ough neither of them
had spoken a word on the subject. Only for a few more hours could they
remain together, for Christine was obliged to go back into the next
village, from whence the carriage was to start early next morning for
Herning. Her father and Ib escorted her as far as the village. It was
a fair moonlight evening, and when they reached their destination, and
Ib still held Christine's hand in his own, he could not make up his
mind to let her go. His eyes brightened, but still the words came
halting over his lips. Yet they came from the depths of his heart,
when he said:

"If you have not become too grand, Christine, and if you can make up
your mind to live with me in my mother's house as my wife, we must
become a wedded pair some day; but we can wait awhile yet."

"Yes, let us wait for a time, Ib," she replied; and he kissed her
lips. "I confide in you, Ib," said Christine; "and I think that I love
you--but I will sleep upon it."

And with that they parted. And on the way home Ib told the boatman
that he and Christine were as good as betrothed; and the boatman
declared he had always expected it would turn out so; and he went home
with Ib, and remained that night in the young man's house; but nothing
further was said of the betrothal.

A year passed by, in the course of which two letters were exchanged
between Ib and Christine. The signature was prefaced by the words,
"Faithful till death!" One day the boatman came into Ib, and brought
him a greeting from Christine. What he had further to say was brought
out in somewhat hesitating fashion, but it was to the effect that
Christine was almost more than prosperous, for she was a pretty girl,
courted and loved. The son of the host had been home on a visit; he
was employed in the office of some great institution in Copenhagen;
and he was very much pleased with Christine, and she had taken a fancy
to him: his parents were ready to give their consent, but Christine
was very anxious to retain Ib's good opinion; "and so she had thought
of refusing this great piece of good fortune," said the boatman.

At first Ib said not a word; but he became as white as the wall, and
slightly shook his head. Then he said slowly:

"Christine must not refuse this advantageous offer."

"Then do you write a few words to her," said the boatman.

And Ib sat down to write; but he could not manage it well: the words
would not come as he wished them; and first he altered, and then he
to