Man had therefore here as well, used the right of the strongest for his own advantage, but in reality with the result of rendering himself and the community depraved. Woman, on the contrary, has in civilised society, through hundreds of generations, only belonged to one man, therefore she has an inherited power of remaining faithful. It follows, of course, that man could gain this power as well.

During the conversation which followed the lecture, the excitement increased; and in the course of the week so many thoughts had gathered around this subject, that they had to fix an earlier date for the next meeting.

For the first time since the institution of the Society, Tinka Hansen spoke. The woman who married a man who had led an immoral life joined herself in his guilt; she condoned the ill-treatment of her sex, and was herself punished for it.

Did any woman persuade herself that a man who had accustomed himself to such a life would give it up? At all events, they could not so deceive themselves, who had during the last few years heard a series of lectures which made it plain that habit is a nerve-question; not more than one in a hundred can conquer a habit of his own free will; there must, as a rule, be some hard necessity as well.

Tinka had, as usual, discussed the subject with Frederik; it was therefore not surprising that, as she stood there, she had the authority of two.

Rarely had such noise and commotion been heard since the institution of the Society. From all sides came exclamations which clearly showed what they felt, such as, "Fancy being kissed by a man who----! Fancy being married to a man who----!"

Nora gave voice to these whispered expressions of disgust as she went up to the tribune, and said that they must not separate that evening without promising each other that they, at least, would do what they could here to give woman responsibility and self-respect.

She had not finished speaking before they all stood up to express their acquiescence.

Some days later they had another meeting: something had occurred to divide their opinions.

It will be remembered that Tora was fond of telling fantastic fairy tales, and romances scarcely less so; her favourite was "A Strange Story," by Bulwer. Her little Augustus head--which was crammed with ideas of rich stuffs, of sweeping garments, of foreign speech, and home gossip, and every earthly vanity--delighted in the mysterious.

From a certain day none of her friends were allowed to hear a word more on these subjects; only one, one single one, should henceforth see this obscure side of her varied nature.

Was it because she wished to share this with but one alone, as girls so often do; or was there a little sense of mystery here as well, that he was the only one for whom this was suited?

Whenever, after this, she met Karl Vangen, whether they were alone, or if twenty were present, she always contrived that they should converse in whispers. Her friends were greatly astonished. What on earth had she to whisper about with the parson? He had recently lent her a book about John Wesley, which she devoured, as she did all books, and they had many conversations about his sudden conversions. People who came under the spell of his looks, his words, his presence, yielded to them at once, and were his from that moment. John Wesley came of a long race of clergymen, both on his father's and mother's side; naturally this had in a high degree strengthened his faith and power of preaching. It was like an electric shock, certain natures could not stand against it.

How this was made to lead up to the Kurts, who interested Tora immensely at that time, is her secret; but honest Karl began at once to speak with animation of Tomas's struggle to free himself from the Kurt inheritance. There had been an infusion of new blood into the family before, and a struggle against its sins; but Tomas Rendalen's bringing up and the struggle he had gone through, were worthy of his energetic character.

Vangen asked her confidentially if she had not noticed Tomas's neatness, his careful toilette? If she had perceived the slight, hardly perceptible, odour of a delicate and very expensive scent? It always followed him. He was always washing and bathing, added the young clergyman, blushing; most people believed that this arose from vanity, and vain he certainly was; but could she not guess what it meant? Tomas Rendalen had gained in the course of his struggle the same need for, the same sacred feeling about, cleanliness with which girls are born. For him all cares for the body; dress, scent, were a species of service for the temple; just as it is to young women, when they have the means and time to perform it.

Some remarks of Tomas had made him understand this; he was certain that such was the fact. But it was curious that it should take that particular form, was it not? Perhaps it was because he had been brought up among girls. What did she think about it? Karl Vangen hazarded this conjecture with great bashfulness. For some reason or other, it was of great importance that she should understand at once that a man might be an excellent member of society, without being exactly a dandy, and using scent.

From that moment Tora Holm had one more person to rave about, added to her rich collection!

Now she persuaded herself that she understood Rendalen's theory of life and work among them. She did not understand, or rather did not think about, the reasons for his restless moods, his want of steadfastness; her image of this "energetic" nature was not disturbed by them. She loved him. There was no other word for it. There was nothing that she would not do for him if she could, and it was thus that she expressed herself, first to her dearest friends, then to her next dearest, then to those next to them. With unflagging energy the same story, to the same tune, was repeated for the twentieth time to the last of her chain of friends before the next day was past. Such enthusiasm was infectious; those who had not raved about Tomas Rendalen before, raved about him now. Notwithstanding the red hair, the freckled skin, the broad nose, and pale screwed-up eyes, the absence of eyebrows, the restless expression--he was an ideal man! He damped their ardour a little when he came into the classrooms and strode past the forms, without looking at a single one of them; or when he hastily pitched upon something which interfered with the lesson, with such violence as to make them jump! for he was not to be trifled with! He nevertheless became their ideal again as soon as he was gone, or, better still, if he were in the humour for teaching, and stayed and took part in it, in his clear energetic style. He had not his equal then.

But just because there was one Tomas Rendalen, it naturally happened that some of the weaker natures began to reflect: "Good heavens, he is only one, and there are so many of us." Yes, there was the question. We will not say who they were, or how many there were, who began to feel this doubt. The question is the smallest part of the affair; it is the answer which is the serious matter. The answer! For we may as well confess, soon as late, that some of the girls had gone a little beyond themselves that evening, when they all said "yes" to Tinka Hansen's high-minded views and Nora's proposition. These ones acknowledged afterwards that when one came to think quietly about the one whom one almost loves, or at least would willingly be loved by, and even if one knows that he has already ... Yes, the old Kurt town was a terrible place for scandals.

One at last begins to doubt the sincerity of these expressions. Might not the young man in question, no matter what he had done, be depended upon, when he had promised her anything? And when she had made him a promise in return, of course he might! He would be a good boy, that he would, if only she got hold of him. One cannot live upon grand theories.

There were some, however, who considered that this was treachery; they were very angry and a new meeting was called. Those who had dared to change their opinions since the last meeting were called upon to explain themselves. For a long time no one would do so, but at last a courageous dark-haired girl declared openly that it seemed to her that they had gone too far the last time. "If all men were--as one could wish them to be--well, then. But they are not so by any means. So what is to be done? That is just how we stand."

"And so we will stand," was the answer. This heroic response elicited another in its turn, so that two parties were formed, with a third set of moderates; no one felt certain about these last, as is often the case with a third party. Tinka Hansen (and Frederik) and all who agreed with her and him ("The Frederikers," as they were called), were for absolute equality between the sexes. Infidelity ought from henceforth to be condemned equally severely--no matter whether man or woman were guilty of it. Miss Hall was the only one among the teachers who took part in this debate, and she was a very enthusiastic Frederiker. According as our knowledge becomes more acute, she declared, the punishment of unchasteness should be the same for the two sexes. Neither ought this sin to be any longer held up as a special accusation against women. Those who made the distinction that woman's offence injured the home, while man's injured another home, another's wife or daughter, must for very shame hold their tongues.

Miss Hall brought this forward at least twice, for there was no answer made to it. The opposite party entirely put that on one side. They repeated over and over again that a man might be excessively worthy even if, things standing as they did at present, he had offended in this particular. Only notorious immorality made a marriage impossible. The Frederikers were scandalised at this "light-minded" talk. That was to open the door to the extension of immorality. They made use of such strong expressions, that the others became angry. There was a perfect hubbub; every one talked, no one would listen.

This was on a Thursday. The following evening, "The Staff" was assembled in Milla's room. They had begun on the same subject, but by degrees had wandered back to Rendalen, who was still of more unfailing interest than the other. Tinka was imitating Rendalen's handwriting on a large sheet of paper. The others watched her efforts with attention, his large handwriting was just the opposite to his careful toilette; it was all run together without any division, each letter and each word absolutely joined on to the others. Tinka's caricatured attempts were like so many embroidery patterns. She wrote: "I can bear it no longer; meet me in the market-place at nine o'clock." She wrote it as a commentary on what they had been talking about--namely, how delightful it would be to receive such a letter. She wrote this closely across a whole sheet of letter-paper. She decorated one sheet after another in this fashion.

Who was it who first proposed what now followed? They never could agree upon this afterwards. One thing is certain, that Milla alone raised any objection, but it was so feebly and laughingly made, that it might well be taken for the opposite of what it purported to be. Each one of them took charge of a note on Saturday morning; one was put into Karen Lote's cloak, one into the pocket of the drawing mistress's long faded blue wrap, the third and fourth were slipped down, one into Miss Hall's mantle, and the other into that of one of the teachers of languages.

The letters were not signed, the envelopes open and bearing no address; the request was written in so extravagant a style that the whole might pass for a joke, but that was just where the temptation lay. For, on the other side, it could not be denied that the hasty writing could very easily be mistaken for Rendalen's style when he was worried and in a hurry to finish.

At nine o'clock on Saturday evening the last of the worthy townsfolk came home from their romantic evening walks on both sides of the town, looking so peaceful and inoffensive that not even a cat could have suspected treachery. Most of them went soberly across the market-place into the town. At this time, too, the boarders who had been out in search of amusement in the town were returning disappointed up the avenue. It had been calculated that if the Staff could join one of these parties, they would be free from suspicion while they watched their snares. Of course they were all four there; they met several ill-humoured friends from among the boarders a little way down, and joined company with them.

They arranged it so that they should not cross the market-place till just at the time named. And truly, gracious powers! At the top of the marketplace, just a little to the right of the avenue, at that moment appeared Karen Lote; no one could mistake her erect figure, her grey cloak, and the feather in her hat. The four had so little expected to meet her, that if the boarders had not been so sulky and tired, they would have noticed their embarrassment. Could it really be Karen Lote!

She turned back to the left; it was patent to all the world that she had come here to wait for some one.

They looked from her to each other; they did not laugh, they did not make a sign--they were frightened.

But there was a revulsion of feeling when they saw the tall drawing mistress come swinging across, and turn into the avenue. She came quickly towards them; she had been given an appointment there at the same time.

Milla crept behind Tora; Tora would gladly have got behind some one; they had to find some excuse to account for their laughter. As the drawing mistress passed them, hurried and excited, they had just contrived to push Tinka into a ditch, which fortunately was dry.

And now they were eager to spy on the two other traps. They went up into the boarders' rooms, whence they could see out over the courtyard; they had given Miss Hall a rendezvous behind the gymnasium, but, unless she were standing absolutely still behind it, she had not come. It did not fare much better with their flight across the garden towards the right, where they had given the language teacher rendezvous; they met her, certainly, coming down the path, but it was with several others; running quickly up from the wood, she never so much as looked round. If she had read the letter, she had taken it as a joke. The four girls slipped through the garden-gate and along the same way; they did not want to meet Karen Lote again.

Something, however, had happened a few hours before, which if it had not been stopped would have brought the whole affair to light, in which case not one of the four would ever have set foot in the school again.

On her return from her walk at about six, Miss Hall, very nervous but very determined, had asked to be allowed to speak to Herr Rendalen. She gave him the letter directly he came in. He took it, read it, held it a little way from him, and began to laugh; and when she took it seriously, he laughed still more, quite uncontrollably at last. Ten minutes later he received a note from Miss Hall, in which she informed him that she should leave by the next steamer. On this he rushed off for his mother, whom he found at last in the cow-house. He explained the whole matter contemptuously to her, declaring that Miss Hall must be mad. Fru Rendalen at once went to her. Miss Hall was greatly exasperated; she cried, and gave confused, hasty explanations, while Fru Rendalen pulled off her spectacles, and rubbed and rubbed them; she could not comprehend it in the least. Perhaps, if we were to talk English, she thought; but it all remained as obscure as ever. Plainly and shortly, what was she angry about? Why did she wish to go? What had happened? What redress did she demand?

She demanded that the culprits should be punished.

Nothing more than that! They both set off to the boarders' room, which was now empty; they began to search through the exercise books, portfolios, bookshelves; they wished to find out who it was who was so abominable as to copy Rendalen's handwriting. From thence they went into the class-rooms. That of the senior class stood just as it had been left; for the cleaning day for this room was Thursday, and the evening sweeping had not yet been done. There they carefully collected all the bits of paper which had been thrown away, straightened them out, and examined them; they peeped into exercise books, lesson books, and desks. They must find out who the unhappy person was who imitated Rendalen's handwriting.

They all did it!

As soon as the fact became clear that every senior girl in the school had been occupied with Rendalen and Rendalen, and again Rendalen, Miss Hall gave in; at last they both left the schoolroom--neither of them said a word to the other.

Miss Hall never said anything more about it. But Fru Rendalen talked it over with Karl Vangen. His discourse on Monday had for its subject how wrong it was to do to others, what they would not like others to do to them. This was often the case with young people, "who found great pleasure in discovering the weakness and tender points of others, and playing upon them."

The four dare not look up, but they gave side-glances at the drawing mistress, who chanced that day to be sitting near the laboratory table, facing the others. She rested her long arms on it. Her hands toyed with something standing there, which she looked at intently; but tear after tear rolled down her cheeks, without her making an attempt to dry them. She was quite absent.

All four girls noticed it, and when at the third recreation she was still inconsolable and cried as much as ever. Nora could bear it no longer, but drew her into one of the rooms, and with her arms round her neck whispered, "Pardon, pardon, pardon:" she did not say for what.

They gave each other a confidential hug--regret, sympathy, shamefacedness all mingled together. The poor girl, whom they had befooled out of her most precious secret, was comforted at last by such boundless repentance, such thorough comprehension, such heartfelt devotion.

The same day Tora and Tinka heard what Nora had done; they wanted to do the same, but she forbade them; the poor girl must not on any account know that there was more than one who knew her secret.

Karen Lote was ill; Rendalen had to take her place, and give some of his work to Miss Hall. All three felt that Karen Lote must not be approached by any one.

How could they have thought of anything so disgusting as what they had done! And that, too, in the midst of serious discussions on woman's position, on woman's honour and responsibility.

Milla would not talk to the others; at school she held aloof, and when any one went to see her at home, her door was fastened. They all felt as though a storm were brewing.

That Milla should hold back from them as though they were the guilty ones and not she, Nora would not endure; one day, therefore, they all surrounded her, and asked for an explanation. Milla was offended and tried to get away, but it did no good. She then told them that they had led her into doing what was not right, and she would have nothing more to do with it. The only answer she got was from Nora's great eyes, but she reddened under them. Of course she had taken part in what had been done, she did not deny it; but she did not wish to feel as ashamed of herself again as she had done during the last few days. The others asked if she thought they had been less ashamed than she?

Milla now told them, with a slight air of superiority, that in her first fright at Karl Vangen's discourse, she had asked her father if she might accompany him when he went to the South German Baths. He had consented with great pleasure. She could not draw back now, they were to start in a few days.

At first, all the friends felt Milla's coldness in having proposed to go away without telling them. But Milla now felt this herself, for she altered her demeanour from that moment, and tried to do away with the impression. It was she now who was most amiable about everything. When the drawing mistress appeared in a very pretty cloak and hat, without any one being able to find out who "the kind friend" was from whom she had received them, it was at once clear to the three friends that they came from Milla. She denied it certainly, but that was all the nicer of her. So the short resentment changed on both sides to a closer friendship during the few days that she still had with them. Her father gave a "farewell dinner," the great event at which was the unveiling of a cake, on the top of which four sugar girls held each other with fingerless hands as they danced round a red flag with "Emancipation" on it; round the plinth was written "The Society." But derision was useless. This same Society gave a farewell entertainment to Milla the next day. All good spirits hovered over this, their last meeting, with its many short speeches, its music and songs--over its whole tone.

A girl of a serious turn of mind recalled that all the pleasure that they had had together during their school year had been begun beside Fru Engel's grave; it was closing with Milla's farewell entertainment. Milla was touched, quite overwhelmed; she declared that she was altogether unworthy, she did not deserve the kindness which they showed her; she was not all they thought her.

Tora came up and embraced her, and they all felt that this was genuine. Tora was grateful for the happiest days of her life; she whispered this to Milla, which had a good effect. They ended by seeing Milla home; she took Tora's arm. "Bad times are beginning for me," sobbed Tora.

"But I shall come back again, Tora."

Tinka scolded her for her extravagant way of speaking, it was making the whole thing into a caricature and an absurdity; but this was not the first time that Tora had done so.

When they said good-bye before Milla's door, Tora ran after her up the steps and into the hall; she was never satisfied. When inside she took out a box which Milla knew at once--it contained her one ornament; she had inherited it from her uncle, who had brought it in his youth from California. It was some pieces of rough gold made into a heavy chain, a beautiful piece of work; she pressed it into Milla's hand; she had never worn it herself. But Milla would not think of taking it from her, she did not know how she could justify herself to her father if she were to do so; she refused it decidedly, coldly at last, so that Tora was vexed and ran off. But Milla fetched her in again, held her tightly in her arms, and kissed her. Did she not believe that Milla realised what a great thing it was which she wished to do? But it was a matter of conscience for Milla to say no. They must not part in this way; Tora should stay with her, she should stay the night there. And it was so settled. When girls are really fond of each other, they love to sleep together.

The others, who had remained outside, waited a while. As Tora did not rejoin them, they walked on a little way; they were annoyed with her. They all returned, however, and came quietly through the garden-gate and past the office. A little while afterwards the two friends up in the bedroom heard a subdued chorus of girls' voices under the window, led by Tinka's contralto: they sang "Sleep in peace."

The curtain was half raised; they saw two figures in white; two heads--one dark, one fair-looked, nodding and laughing, out.

The whole school was down at the customhouse the next day; Fru Rendalen, all the teachers, male and female, every one--with the exception of Anna Rogne, who had not been at the meeting the previous day.

There was universal crying, and kissing, and admiration over Milla's travelling dress. The little ones thought they must join in; they could not cry, but they could kiss. First one little mouth was offered, then two, then five. At last they all insisted on being kissed by Milla, and then sprang back tittering.

The stewardess had all the vases in the cabin, and some dishes as well, filled with flowers. She really toiled over them. Tora, her eyes red with crying, had come with Milla and Consul Engel, and had been the object of all the latter's attentions, but she now kept quite in the background. Milla had to look for her to press her hand for the last time, to give her a last kiss. As the steamer swung round and left the quay, the slender black figure waved her handkerchief to her friends, her veil, which had become loosened, waving with it. In a moment the whole quay was white; the little ones in front, the elder ones behind them, all waved their handkerchiefs. From the steamer, it looked like the foam from a waterfall dashing down into the sea.