"Yesterday I was in the woods and wanted to sit down, but I cannot sit in the snow. No, I cannot, though I could ten years ago. I must wait till there is really something to sit on. A rock is good enough, but you can't sit on a rock for very long in May." Nikolai looks uneasily at the mare through the window. "Yes, let's go.... And there were no butterflies, either. You know those butterflies that have wings exactly like pansies--there weren't any. And if happiness lives in the forest, I mean if God himself--well, He hasn't moved out yet; it's too early." Nikolai does not reply to my nonsense. After all, it is only the incoherent expression of a vague feeling, a gentle melancholy. We go outside together. "Nikolai, I'm not going." He turns around and looks at me, his eyes smiling good-humoredly. "You see, Nikolai, I think I have got an idea; I feel exactly as though an idea had come to me that may turn into a great, red-hot iron. So I mustn't disturb myself. I'm staying." "Well, I'm very glad to hear that," says Nikolai. "As long as you like being here...." And a quarter of an hour later, I can see Nikolai and the mare trotting briskly down the road. Fru Ingeborg stands in the yard with the boy on her arm to watch the gamboling calves. And here stand I. A fine old specimen, I am! * * * * * Nikolai returned with my mail; quite a little pile had accumulated in the past few weeks. "I thought you're not in the habit of reading your letters," said Fru Ingeborg banteringly. Nikolai sat listening to us. "No," I returned. "Just say the word, and I'll burn them unread." Suddenly she turned pale; she had put her hand with a smile on the letters, brushing my hand as she did so. I felt a great ardor, a moment's miraculous blood heat, more than blood heat--only for a moment--then she withdrew her hand and said: "Better read them." She was deeply flushed now. "I saw him burn his letters once," she explained to Nikolai. Then she found something to do at the stove, while she asked her husband about his journey, about the road, whether the mare had behaved well--which she had. A minor occurrence, of no importance to anyone. Perhaps I should not have mentioned it. * * * * * A few days later. The weather has grown warm, my window is open, my door to the living room is open, all is still; I stand at the window looking out. A man entered the courtyard carrying an unshapely burden. I could not see his face very well, but thought it was Nikolai carrying something, so I went back to my table to work again. A little later I heard someone say "Good morning" in the living room. Fru Ingeborg did not return the greeting. Instead, I heard her ask in loud, hostile tones: "What do you want?" "I've come to pay you a visit." "My husband isn't in--he's in the field." "Never mind." "I do mind," she cried. "Go away!"