"Good day, good day, Irgens!" called Ole with outstretched hand. "Glad to see you. I want to thank you for the book you sent us. You are a wonder; you surprise your very best friends even—poet, master!"
Ole talked on, pleased and happy over his friend's accomplishment, admiring now one stanza, now another, and thanking Irgens over and over.
"Aagot and I have read it with beating hearts!" he said. "I really believe Aagot wept a little now and then—Yes; you did; no use denying it, Aagot. You need not feel ashamed of that—What I wanted to say—come along to the telegraph office, Irgens; then we'll drop in at Sara's afterward, if you like. I have a little surprise for you."
Aagot said nothing.
"You can walk up and down a little while I telegraph," said Ole. "But don't get impatient if it takes some time. I have got to catch a ship before it leaves Arendal!"
And Ole ran up the stairs and disappeared; Irgens looked after him.
"Listen—I want to thank you for your book!" said Aagot quickly in a low voice. "You will never know how I have enjoyed it."
"Really? Truly? It is good to hear you say that," he replied, full of gratitude. That she should have waited until Ole had left in order to thank him was a charming and delicate tribute; she had done it now much more genuinely and warmly; her words meant so much more now. She told him what had especially stirred her; it was that wonderful "Song to Life"; never had she read anything so beautiful. Then, as if she feared she had spoken too warmly and laid herself open to misunderstanding, she added in an ordinary tone of voice that Ole had been just as enchanted as she; he had read most of it aloud to her.
Irgens made a wry face. Did she care to have things read to her? Really?
It was intentionally that Aagot had mixed Ole's name into the conversation. This afternoon he had once more asked her about the wedding, and she had left everything to him; there was no reason for delay. It had been decided to have the wedding after Ole had returned from London this coming fall. Ole was as good as the day was long; he never grew impatient with her and was almost absurdly fond of her. He had said that perhaps she had better spend a little time in the house occasionally. She had flushed; she could not help it; it was disgraceful not to have stirred a finger to make herself a little useful instead of hanging around the office early and late. Suppose she began to think a little about their house, said Ole; she might make up her mind about things they wanted, furniture and such. Of course, she should have all the help she needed, but—Yes, it was only too true; she had not given her new home a thought; she had simply hung about the office with him. She had begun to cry, and had told him how silly and useless she really was; she was a goose, a stupid little goose. But Ole had taken her in his arms and had sat down with her on the sofa and told her that she was only a child, a charming, wonderful child, but she was getting older and more sensible right along; time and life were before them. How he loved her! His eyes, too, were wet; he looked like a child himself. Above all, there was no hurry; she had free hands to decide and arrange, just as she pleased. Yes; they were fully agreed….