Young people are not quite so cruel as children; but still it is the same kind of spirit. Some were sorry for him, others just wanted to drive him into a corner, Edward Kallem first and foremost. But Josephine stepped quickly away to the dark girl with the soprano voice. She began one of their songs directly, the others joined in, the gentlemen rather after the ladies. With very few exceptions, the party consisted of a chorus of ladies and gentlemen who had practised together the last three winters with all the perseverance and industry only to be met with in a small town. Josephine went and sat down in the middle of the bank, the others round about her. She did not sing; she had her flowers. The party had come out there in the little schooner which now lay so fresh and bright-looking in the sun. On board, Josephine, Edward, and Ole had sat together, close together, for there was not much room. No one could guess, hearing their merry, oft-whispered conversation, that there was aught between them save friendship and goodwill. And now, only three hours after, Ole Tuft sat there like an outcast! How he suffered! An attack on his calling, on his faith, and before them all! And by Edward, too! So cruel, so persistingly scornful! And Josephine? Not a single word of sympathy, not even a look from Josephine. From their childhood Ole and she had been constantly together; they had written to each other when he was away at Christiania, he once a fortnight, she as often as she had anything to write about. When he was at home for his holidays they met daily. During the two years that she was at a French school and away in Spain their correspondence had been more active than ever, on her part, too, and when she came home again--changed though she was otherwise--to him she was always the same. Her father had helped him with his studies and enabled him to give all his attention to them; he was to pass his last examination at Christmas; everyone prophesied that it would be one of the first and best ever passed in theology. Undoubtedly he had her, and possibly her brother too, to thank for his having been helped. In former days they had both of them brought him to their father, to the head-master, to the apothecary, and to many other families; and now through her he was accepted everywhere. In everyday life she spoke but little, and was often rather difficult to get on with; but she was a firm and true friend. At times she would censure him (for he was not always according to her taste); it was all part of their intercourse and he did not attach much importance to it, nor she either; from the very first she had always been his guardian. As yet he had not dared to say that he loved her; there was no necessity for it, and, in fact, it was almost too sacred to be mentioned. He was as sure of her as of his own faith. He was a peasant, his chief characteristic was a certain trustful, solid collectiveness. God provided for his faith; his well-being and