Next morning, when it was time to wake the children, Peer and Merle went into the nursery together. They stopped by Louise’s bed, and stood looking down at her. The child had grown a great deal since they came to Raastad; she lay now with her nose buried in the pillow and the fair hair hiding her cheek. She slept so soundly and securely. This was home to her still; she was safer with father and mother than anywhere else in the world.
“Louise,” said Merle, shaking her. “Time to get up, dear.”
The child sat up, still half asleep, and looked wonderingly at the two faces. What was it?
“Make haste and get dressed,” said Peer. “Fancy! You’re going off with Uncle Carsten today, to see Aunt Marit at Bruseth. What do you say to that?”
The little girl was wide awake in a moment, and hopped out of bed at once to begin dressing. But there was something in her parents’ faces which a little subdued her joy.
That morning there was much whispering among the children. The two youngest looked with wondering eyes at their elder sister, who was going away. Little Lorentz gave her his horse as a keepsake, and Asta gave her youngest doll. And Merle went about trying to make believe that Louise was only going on a short visit, and would soon be coming back.
By dinner-time they had packed a little trunk, and Louise, in her best dress, was rushing about saying goodbye all round the farm, the harvesters, whom she had helped to drive in the hay, coming in for a specially affectionate farewell. Her last visit was to Musin, the grey horse, that was grazing tethered behind the smithy. Musin was busy cropping the turf, but he just lifted his head and looked at her—she plucked a handful of grass, and offered it, and when he had disposed of that, she patted his muzzle, and he let her cling round his neck for a moment.
“I’ll be sure to write,” she cried out to no one in particular, as she went back over the courtyard again.
The train moved out of the station, taking with it Uthoug junior and Louise, each waving from one of the windows of the compartment.
And Peer and Merle were left on the platform, holding their two youngest children by the hand. They could still see a small hand with a white handkerchief waving from the carriage window. Then the last carriage disappeared into the cutting, and the smoke and the rumble of the train were all that was left.