brightness betrayed that for her, too, the night had brought no sleep.
"Good—good night, little Sophie!" he hiccupped tenderly, supporting himself against the bed-post.
"Good morning," she answered quietly.
"Ah well, yes," he replied with an attempt at gaiety. "It certainly is rather late—or early—Ah!—It's that Mortensen, you know—he's a regular dog at a card table—a regular dog."
She did not answer him, but closed her eyes wearily, then opened them again and said:
"A messenger on horseback came from Anders Jensen of Egede. It seems you had promised to go and look at a sick cow there."
"I?" he burst out, colouring up and trying to look her straight in the face. "I know nothing about it—it must be a mistake."
She continued calmly, "The messenger was to say that it did not matter now for the cow was dead. But you were not to trouble yourself to go there again."
Aggerbölle was silent. He stood leaning against the bedpost looking at the floor—the swollen blue veins standing out on his forehead, and his lips compressed.
All at once he drew himself up with a shiver, ran his hand through his hair, and walked with a firm step up to his wife with his right hand outstretched.
"Here you have my hand, Sophie, it is the last
