And Irgens thanked her; his bitterness vanished slowly. They sat silently on the sofa some time; then she said: "Listen! An awful thing happened with that red tie of yours--you remember the one I took from you once? He saw it!" "How could you be so careless? What did he say?" "Nothing; he never says anything. It fell out as I opened my dress. Well, don't let that worry you; it doesn't matter. When can I see you again?" Ever, _ever_ her tenderness was the same! Irgens took her hand and caressed it. How fortunate he was to have her! She was the only one in all the world who understood him, who was good to him--How about that stay in the country? Had she given it up? Yes; she was not going. She told him frankly that she had had no trouble changing her husband's mind; he had given in at once. But she was sorry for the children. "Yes," answered Irgens sympathetically. And suddenly he asked in a whisper: "Did you lock the door as you came in?" She glanced at him, lowered her eyes and whispered: "Yes." IV On the 17th of May, [Footnote: Norway's Independence Day.] in the morning, the birds are singing over the city. A coal-heaver, tired from a night of toil, wanders up through the docks with his shovel across his shoulder; he is black, weary, and athirst; he is going home. And as he walks along, the city begins to stir; a shade is raised here and there; flags are flung from the windows. It is the 17th of May. All stores and schools are closed; the roar from the wharves and factories is stilled. Only the winches rattle; they shatter the air with their cheerful noise this bright morning. Departing steamers blow white clouds of steam from their exhausts; the docks are busy, the harbour is alive. And letter-carriers and telegraph messengers have already commenced their rounds, bringing news, scattering information through the doors, whirling up in the hearts of men emotions and feelings like leaves in an autumn wind. A stray dog with his nose on the pavement lopes through the streets, hot on a scent and without a thought for anything else. Suddenly he stops, jumps up and whines; he has found a little girl who is leaving on every stoop newspapers full of 17th-of-May freedom and bold, ringing phrases. The little girl jerks her tiny body in all directions, twitches her shoulders, blinks and hurries from door to door. She is pale and emaciated; she has Saint Vitus's dance.