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      "I thank you!"

      He saw how deeply she was moved, although she said nothing more. She gave him her hand in farewell. "I hope they will know me," she said.

      "I'll be up in a moment," he remarked. "I haven't much to do just now. Perhaps you would like to stay awhile? Here is the key; you need not ring. But be careful of their shoes if you take them on your lap. Well, don't laugh; God knows if their shoes aren't muddy!"

      Hanka went. He opened the door for her and followed her to the foot of the stairs; then he returned to his office.

      He walked over to the desk, but he did not work. There she had stood! She wore her black velvet dress to-day; she was up-stairs. Could he go up now? He did not hear the children; they were probably in her lap. He hoped they had on their red dresses.

      He walked up-stairs, a prey to the strangest emotions. He knocked on the door as if it were somebody else's home he was entering. Hanka got up at once when she saw him.

      She had taken off her veil; she flushed deeply. He could see now why she used a veil. The joyless days in her solitary room had not left her unmarked; her face spoke plainly of her sufferings. Johanna and Ida stood beside her and clung to her dress; they did not remember her clearly; they looked at her questioningly and were silent.

      "They don't know me," said Mrs. Hanka, and sat down again. "I have asked them."

      "Yes, I know you," said Johanna, and crawled up into her lap. Ida did the same.

      Tidemand looked at them unsteadily.

      "You mustn't crawl all over mamma, children," he said. "Don't bother mamma now."

      They didn't hear him; they wanted to bother mamma. She had rings on her fingers and she had the strangest buttons on her dress; that was something to interest them! They began to chatter about these buttons; they caught sight of the mother's brooch and had many remarks to make about that.

      "Put them down when you are tired of them," said Tidemand.

      Tired? She? Let them be, let them be!

      They spoke about Ole; they mentioned Aagot. Tidemand wanted to look her up some day. Ole had asked him to do it; he felt, in a way, responsible for her. But the nurse came and wanted to put the children to bed.

      However, the children had no idea of going to bed; they refused pointblank. And Hanka had to come along, follow them into their bed-room, and get them settled for the night. She looked around. Everything was as it used to be. There were the two little beds, the coverlets, the tiny pillows, the picture-books, the toys. And when they were in bed she had to sing to them; they simply wouldn't keep still but crawled out of bed continually and chattered on.

      Tidemand watched this awhile with blinking eyes; then he turned quickly away and went out.

      In half an hour or so Hanka came back.

      "They are asleep now," she said.

      "I was wondering if I might ask you to stay," said Tidemand. "We live rather informally here; we keep house in a way, but nothing seems to go right for us. If you would like to have dinner with us—I don't know what they are going to give us to eat, but if you will take things as they are?"

      She looked at him shyly, like a young girl; she said: "Thank you."

      After dinner, when they had returned to the drawing-room, Hanka said suddenly:

      "Andreas, you mustn't think I came here to-day thinking that everything could be well again with us. Don't think that. I simply came because I couldn't wait any longer; I had to see you again."

      "I have not thought of that at all," he said. "But it seems the children don't want to let you go."

      "I have no thought of asking you again what I asked you for once," she said. "That would be impossible; I know it too well. But perhaps you would allow me to come and visit you at times?"

      Tidemand bowed his head. She had no thought of coming back; it was all over.

      "Come whenever you like; come every day," he said. "You are not coming to see me."

      "Oh, yes, to see you also. I think of you with every breath. Ever since that sail last summer; it began then. You have changed and so have I. But that is neither here nor there. I have seen you on the streets oftener than you know; I have followed you at times."

      He rose and went in his confusion over to the barometer on the wall; he examined it carefully and tapped the tube.

      "But in that case—I don't understand why it is necessary to live apart. I mean—Things are in a sad state of disorder here; and then there are the children—"

      "I didn't come for that!" she exclaimed. "Yes, I did, in a way; of course I did; but—I am afraid you will never be able to forget—Oh, no. I cannot expect that—"

      She took her wraps.

      "Don't go!" he called. "You have never been out of my thoughts, either. As far as that goes, I am as much to blame as you, and it is true that I have changed. I am, perhaps, a little different now. But here is your room just as before. Come and see! We haven't touched a single thing. And if you would stay—By the way, I am afraid I shall have to stay in the office all night. I am almost sure there is a lot of mail to attend to. But your room is just as when you left it. Come and see!"

      He had opened the door. She came over and peeped in. The lamp was lit. She looked at everything and entered. He really wanted to, after all, after all! She could stay; he had said so; he took her back! She stood there timidly and said nothing; then their eyes met. He flung his arms around her and kissed her, as he had kissed her the first time, all these many years ago. Her eyes closed and he felt suddenly the pressure of her arms around his neck.

      X

      And morning came.

      The city woke up and the hammers danced their ringing dance along the shipyards. Through the streets the farmers' wagons rolled in a slow procession. It is the same story. The squares are filling with people and supplies, stores are opened, the roar increases, and up and down the stairs skips a slip of a girl with her papers and her dog.

      It is the same story.

      It is twelve before people begin to group themselves on the "corner," young and carefree gentlemen who can afford to sleep late and do what they feel like. There are a few from the well-known clique, Milde and Norem and Ojen. It is cold, and they are shivering. The conversation is not very lively. Even when Irgens appears, in high spirits and elegant attire, as befits the best-dressed man in town, nobody grows very enthusiastic. It is too early and too chilly; in a few hours it will be different. Ojen had said something about his latest prose poem; he had half-finished it last night. It was called "A Sleeping City." He had begun to write on coloured paper; he had found this very soothing. Imagine, he says, the heavy, ponderous quiet over a city asleep; only its breathing is heard like an open sluice miles away. It takes time; hours elapse, a seeming eternity; then the brute begins to stir, to wake up. Wasn't this rather promising?

      And Milde thinks it very promising; he has made his peace with Ojen long ago. Milde is busy on his caricatures to "Norway's Dawn." He had really drawn a few very funny caricatures and made ruinous fun of the impossible poem.

      Norem said nothing.

      Suddenly Lars Paulsberg bobs up; with him is Gregersen. The group is growing; everybody takes notice; so much is gathered here in a very small space. Literature is in the ascendant; literature dominates the entire sidewalk. People turn back in order to get a good look at these six gentlemen in ulsters and great-coats. Milde also attracts attention; he has been able to afford an entirely new outfit. He says nothing about Australia now.

      At two the life and traffic has risen to its high-water mark; movement everywhere, people promenade, drive in carriages, gossip; engines are breathing stertorously in the far distance. A steamer whistles in the harbour, another steamer answers with a hoarse blast; flags flutter,

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