It was but for a few moments. He stood there muffled in furs: but when he had gone it seemed to her that she had never truly seen him before. He was an enthusiast then--an enthusiast whose depths never revealed themselves. Was his singing a message from this enthusiasm? Was this why his voice carried everybody away with it into another region? That melancholy father of his, when a craving for drink seized him, would shut himself up with his violin, and play and play till he became helpless. Had the son, too, this dislike of companionship, this delight in his own enthusiasm? God be praised, Aksel Aaroe was saved! Was it not from the depths of his enthusiasm that he had looked at her? This forced itself upon her for the first time; she had been occupied before by the change in him, but now it forced itself upon her--hotly, with a thrill of fear and joy. A message of gladness which still quivered with doubt. Was the decisive moment of her life approaching? She felt that she coloured. She could not remain quiet; she went to the window to look for him; then paced the room, trying to discover what she might believe. All his words, his looks, his gestures, since he had first come there, rose before her. But he had been reserved, almost niggardly, with them. But that was just their charm. His eyes had now interpreted them, and those eyes enveloped her; she gave herself absolutely up to them. Her servant brought in a letter; it was a Christmas card, in an envelope without a direction, from Aksel Aaroe--one of the usual Christmas cards, representing a number of young people in snow-shoes. Below was printed: Winter white, Has roses red. On the other side, in a clear round hand, "In the woods to-day I could not but think of you. A. A.." That was all.