On the plain grew some purple anemones; he rose mechanically to pick them. Oh, spring-time!
He remembered a spring day two years ago when he had been in Norway. He had been given a cart and a red mare at the posting station; the owner was an old schoolfellow of his. It was a sunny day in March; the meadows were yellow with withered grass, and the dung-heaps over the ploughed fields shone like pale brown velvet. They drove past the familiar farms with yellow, grey, and red houses and apple yards and lilac bushes. The forest all round was olive green, with a purple tint on the birch twigs, and the air was full that day with the chirping of invisible birds.
Two little fair-haired children were walking in the road, carrying a can. "Where are you going, little ones?"
They stopped, looking suspiciously at him.
"Taking food to father?"
They assented hesitatingly—a little astonished that a strange gentleman should know it.
"Climb up here and I'll give you a ride." He helped them into the cart. "Where is father working?"
"At Brusted."
"That's over beyond the school, is it not?"
Thus went the conversation. A stupid, ignorant man asking and asking, as grown-up people always talk to children, and the little ones, who have such a lot of wisdom, consult each other quietly with their eyes, giving sparingly of it—as much as they think convenient.
Hand in hand they walked along beside a rushing brook when he put them down, and he turned his horse in the direction he wanted to go.
There was a prayer meeting that evening at his home. His sister Ingeborg was sitting by the old corner cupboard, following with a pale, ecstatic face and shining steel-blue eyes a shoe-
