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 shoemaker, who spoke of spiritual grace; then suddenly she rose herself to bear witness. His pretty, smart sister who once had been so fond of dancing and merriment. She loved to read and to learn; when he had got work in town he sent her books and pamphlets and the _Social Democrat_ twice a week. At thirty she was “saved,” and now she “spoke in tongues.” She had bestowed all her love on her nephew Anders and a little girl they had with them—an illegitimate child from Christiania. With sparkling eyes she told them about Jesus, the children’s Friend. The next day it was snowing; he had promised to take the children to a cinema in the small neighbouring town, and they had to walk a couple of miles in the melting snow, leaving black footprints behind. He tried to talk to the children, asking questions and receiving guarded answers. But on the way back the children were the inquisitive ones, and, flattered, he gave frank and detailed answers, anxious to give them proper information about the films they had seen—of cowboys in Arizona and cocoanut harvest in the Philippines. And he tried his best to tell them properly and answer without ever being at a loss. * * * * * Oh, spring-time!