On such an evening Peer came down from the hills just in time to see a gentleman in a carriole turn off from the highway and take the by-road down towards Troen. The horse balked suddenly at a small bridge, and when the driver reined him in and gave him a cut with his whip, the beast reared, swung about, and sent the cart fairly dancing round on its high wheels. “Oh, well, then, I’ll have to walk,” cried the gentleman angrily, and, flinging the reins to the lad behind him, he jumped down. Just at this moment Peer came up.
“Here, boy,” began the traveller, “just take this bag, will you? And—” He broke off suddenly, took a step backward, and looked hard at the boy. “What—surely it can’t be—Is it you, Peer?”
“Ye-es,” said Peer, gaping a little, and took off his cap.
“Well, now, that’s funny. My name is Holm. Well, well—well, well!”
The lad in the cart had driven off, and the gentleman from the city and the pale country boy with the patched trousers stood looking at each other.
The newcomer was a man of fifty or so, but still straight and active, though his hair and close-trimmed beard were sprinkled with grey. His eyes twinkled gaily under the brim of his black felt hat; his long overcoat was open, showing a gold chain across his waistcoat. With a pair of gloves and an umbrella in one hand, a light travelling bag in the other, and his beautifully polished shoes—a grand gentleman, thought Peer, if ever there was one. And this was his father!
“So that’s how you look, my boy? Not very big for your age—nearly sixteen now, aren’t you? Do they give you enough to eat?”
“Yes,” said Peer, with conviction.
The pair walked down together, towards the grey cottage by the fjord. Suddenly the man stopped, and looked at it through half-shut eyes.
“Is that where you’ve been living all these years?”