As he descended the old well-known kitchen stairs, he thought himself the most unfortunate creature in the world; in fact, he wept—for the first time since his boyhood.
During the whole of the voyage he had dreamt of securing his old attic room again, of being constantly near Henrietta, and of presenting her with all the wonderful things he had brought back in his sea chest. He had dreamt of stealing out with her in a boat, or of gliding with her on a hand sledge on the moonlight winter evenings when Madame Torvestad was at meeting.
All these glorious plans had been carefully cherished and pondered over a hundred times, and pictured down to the smallest detail, as he paced the deck in the long and lonely night watches.
Now, however, it seemed as if there was no more hope or pleasure for him, either in this world or the next.
Sarah seemed to take pity on him. Her mother came out and said:
"You saw Lauritz, Sarah?"
"Yes, mother."
"Did you speak to him?"
"No; I merely gave him a welcome."
"Do you think that he is changed?"