their gifts at the time when Ödegaard had interested himself in her, and had she not now scorned them all, crushed him, and, true to her nature, plunged recklessly into a career that would lead her to become an outcast of society, with an old age in the house of correction? Her mother must be her accomplice; in her sailor’s inn the child had learned levity. The yoke Gunlaug had laid on the town should no longer be borne; the people would no longer tolerate either mother or daughter among them; they would unite in driving them away.
One evening seafaring people who owed Gunlaug money, drunken laborers for whom she would not get work, young boys to whom she had refused credit, assembled on the hill, and were led by people of the better class. They whistled, they hallooed, they shouted for the “fisher maiden,” for “fisher Gunlaug;” soon a stone was flung against the door and another through the loft window. They did not disperse until past midnight. Behind the windows all was dark and still.
The next day not a living soul would look in on Gunlaug; not even a child passed by on the hill. In the evening, however, there was the same disorderly mob, only that now every one, without exception, joined in; they trampled
