He writhed his bony fingers, and looked up to the blue March sky. How grateful he would be; how he would fall down and bend his forehead to the earth, if his prayer should be heard!
But, alas, they would surely be there—Anna, Sivert, and Hedvig. Yes; they would be there, never fear.
It suddenly occurred to him that he could not remember the children’s faces. All he could call to mind of Hedvig was her keen grey eyes, and Sivert was associated chiefly with the grating sound of a little saw. But that sound was so vividly present in his mind that he lashed out with his stick, by way of relief. It was a reflex movement, a case of cause and effect.
Egholm had expected to find his family on the steps of the station, but there was no one there. The whole place looked dead and deserted. The omnibus horse stood drowsing in its tether, while the driver, Red Jeppe, jested with the waitress at the bar. No one on the platform but a group of girls. And it was already half-past twelve by the clock.
Strange—very strange.
He drifted up to a porter, and asked:
“The train from Odense—has it come in yet?”
“She’s broken down at Aaby. A nasty mess.”
“Broken down!”
“Yes. Engine off the line, and....”