“Nothing,” said Lars and Nils as well. “How's the reservoir getting on?” asked the Captain. This was to me, but before I could answer he turned to Nils. “I shall want the boy to drive me to the station,” he said. “I'm going to Christiania.” Grindhusen and I went off to our work on the reservoir, and Lars to his digging. But a shadow seemed to have fallen over us all. Grindhusen himself said openly: “Pity the Captain's going away.” I thought so, too. But he was obliged to go in on business, no doubt. There were the crops as well as the timber to be sold. But why should he start at that hour of the day? He couldn't catch the early train in any case. Had there been trouble again? Was he anxious to be out of the way before Fruen got up? * * * * * Trouble there was, often enough. It had gone so far by this time that the Captain and Fruen hardly spoke to one another, and whenever they did exchange a word it was in a careless tone, and looking all the other way. Now and again the Captain would look his wife properly in the face, and say she ought to be out more in the lovely air; and once when she was outside he asked if she wouldn't come in and play a little. But this, perhaps, was only to keep up appearances, no more. It was pitiful to see. Fruen was quiet and nice. Now and again she would stand outside on the steps looking out towards the hills; so soft her features were, and her reddish yellow hair. But it was dull for her now--no visitors, no music and entertaining, nothing but sorrow and shame. The Captain had promised to bear with things as they were, and surely he was bearing all he could. But he could do no more. Disaster had come to the home, and the best will in the world could not shoulder it off. If Fruen happened to be hasty, as she might now and then, and forgot to be grateful, the Captain would look down at the floor, and it would not be long before he put on his hat and went out. All the maids knew about it, and I had seen it myself once or twice. He never forgot what she had done--how could he?--though he could keep from speaking of it. But could he keep from speaking of it when she forgot herself and said: “You know I'm not well just now; you know I can't walk far like I used to!” “S--sh, Lovise!” he would say, with a frown. And then the mischief was there as bad as ever. “Oh, of course you must bring that up again!” “No, indeed! It's you that brought it up yourself. You've lost all sense of modesty, I think; you seem to have no shame left.” “Oh, I wish I'd never come back at all! I was better off at home!” “Yes, or living with that puppy, I dare say.” “You said he'd helped you once yourself. And I often wish I were back there with him again. Hugo's a great deal better than you are.”