"The fat old Danish lady is bra', bra'."
And Mor Inga whispered to her:
"Thou art a good one. They all like thee. There was a calf born last night. We have settled to call it after thy name—Knuttyros."
"I am sure I do not deserve such an honour," Tante said, trying to be humble.
"Yes, thou dost," Mor Inga answered with grave dignity, as she went off to her duties as hostess.
But Tante did not understand until Clifford explained to her that a great mark of Norwegian approval had been bestowed on her.
"Then I suppose it is like your new order of merit in England," she said; "'honour without insult.' Ah, Clifford, I hope some day, in the years to come, that your name will be found amongst the favoured few."
"Not very likely, Knutty," he said. "I belong only to the rank and file of patient workers and gropers, whose failures and mistakes prepare the way for the triumph of brighter spirits."
"Sniksnak!" said Knutty contemptuously. "Don't pretend to me that you are content with that. And don't talk to me about patience. I hate the word. It is almost as bad as balance and self-control. Balanced people, self-controlled people, patient people indeed! Get along with them! The only suitable place for them is in a herbarium amongst the other dried plants."
"But, Tante," said Gerda, who always took Knutty seriously, "there would and could be no science without patience."