I was so grieved when Louise told me you had gone. She has more energy than I, poor hunchback. She has written and said what we all, yes, all of us, think of the matter.
But I have the greatest cause to write to you. What in the world would have become of me if you had not come to the school and made me skillful in work that is just suited to me. Without you I should have been a burden to others, or at least I should never have learned to take pleasure in work. Now I feel that I am engaged in something which is continually growing. Yes, now I am happy.
I have told you this at last. How often have I wished to open my heart to you, yet did not quite dare, because you were so reserved!
What delightful times we might have had together! But can we not have them yet?
Your
Marie.
Postscript.—You may think I mean that you took no interest in us. No: I did not mean that. You were too patient with us for me to have any such thought. But it seemed as if you were indifferent to everything about you, people as well as all else; that is what I had in mind.
Cannot you, as Louise says, come to us? We will gather about you, as bees about their queen, dear Magnhild.
There is no better way to express what now happened to Magnhild, than to say that a new life-spring welled up within her. This help from what she had never thought of as anything but a pastime and a monotonous routine worked wonders. She felt that she must endeavor to deserve this devotion; she knew now what it was her duty to do.
She was walking and talking with Rönnaug in the court-yard. Evening was drawing nigh; the fowls had already sought shelter and were settling themselves cackling on the roost; the cows were being driven home from the pasture, and slowly passed by. The perfume of hay was wafted toward the ladies, ever and anon, for loads were being hauled into the barn.
Rönnaug was so sure of what she was doing that she did not hesitate to tell Magnhild what the same mail had brought her: it was a newspaper containing a telegram from Munich announcing the death of Tande. These tidings produced no further effect upon Magnhild than to make both her and Rönnaug pause for an instant and then walk on in silence. Tande had always been thought of as one very far away, and now he seemed nearer. What he had recently sent her for her guidance became more profoundly true than ever.
The first words she uttered were not about Tande but about Skarlie. Perhaps it would be best to send for him that they might have an explanation before she started on her journey. Rönnaug was not disinclined to agree to this; but she thought that she, not Magnhild, should attend to the explanation. In fact, there was nothing to say except to announce what Magnhild had resolved upon doing.
The conversation was spasmodic like their walk. All the people of the house were out making hay. Miss Roland and the child had also gone to the field. Magnhild and Rönnaug were about going there themselves when a boy came walking into the yard whistling, with his hands in his pockets. Seeing the ladies he stood still and stopped whistling. Then he took a stand on his right foot; the left heel he planted in the ground, and moved his leg in such a way that the sole of the foot stood erect and fanned the air.
Presently he drew nearer.
"Is it you they call Magnhild?" he asked, in the ringing dialect of the parish.
He addressed the question to the right one, who replied in the affirmative.
"I was sent to ask you to come down to our place, Synstevold; for there is a fellow there waiting to see you."