There was no limit to the brilliancy of the clear sky on that February day. The snow sparkled like a young girl’s eyes when she hears the music of the first waltz. The birches stretched the fine lace-work of their reddish-brown twigs against the sky, and on some of them hung a fringe of little icicles. There was a splendor and a festive glow in the day. The horses prancing threw up their forelegs, and the coachman cracked his whip in sheer pleasure of living. After a short drive the sledge drew up before the great steps at Ekeby. The footman came out. “Where are your masters?” asked Melchior. “They are hunting the great bear in Gurlitta Cliff.” “All of them?” “All of them, sir. Those who do not go for the sake of the bear go for the sake of the luncheon.” Melchior laughed so that it echoed through the silent yard. He gave the man a crown for his answer. “Go say to my daughter that I am here to take her home. She need not be afraid of the cold. I have the big sledge and a wolfskin cloak to wrap her in.” “Will you not come in, sir?” “Thank you! I sit very well where I am.” The man disappeared, and Melchior began his waiting. He was in such a genial mood that day that nothing could irritate him. He had expected to have to wait a little for Marianne; perhaps she was not even up. He would have to amuse himself by looking about him for a while. From the cornice hung a long icicle, with which the sun had terrible trouble. It began at the upper end, melted a drop, and wanted to have it run down along the icicle and fall to the earth. But before it had gone half the way, it had frozen again. And the sun made continual new attempts, which always failed. But at last a regular freebooter of a ray hung itself on the icicle’s point, a little one, which shone and sparkled; and however it was, it accomplished its object,—a drop fell tinkling to the ground. Melchior looked on and laughed. “You were not such a fool,” he said to the ray of sunlight. The yard was quiet and deserted. Not a sound was heard in the big house. But he was not impatient. He knew that women needed plenty of time to make themselves ready. He sat and looked at the dove-cote. The birds had a grating before the door. They were shut in, as long as the winter lasted, lest hawks should exterminate them. Time after time a pigeon came and stuck out its white head through the meshes. “She is waiting for the spring,” said Melchior Sinclair, “but she must have patience for a while.” The pigeon came so regularly that he took out his watch and followed her, with it in his hand. Exactly every third minute she stuck out her head. “No, my little friend,” he said, “do you think spring will be ready in three minutes? You must learn to wait.” And he had to wait himself; but he had plenty of time. The horses first pawed impatiently in the snow, but then they grew sleepy from standing and blinking in the sun. They laid their heads together and slept.