“Let us go on,” whispered Merle, drawing him with her. And the young girl suddenly began to sing, loudly, as if in an overflow of spirits; and Peer guessed that it was for her mother’s sake. Perhaps the lonely woman stood there now in the twilight smiling after them.
One Sunday morning Merle drove up to the hotel in a light cart with a big brown horse; Peer came out and climbed in, leaving the reins to her. They were going out along the fjord to look at her father’s big estate which in olden days had been the County Governors’ official residence.
It is the end of September. The sun is still warm, but the waters of the lake are grey and all the fields are reaped. Here and there a strip of yellowing potato-stalks lies waiting to be dug up. Up on the hillsides horses tethered for grazing stand nodding their heads slowly, as if they knew that it was Sunday. And a faint mist left by the damps of the night floats about here and there over the broad landscape.
They passed through a wood, and came on the other side to an avenue of old ash trees, that turned up from the road and ran uphill to a big house where a flag was flying. The great white dwelling-house stood high, as if to look out far over the world; the red farm-buildings enclosed the wide courtyard on three sides, and below were gardens and broad lands, sloping down towards the lake. Something like an estate!
“What’s the name of that place?” cried Peer, gazing at it.
“Loreng.”
“And who owns it?”
“Don’t know,” answered the girl, cracking her whip.
Next moment the horse turned in to the avenue, and Peer caught involuntarily at the reins. “Hei! Brownie—where are you going?” he cried.
“Why not go up and have a look?” said Merle.