“Faith!” said he, “this is too bad. Torgenson told me that the Soberud party were to drive their cattle to the fjeld on Thursday last, and the weather has been as fine as fine can be. Well! there is no trusting people.”
“There is no trusting Torgenson’s daughter, at all events,” said Tom, “for I suspect it was from her that you had the information; Lota is much too pretty to be trusted further than you can see her; and I have no doubt she made some excuse herself for not coming last Thursday. It was natural enough too; of course she would not like to come to the sœter before young Svensen sailed.”
“The Thousand take young Svensen, and you too!” said Torkel, turning round as sharply as if Tom had bitten him in earnest, but catching a grin upon the latter’s countenance which he had not time to dismiss, looked very much as if he meditated making him pay for his ill-timed joke, when a loud, clear voice was heard in the glade below, making the leafy arches of the old forest ring with the ballad of master Olaf—
“Master Olaf rode forth ere the dawn of day,
And came where the elf folk were dancing away,
The dances so merry,
So merry in the green-wood.”
Torkel stopped to listen, and Tom laughed.
“The elf father put forth his white hand, and quoth he,