Still, in the early morning hour, Eva occupied his thoughts; she busied Wilhelm’s also, but in a different way: but they agreed in the purity of their intentions. There was still a third, whose blood was put in motion at the mention of her name, who said: “The pretty Eva is a servant there! One must speak with her. The family can make an excursion there!”
“You sweet children!” said the merchant’s wife, “the autumn is charming, far pleasanter than the whole summer! The father, should the weather remain good, will make an excursion with us to Lethraborg the day after to-morrow. We will then walk in the beautiful valley of the Hertha, and pass the night at Roeskelde. Those will be two delightful days! What an excellent father you have! But shall we not invite Mr. Thostrup to go with us? We are so many ladies, and it looks well to have a few young gentlemen with us. Grethe, thou must write an invitation; thou canst write thy father’s name underneath.”
CHAPTER XXV
“These poetical letters are so similar to those of Baggesen,
that we could be almost tempted to consider the news of his
death as false, although so well affirmed that we must
acknowledge it.”—Monthly Journal of Literature.
“She is as slender as the poplar-willow, as fleet as the
hastening waters. A Mayflower odorous and sweet.”—H. P.
HOLST.
“Ah, where is the rose?”—Lulu, by GUNTELBURG.
The evening before Otto was to travel with the merchant’s family to Roeskelde he called upon the family where Miss Sophie was staying. Her dear mamma had left three days before. Wilhelm had wished to accompany him to Roeskelde, but the mother did not desire it.
“We have had a pleasure to-day,” said Sophie, “a pleasure from which we shall long have enjoyment. Have you seen the new book, the ‘Letters of a Wandering Ghost?’ It is Baggesen himself in his most perfect beauty, a music which I never believed could have been given in words. This is a poet! He has made July days in the poetry of Denmark. Natural thoughts are so strikingly, and yet so simply expressed; one has the idea that one could write such verses one’s self, they fall so lightly.”
“They are like prose,” said the lady, “and yet the most beautifully perfect verse I know. You must read the book, Mr. Thostrup!”
“Perhaps you will read to us this evening?” said Sophie. “I should very much like to hear it again.”
“In a second reading one shall enter better into the individual beauties,” said the lady of the house.