On a balmy, moonlit summer night, three or four hours after bedtime, Daniel had wrapped himself in his cloak and found a seat for himself on the remains of a pig's trough, which some one had thrown out from a neighboring house. He was in a pleasant frame of mind, slightly drunk, and chuckling to himself at his own merry conceits. Ulrik Frederik had already scaled the fence and was in the garden. It was fragrant with elder-blossoms. Linen laid out to bleach made long white strips across the grass. There was a soft rustling in the maples overhead and the rose-bushes at his side; their red blossoms looked almost white in the moonlight. He went up to the house, which stood shining white, the windows in a yellow glitter. How quiet everything was--radiant and calm! Suddenly the glassy whirr of a cricket shivered the stillness. The sharp, blue-black shadows of the hollyhocks seemed painted on the wall behind them. A faint mist rose from the bleach-linen. There!--he lifted the latch, and the next moment he was in the darkness within. Softly he groped his way up the rickety staircase until he felt the warm, spice-scented air of the attic. The rotten boards of the floor creaked under his step. The moon shone through a small window overhead, throwing a square of light on the flat top of a grain-pile. Scramble over--the dust whirling in the column of light! Now--the gable-room at last! The door opened from within, and threw a faint reddish glow that illuminated for a second the pile of grain, the smoke-yellowed, sloping chimney, and the roof-beams. The next moment they were shut out, and he stood by Sofie's side in the family clothes-closet. The small, low room was almost filled with large linen-presses. From the loft hung bags full of down and feathers. Old spinning-wheels were flung into the corners, and the walls were festooned with red onions and silver-mounted harness. The window was closed with heavy wooden shutters, but on a brass-trimmed chest beneath it stood a small hand-lantern. Sofie opened its tiny horn-pane to get a brighter light. Her loosened hair hung down over the fur-edged broadcloth robe she had thrown over her homespun dress. Her face was pale and grief-worn, but she smiled gaily and poured out a stream of chatter. She was sitting on a low stool, her hands clasped around her knees, looking up merrily at Ulrik Frederik, who stood silent above her, while she talked and talked, lashed on by the fear his ill-humor had roused in her. "How now, Sir Grumpy?" she said. "You've nothing to say? In all the hundred hours that have passed, have you not thought of a hundred things you wanted to whisper to me? Oh, then you have not longed as I have!" She trimmed the candle with her fingers, and threw the bit of burning wick on the floor. Instinctively Ulrik Frederik took a step forward, and put it out with his foot.