The great book was out, a kingdom, a little humming world of moods, voices and visions. It was sold, read and laid aside. Some months passed; when autumn came Johannes flung off a new book. What now? His name was instantly on every one's lips, fortune followed him; this new book was written far away, far from the events of home, and it was still and strong as wine:
"Dear reader, here is the tale of Didrik and Iselin. Written in the good season, in the days of small sorrows, when everything was easy to bear, written with the very best intention about Didrik whom God smote with love...."
Johannes was in a foreign country, no one knew where. And more than a year passed before any one heard.
"I thought I heard a knock," said the old Miller one evening.
And his wife and he sat still and listened.
"No, it was nothing," she said after a while; "it's ten o'clock, it will soon be night."
Several minutes passed.
Then there came a hard, decided knock at the door, as though some one had plucked up courage to do it. The Miller opened. Outside stood the young lady from the Castle.
"Don't be alarmed, it's only me," she said with a shy smile. She walked in; they offered her a chair, but she did not sit down. She had only a shawl over her head and on her feet little low shoes though it was not yet springtime and the roads were not dry.