Eli's auburn hair had come unfastened, and hung down over her neck and shoulders; she was hot and as red as a cherry, her bosom fluttered up and down, and she could scarcely speak, but laughed because she was so out of breath.
"Well, young folks should be merry," said Margit, feeling happy as she looked at her. "P'r'aps you don't know me?"
If Margit had not been her senior, Eli would probably have asked her name, but now she only said she did not remember having seen her before.
"No; I dare say not: old folks don't go out much. But my son, p'r'aps you know a little—Arne Kampen; I'm his mother," said Margit, with a stolen glance at Eli, who suddenly looked grave and breathed slowly. "I'm pretty sure he worked at Böen once."
Yes, Eli thought he did.
"It's a fine evening; we turned our hay this morning, and got it in before I came away; it's good weather indeed for everything."
"There will be a good hay-harvest this year," Eli suggested.
"Yes, you may well say that; everything's getting on well at Böen, I suppose?"
"We have got in all our hay."
"Oh, yes, I dare say you have; your folks work well, and they have plenty of help. Are you going home to-night?"