The schoolmaster has given me a fresh letter from you, which I have now read, but I cannot understand it, which must be because I am not learned. You want to know how I fare in every respect. I am quite well. I have a good appetite and sleep at nights, and sometimes also in the day. I have danced a great deal this Winter, for there have been many delightful parties here. I go to church when there is not too much snow, but it has been very thick. Now you must have heard everything, but, if not, I don't know anything better than that you should write to me again. Marit Knudsdatter. To Marit Knudsdatter Heidegaard. I have received your letter, but you appear to wish me to remain as wise as before. Perhaps this is an answer after all, I don't know. I dare not venture to write that which I wish to, because I don't feel to know you. Perhaps you don't know me any better. You must not think I am any longer the soft fellow that you crushed the spirit out of, as I sat and watched you dance; I have had many provings since then. Neither am I, as I used to be, like those long-haired dogs that hang their ears and shun people; but enough of this now. Your letter was humorous enough, but the joking was just where it should not have been, for you understood me quite well, and you should have known that I did not ask in joke, but because lately I have not been able to think of anything else than that I asked you about. I waited anxiously, and then there came nothing but foolery. Farewell, Marit Heidegaard. I shall take care not to look too much at you as I did at that dance. Grant you may both eat well and sleep well, and get your new web finished, and grant above all, that you may shovel away the snow lying before the church door. With all respect, Ovind Thoresen Pladsen. To Ovind Thoresen.