“Will you not even shake hands with me at parting?”
“I cannot see why you are always wanting my hand. No, you shall not have it. Good-by!” she called out, and sprang from him.
The next evening Petra contrived to be the last at the sewing-school. It was nearly ten o'clock when she left, but—when she got outside the garden Gunnar was not there. She had thought of all kinds of mishaps, but not of this; it hurt her so that she waited merely to give him a sound rating when he did come. She did not lack good company, however, as she walked up and down behind the garden; for the merchant’s singing society had just commenced practising in a house near by, before open windows; a Spanish song floated alluringly to her on the mild evening air, wafting her away to Spain, where she heard her own praises sung from an open balcony. Spain was the goal of her yearnings; for every summer brought the dark Spanish ships into the harbor, the Spanish songs into the streets, and on Ödegaard’s walls hung a series of beautiful pictures from Spain. He was there now, most likely, and she with him! But in a trice she was brought back to reality; for there, behind the apple-tree, at last appeared Gunnar. She
