How many long days had not passed already? I was downcast, dispirited; my heart pondered idly over things; even the kindly grey stone by the hut seemed to wear an expression of sorrow and despair when I went by. There was rain in the air; the heat seemed gasping before me wherever I went, and I felt the gout in my left foot; I had seen one of Herr Mack's horses shivering in its harness in the morning; all these things were significant to me as signs of the weather. Best to furnish the house well with food while the weather holds, I thought. I tied up Æsop, took my fishing tackle and my gun, and went down to the quay. I was quite unusually troubled in mind. “When will the mail-packet be in?” I asked a fisherman there. “The mail-packet? In three weeks' time,” he answered. “I am expecting my uniform,” I said. Then I met one of Herr Mack's assistants from the store. I shook hands with him, and said: “Tell me, do you never play whist now at Sirilund?” “Yes, often,” he answered. Pause. “I have not been there lately,” I said. I rowed out to my fishing grounds. The weather was mild, but oppressive. The gnats gathered in swarms, and I had to smoke all the time to keep them off. The haddock were biting; I fished with two hooks and made a good haul. On the way back I shot a brace of guillemots. When I came in to the quay the blacksmith was there at work. A thought occurred to me; I asked him: “Going up my way?” “No,” said he, “Herr Mack's given me a bit of work to do here that'll keep me till midnight.” I nodded, and thought to myself that it was well. I took my fish and went off, going round by way of the blacksmith's house. Eva was there alone. “I have been longing for you with all my heart,” I told her. And I was moved at the sight of her. She could hardly look me in the face for wonder. “I love your youth and your good eyes,” I said. “Punish me to-day because I have thought more of another than of you. I tell you, I have come here only to see you; you make me happy, I am fond of you. Did you hear me calling for you last night?” “No,” she answered, frightened. “I called Edwarda, but it was you I meant. I woke up and heard myself. Yes, it was you I meant; it was only a mistake; I said 'Edwarda,' but it was only by accident. By Heaven, you are my dearest, Eva! Your lips are so red to-day. Your feet are prettier than Edwarda's--just look yourself and see.” Joy such as I had never seen in her lit up her face; she made as if to turn away, but hesitated, and put one arm round my neck. We talked together, sitting all the time on a long bench, talking to each other of many things. I said: “Would you believe it? Edwarda has not learnt to speak properly yet; she talks like a child, and says 'more happier.' I heard her myself. Would you say she had a lovely forehead? I do not think so. She has a devilish forehead. And she does not wash her hands.” “But we weren't going to talk of her any more.” “Quite right. I forgot.”