“Yes, to the parsonage,” said her mother.
“To the parsonage? Is it Ödegaard who is come home?”
Her mother now turned toward her.
“Yes; who else?”
“Ödegaard!” exulted Petra, and the storm of joy which broke over her purified the atmosphere at once. “Ödegaard is come, Ödegaard! O God in Heaven, he is come!”
She sprang from the door and across the fields. She stormed forward, she laughed, she shouted aloud; it was him, him, she needed; had he been at home, no evil would have occurred. With him she was safe; if she but thought of his exalted, glowing countenance, his gentle voice; yes, even the peaceful rooms he occupied, with their rich supply of pictures, she grew more calm, and felt secure once more. She took time to compose herself. Town and landscape were flooded with light in the declining autumn evening, especially the fjord lay in strong radiance; in the sound beyond was curling away the last smoke from the steamer that had brought Ödegaard. Ah, only to know that he was home again did her good, made her feel happy, strong, capable once more. She prayed God to come to her aid that Odegaard might never leave her alone again. And, as if
