He clasped the outstretched hand in both his little fists, and looked up with beaming eyes.
"And now look here, little Hans. At eleven o'clock to-morrow morning you come round and ask for me. Here in the shop."
"But, are you—are you Mr. Holm, then?" He loosed the hand.
"Well, and what then? That's nothing to be afraid of, is it, little Hans? But now, listen to me. I want you to come round here to-morrow morning, as I said. And perhaps then we'll have some real nice music for you. And you can bring your mother too if you like."
"Music—to-morrow—oh, that will be lovely. And won't mother be pleased!"
"And now run along home, like a good boy, and get warm. You've been sitting here in the cold too long already. Good-night."
"Good-night, good-night!"
Holm watched the little figure hurrying with swift little legs across the bridge, till it disappeared into the dark on the farther side.
He stood for some time deep in thought. The dawn of Art—what was it Pettersen had said? What if he, Holm, the despised materialist, were to be the first to discover the dawn here! It was a strange coincidence, anyway. "And such strange, deep eyes the little fellow had; it went to my heart when his little hands took hold of mine.... Ay, little lad, you're one of God's flowers, I can see. And you shan't be left to perish of cold in this world as long as my name's Knut Holm."