"It is really little Magda who will send them," said he, turning with a smile toward Magnhild. This time she was conscious that he was shyly observing her.
He looked at the pictures on the wall, the bridge at Cologne, the Falls of Niagara, the White House at Washington, the Caravan in the Desert, and "Judith," by Horace Vernet; examined also some photographs of unknown, often uncouth-looking men and women, some of them in foreign costumes.
"Your husband has been a traveler," said he, and his eyes glided from the portraits back to "Judith," while he stood stroking his beard.
"Have you been long married?" he presently asked, taking a seat.
"Nearly three years," she replied, and colored.
"You must put on your uniform so that Magnhild can see you in it," said the little girl; she had posted herself between her father's knees, now toying with his shirt studs, now with his beard. He smiled; certain wrinkles about the eyes and mouth became more apparent when he smiled, and bore witness of sorrow. Musingly he stroked the little one's hair; she nestled her head up against him, so lovingly, so trustingly.
He awoke at last from his revery, cast a shy, wondering look at Magnhild, stroked his beard, and said,—
"It is very beautiful here."
"When will you send Magnhild the flowers you spoke of?" interrupted the little girl.
"As soon as I get back to town," said he, caressing the child.