* * * * * I was too late for the berries this year, but I am going up that way all the same. I am allowing myself this little treat, by way of reward for having worked well this summer. And I reach my goal on the 12th of December. It is true, no doubt, that I might have stayed down among the villages. I could have managed somehow, no doubt, as did all the others who had found it time to settle down. And Lars Falkenberg, my colleague and mate, he had urged me to take up a holding with keep for a wife and two cows and a pig. A friend's advice; _vox populi._ And then, why, one of the cows might be an ox to ride, a means of transport for my shivering age! But it came to naught--it came to naught! My wisdom has not come with age; here am I going up to Trovatn and the waste lands to live in a wooden hut! What pleasure can there be in that? _Ai_, Lars Falkenberg, and _ai,_ every one else, have no fear; I have a man to come up with things I need. * * * * * So I drift about and about by myself, looking after myself, living alone. I miss that seal of Bishop Pavel's. One of his descendants gave it to me, and I had it in my waistcoat pocket this summer, but, looking for it now, I find I have lost it. Well, well; but, anyhow, I have been paid in advance for that mishap, in having owned it once. But I do not feel the want of books to read. The 12th of December--I can keep a date in mind and carelessly forget things more important. It is only just now I remember about the books--that Captain Falkenberg and his wife had many books in their house--novels and plays--a whole bookcase full. I saw it one day when I was painting windows and doors at Øvrebø. Entire sets of authors they had, and authors' complete works--thirty books. Why the complete works? I do not know. Books--one, two, three, ten, thirty. They had come out each Christmas--novels, thirty volumes--the same novel. They read them, no doubt, the Captain and his wife; knew every time what they should find in the poets of the home; there was always such a lot about all coming right in the end. So they read them, no doubt. How should I know? Heavens, what a host of books! Two men could not shift the bookcase when I wanted to paint behind; it took three men and a cook to move it. One of the men was Grindhusen; he flushed under the weight of those poets of the home, and said: “I can't see what folk want with such a mighty crowd of books!” Grindhusen! As if he knew anything about it! The Captain and his wife had all those books, no doubt, that none should be lacking; there they were all complete. It would make a gap to take away a single one; they were paired each with the rest, uniform poetry, the same story throughout. * * * * *