times in the course of the winter he had longed for the coming of spring—because he had had a strange belief, that with it all would come right; that with the vernal break-up of the frost-bound fields and fiords, the spring of love which was rising in his heart would also be set free.
He turned towards the room, went to the writing-table and carefully put away his father's letter in one of the drawers, passed both his hands over his forehead and up through his hair, as if to drive away the heavy thoughts; changed his clothes, and taking his hat and umbrella, which stood by the door, left the room.
He went down the creaking attic stairs, through the hall, and out of a gate at the side to reach the open fields through the garden.
Hardly had he passed the first big lawn, however, before he heard some one calling him. It was Miss Ragnhild's voice.
He was rather vexed. He would rather have been alone at this moment, and it was with a somewhat annoyed expression that he turned and went back.
Miss Ragnhild came towards him from the verandah—still wearing the flowered morning gown with the long tight bodice. As she stepped
