“Skriv ikke til mig—” [Footnote: “Do not write (skrive) to me.”]
No name, no place, but so clear and lovely. The first word was underlined.
I do not know how I got home. I remember I sat on a stone by the roadside and read the letter and put it in my pocket, and walked on till I came to another stone and did the same again. Skriv ikke. But—did that mean I might come and perhaps speak with her? That little, dainty piece of paper, and the swift, delicate characters. Her hands had held it, her eyes had looked on it, her breath had touched it. And then at the end a dash. Which might have a world of meaning.
I came home, handed in the Lensmand's post, and went out into the wood. I was dreaming all the time. My comrade, no doubt, must have found me an incomprehensible man, seeing me read a letter again and again, and put it back with my money.
How splendid of her to have found me! She must have held the envelope up to the light, no doubt, and read the Lensmand's name under the stamps; then laid her beautiful head on one side and half closed her eyes and thought for a moment: he is working for the Lensmand at Hersæt now....
That evening, when we were back home, the Lensmand came out and talked to us of this and that, and asked:
“Didn't you say you'd been working for Captain Falkenberg at Øvrebø?”
“Yes.”
“I see he's invented a machine.”
“A machine?”