So I took my seat on the other side of the table. "I have a feeling, dear Fru Atlung, that you desire to talk to some one; but I am surely not the right person." "And why not?" she asked. She sat with both elbows on the table, looking into my face. "Well, if for no other reason, at least because such a conversation needs to be entered into more than once, because there are so many things to consider, and I am going away again to-day." "But cannot you come again?" "Do you wish it?" She was silent a moment, then she said slowly: "As a rule, I have but one great wish at a time. And it was fully in keeping with the one I now have that _you_ should come here." "What is it, my dear lady?" "Ah, that I cannot tell you, unless you will promise me to come again." "Well, then, I will promise you to do so." She extended her hand across the table with the words: "Thank you." I turned on my chair toward her, and took her hand. "What is it, my dear lady?" "No, not now," she replied; "but when you come again. You must help me--if you believe it to be right to do so." "Of course." "Because you, I know, think in many particulars as Atlung does. He will listen to _you_." "Do you think so?" "He will not listen to me, at all events." "Did you ever make an effort to be heard?" "No, that would be the worst thing I could do. With Atlung everything must come as by chance." "But, dear me! I noticed that on the whole you seemed to hold most blessed relations with each other." "Yes, to be sure we do! We often amuse ourselves exceedingly well together." I had a feeling that she did not wish me to look at her, and I had turned away, so that I sat with my side to the table as before. The twilight deepened about us. "You remember us, I dare say, as we were in Dresden?" "Yes." "We were two young people who were playing with life; it had been very amusing to be engaged, but to be married must be still more diverting, and then to come home and keep house, oh! so immensely entertaining; but not equal to having children. Well, here I am now with a house which I am utterly powerless to manage, and two children which neither of us can educate; at least Atlung thinks so." "But do not you try to take hold?" "Of the house, do you mean?" "Well, yes, of the house." "Dear me! of what use would that be? I usually get a scolding when I try." "But you have plenty of help, I suppose?" "Yes, that is just the misfortune." I was about to ask what she meant by this when the dining-room door was noiselessly opened; Stina entered with the lamps. She passed in and out two or three times; but the large room was far from being lighted by the lamps she brought in. Meanwhile, conversation ceased. When Stina was about to leave, Fru Atlung asked for the children. Stina informed her they were being searched for; they were not on the gard. The mother paid no further attention to this, and Stina left the room. "Who is Stina?" I asked, as the door closed behind her.