She sang “Dannevang.” Her voice had uncommon power, but no style, no grace.
“Such a voice, I fancy, you have not heard in the theatre at Copenhagen?” said the secretary, with dogmatical gravity.
“You might wish yourself such a chest!” said the lieutenant.
The secretary should now sing; but he had a little cold, which he had always.
“You must sing to the musical-box!” said the lady, and her wish was fulfilled. If Maren had only commenced, one might have believed it a trial of skill between Boreas and Zephyr.
They now walked about, drank tea, and after this they were to return to the house, there to partake of fish and roast meat, a piece of boxed ham, and other good things.
Otto could by no means be permitted to think of leaving them the following morning; he must remain a few days, and gather strength, so that in Copenhagen he might apply himself well to work. But only one day would he enjoy all the good things which they heaped upon him. He yearned for other people, for a more intellectual circle. Two years before he had agreed splendidly with them all, had found them interesting and intellectual; now he felt that Lemvig was a little town, and that the people were good, excellent people.
The following play again brought capital cookery, good foul, and good wine—that was to honor Mr. Thostrup. His health was drunk, Maren was more confidential, the aunt had forgotten her trouble, and again sat with a laughing face beside the constrained shopman. They must, it is true, make a little haste over their dinner, for the fire-engine was to be tried; and this splendor, they maintained, Otto must see, since he so fortunately chanced to lie there.
“How can my mother think that this will give Mr. Thostrup pleasure?” said Maren. “There is nothing to see in it.”
“That has given him pleasure formerly!” answered the mother. “It is, also, laughable when the boys run underneath the engine-rain, and the stream comes just in their necks.”