an was glad to give them.
Ilda, too, in her red bodice and white chemisette, and her pretty, shy
ways, was almost as attractive as the birds or beasts they were seeking.
Neither the old woman nor Ilda often left their cottage, and so the boys
were the more welcome for the news they carried.

They were able to give them the latest bit of gossip--how many men were
off on the herring catch; if any strangers had come through the town in
their _carrioles_ on their way to the noted and beautiful Voring Foss
and Skjaeggedal Foss (two water-falls of great renown); or who had the
American fever, and were going to emigrate. Or they talked about the
ducks and geese of which Ilda was so proud, and of the pigeons which
Klaus had given her when they were wild, but which had grown tame and
lovable under her gentle care. Then the old woman related in turn many a
legend and fable, tales of the saintly King Olaf, or the doings of Odin
and Thor.

Thus the days glided by, and the boys became men, and still they were
together in their work as they had been in their play. In the rye fields
and the potato patches they toiled side by side, and in the last nights
of summer--the three August nights which they call iron nights, because
of the frosts which sometimes come and blight all the wheat crop--they
watched and waited, hoping for the good luck which did not always come
to them; for the soil is a hard one to cultivate, and many are the
trials which farmers have to meet in that bleak land. Soon after they
became of age they were called upon to share the grief of their friend
Ilda, whose grandmother died. After this they did not go so often to the
cottage. One bright evening, however, as Lars was on his way up the
mountain, he saw Klaus emerging from the little door beneath the shed of
which they had so often sat. As they met, Klaus turned his face away,
remarking, however, upon the beauty of the evening. Lars thought his
friend's manner somewhat strange, and asked him if Ilda was well. Klaus
said she was quite well--was he going to see her?

"Yes," said Lars. "I have some fresh currants from our garden, the only
fruit which will grow in it, and I thought perhaps she might care for
them, poor little thing. She is so lonely now!"

Klaus turned off down the road, whistling, while Lars went into the
cottage. To his surprise he found Ilda crying, but supposing that the
sight of Klaus had revived recollections which were painful, some sad
thoug