in the end of March—the first spring-day—the sound of many voices again floated over the Fiord and mingled with the shriek of the gulls flying near the shore.
On the road by the churchyard wall a long row of conveyances with shining horses stood waiting for the service to come to an end. Some of the drivers sat on the seats half-asleep, resting their heads on their hands. Others lay in the ditches passing the time in smoking and gossip.
The Provst's hooded carriage was standing in front, by the gate, with the driver on the high box seat; he was an old-womanish sort of man in a big blue greatcoat.
The waiting lads were in the habit of poking fun at him, "Maren," as he was generally called, after his deceased wife, to whom in return (and not without reason) they had given his christian name, Rasmus. To-day, as usual, four or five lively fellows stood round with their hands in their pockets laughing at him.
"A' say, Maren!" said one of them, winking slyly, "whaat's it comin' to wi' the curate an' your young leddy? A' think they've looked long enough at one another to ha' made it oop be now!"
"A'll tell thee what," said another who was leaning carelessly against the gate-post. "It does na go so fast among fine folks; these ere young leddies are just like the hens—they allus hae to
