When steps were again heard above she trembled in every fibre of her body. She could see Tande's expression, as he raised his eyes while playing. The diamond, cutting brilliant circles of light over the keys of the piano, the blue-veined hands, the long hair which was continually falling forward, the fine gray suit the musician wore, his silent demeanor,--all dissolved into the melodies and harmonies, and with them became blended his whispered "Thanks for your visit!" At the cottage across the street it was dark. Magnhild did not seek her couch until midnight, and then not to sleep; nor did he who was above sleep; on the contrary, just as Magnhild had retired he began to play. He struck up a melancholy, simple melody, in the form of a soprano solo at first, and finally bursting into what sounded like a chorus of female voices; his harmonization was exquisitely pure. Without being conscious herself of the transition of thought, Magnhild seemed to be sitting on the hill-side on the day of her confirmation, gazing at the spot where her home had stood. All her little brothers and sisters were about her. The theme was treated in a variety of ways, but always produced the same picture. At school the next morning Magnhild was accosted with many questions concerning the preceding evening; among other things whether _she_ had really taken part in the singing, _what_ they had sung, about the other two, and whether they would sing often. The questions filled her with joy: a great secret, _her_ secret, was in its innermost depths. She felt conscious of strange elasticity. She had never made such haste home before. She was looking forward to singing with him again in the forenoon! And she did sing. Tande sent word down by the sailor's wife that he expected her at twelve o'clock. A little before this hour she heard once more that melancholy, pure composition of yesterday. Tande met her without a word. He merely bowed and went straight to the piano and then turned his head as before to bid her draw nearer. She sang scales, he gave suggestions as a rule without looking at her; the whole hour passed as a calm matter of business; she was thankful for this. From her lesson she crossed the street to the lady. Fru Bang sat, or rather reclined, on the sofa, with an open book on her lap, and with Magda, to whom she was talking, in front of her. She was grave, or rather sorrowful; she looked up at Magnhild, but went on talking with the child, as though no one had entered. Magnhild remained standing, considerably disappointed. Then the lady pushed aside the child and looked up again. "Come nearer!" said she, feebly, and made a motion with the hand that Magnhild did not understand. "Sit down there on the footstool, I mean." Magnhild obeyed. "You have been with him?" Her fingers loosened Magnhild's hair as she spoke. "The knot is not quite right,"--then with a little caress, "You are a sweet child!"