I saw her to her door, said good night, and went home. I thought about her ceaselessly. It was wintry weather, with raw streets and an invisible sky. No, really, she's not suited for marriage. No man is served with a wife who is nothing but a student. Why has no one in the country noticed what the young women are coming to! Miss Torsen's tale of the wild party proved how accustomed she was to sitting and listening, and then herself disgorging endless tales. She had done it very well and not omitted much, but she paid attention only to the fun. A grown-up, eternal schoolgirl, one who had studied her life away. When I reached my own door, Miss Torsen arrived there at the same time; she had been close at my heels all the way. I guessed this from the fact that she was not in the least breathless as she spoke. "I forgot to ask you to forgive me," she said. "My dear girl--?" "Oh, for saying what I did. You mustn't subscribe. I'm so sorry about that. Please be kind and forgive me." She took my hand and shook it. In my amazement I stammered: "It was really a very witty remark: a human journal--ha, ha! Now don't stand there and get cold; put your gloves on again. Are you walking back?" "Yes. Good night. Forgive me for the whole evening." "Let me take you home; why not stay a few minutes--" "No, thank you." She pressed my hand firmly and left me. I suppose she wanted to spare my aging legs, damn them! Nevertheless I stole after her to see that she got home safely. * * * * * It happened that Josephine came to the town--Josephine, that spirit of labor from the Tore Peak farm. I saw her, too, for she came to pay me a visit. She had looked up my address, and I joked with her again and called her Joséfriendly. How was everybody at Tore Peak? Josephine had good news about all of them, but she shook her head over Paul. Not that he drank much now; but he did little of anything else either, and had definitely lost interest in his work. He wanted to sell the farm. He wanted to try carting and delivery by horse cart in Stordalen. I asked if he had any prospective purchaser. Yes; Einar, one of the cotters, had had rather an eye on the farm. It all depended on Manufacturer Brede, who had put so much money into it. I remembered her father, the old man from another world, the man with mittens, who had to be spoon-fed on porridge because he was ninety, who smelled like an unburied corpse. I remembered him and asked Josephine: "Well, I expect your old father is dead by now?" "No, praise be," she replied. "Father is better than we dared hope. We must be thankful he's still on his feet."