Now she knew for certain that in this style she could write the book; but she was just as certain that no one would have the patience to read it through. However, not many chapters let themselves be written like this--in one breath. Most of them required long and arduous labor, and there were only little snatches of time in the afternoons which she could devote to authorship. When she had been writing about half a year, reckoning from the day when she had gone in for romanticism with a vengeance, about a dozen chapters were written. At this rate the book would be finished in three or four years. It was in the spring of this year, 1890, that _Idun_ invited prize competitors to send in short novelettes of about one hundred printed pages. This was an outlet for a story that wanted to be told and sent into the world. It must have been the story itself that prompted her sister to suggest to her that she make use of this opportunity. Here, at last, was a way of finding out if her story was so hopelessly bad! If it received the prize, much would be gained; if it didn't, she simply stood in exactly the same position as before. She had nothing against the idea, but she had so little faith in herself that she couldn't come to any conclusion. Finally, just eight days before the time for submitting manuscripts had expired, she decided to take from the novel five chapters which were sufficiently well connected to pass for a novelette, and chance it with these. But the chapters were far from ready. Three of them were loosely written, but of the remaining two there was barely an outline. Then the whole thing must be legibly copied, of course. To add to this, she was not at home just then, but was visiting her sister and brother-in-law, who still lived in Vermland. And one who has come to visit with dear friends for a short time cannot spend the days at a writing-desk. She wrote therefore at night, sitting up the whole week until four in the mornings. Finally there were only twenty-four hours of the precious time left, and there were still twenty pages to be written. On this the last day they were invited out. The whole family were going on a little journey to be gone for the night. Naturally, she had to accompany the rest. When the party was over and the guests dispersed, she sat up all night writing in the strange place. At times she felt very queer. The place where she was visiting was the very estate on which the wicked Sintram had lived. Fate, in a singular way, had brought her there on the very night when she must write about him who sat in the rocker and rocked. Now and then she looked up from her work and listened in the direction of the drawing-room for the possible sound of a pair of rockers in motion. But nothing was heard. When the clock struck six the next morning, the five chapters were finished.