were a thousand secrets. It was more than Petra could endure.
One afternoon, about dusk, in a misty rain, Petra was standing, with a large kerchief over her head, outside of her home, peering into the passage, where stood a young sailor, whistling a waltz. She held the kerchief with both hands tight under her chin, so that only her eyes and nose were visible; but the sailor promptly discovered that she was blinking at him, and he speedily sprang down to the spot where she stood.
“Listen, Gunnar; do you want to take a walk?”
“Why, it is raining.”
“Pshaw! what if it is!”
And so they went to a small house farther up the mountain.
“Go in and buy me some cakes, the kind with whipped cream on!”
“You are always wanting cakes!”
“The kind with whipped cream on!”
He brought her some. Thrusting out one hand from under her kerchief, she took them and walked on eating. When they had made their way up beyond the town, she said, handing him a piece of cake,—
“See here, Gunnar! We have always been
