his account Camilla was to go to her aunt's the next morning
and stay there until he returned.

When Mogens had seen his future father-in-law off, he went home,
thinking of the fact that he now would not see Camilla for several days.
He turned into the street where she lived. It was long and narrow and
little frequented. A cart rumbled away at the furthest end; in this
direction, too, there was the sound of footsteps, which grew fainter and
fainter. At the moment he heard nothing but the barking of a dog within
the building behind him. He looked up at the house in which Camilla
lived; as usual the ground-floor was dark. The white-washed panes
received only a little restless life from the flickering gleam of the
lantern of the house next door. On the second story the windows were
open and from one of them a whole heap of planks protruded beyond the
window-frame. Camilla's window was dark, dark also was everything above,
except that in one of the attic windows there shimmered a white-golden
gleam from the moon. Above the house the clouds were driving in a wild
flight. In the houses on both sides the windows were lighted.

The dark house made Mogens sad. It stood there so forlorn and
disconsolate; the open windows rattled on their hinges; water ran
monotonously droning down the rainpipe; now and then a little water fell
with a hollow dull thud at some spot which he could not see; the wind
swept heavily through the street. The dark, dark house! Tears came into
Mogen's eyes, an oppressive weight lay on his chest, and he was
seized by a strange dark sensation that he had to reproach himself for
something concerning Camilla. Then he had to think of his mother, and he
felt a great desire of laying his head on her lap and weeping his fill.

For a long while he stood thus with his hand pressed against his breast
until a wagon went through the street at a sharp pace; he followed it
and went home. He had to stand for a long time and rattle the front door
before it would open, then he ran humming up the stairs, and when he
had entered the room he threw himself down on the sofa with one of
Smollett's novels in his hand, and read and laughed till after midnight.
At last it grew too cold in the room, he leaped up and went stamping up
and down to drive away the chill. He stopped at the window. The sky in
one corner was so bright, that the snow-covered roofs faded into it. In
another corner several long-drawn clouds drifted by, and the