She held her hand before her face, as one does when the sun shines into the eyes.
"How did you come here?" he asked, advancing a few steps.
She put her hand down again, and turned a little towards him, but then bent her head and burst into tears.
"Why do you weep, Eli?" he asked, coming to her. She did not answer, but wept still more.
"God bless you, Eli!" he said, laying his arm round her. She leant her head upon his breast, and he whispered something down to her; she did not answer, but clasped her hands round his neck.
They stood thus for a long while; and not a sound was heard, save that of the fall which still gave its eternal warning, though distant and subdued. Then some one over against the table was heard weeping; Arne looked up: it was the mother; but he had not noticed her till then. "Now, I'm sure you won't go away from me, Arne," she said, coming across the floor to him; and she wept much, but it did her good, she said.
Later, when they had supped and said good-bye to the mother, Eli and Arne walked together along the road to the parsonage. It was one of those light summer nights when all things seem to whisper and crowd together, as if in fear. Even he who has from childhood been accustomed to such nights, feels strangely influenced by them, and goes about as if expecting something to happen: light is there, but not life. Often the sky is tinged with blood-red, and looks out between the pale clouds like an eye that has watched. One seems to hear a whispering all around, but it comes only from one's own brain, which is over-excited. Man shrinks, feels his own littleness, and thinks of his God.
Those two who were walking here also kept close to each other; they felt as if they had too much happiness, and they feared it might be taken from them.
"I can hardly believe it," Arne said.