He greeted Rönnaug with a keen, hasty glance, and, without a word, went into an apartment near hers.
Rönnaug sat listening to the singing while she put on her boots. It flowed so equally and calmly; unquestionably there was joy in it, but the joy was subdued—it might be called pure.
She remained still until Magnhild ended, and even then paused a little while. She finally went down-stairs. The door of the sitting-room was half open, which accounted for her having heard so distinctly. Magnhild had turned round with the piano-stool and sat talking with the two friends of her childhood, who had seats one on each side of her. She had been singing for them, it would seem.
They all rose as Rönnaug entered. Magnhild called her friend's attention to the clock. Verily, the hour hand pointed to ten. Magnhild had been up a long time—and singing.
The girls withdrew to carry coffee, eggs, etc., into the dining-room. As soon as Magnhild saw that she and Rönnaug were alone, she hastened to ask if Rönnaug knew that Grong was at the parsonage. Rönnaug told about having just met him.
"Yes," whispered Magnhild, "he is traveling in search of his son. Only think, the young man has eloped with the girl to whom he is betrothed! He is twenty years old, she about sixteen."
"So, then, the verses—?"
"Were of course by Grong's son. Grong is furious. He wanted to make a poet of his son, though!"
They both laughed.
The young man was really extraordinarily gifted, Magnhild further narrated, and for his sake his father had read extensively, besides taking long journeys with his son in Germany, France, Italy, and England. Plans had been made to give the young man an opportunity of gaining an impression of the scenery of his fatherland and of country life, but—pop!—the bird had flown.