and that the weather
was clear and the moon shone, she determined to make her way on foot,
and to start at once, that she might be at home by next day.

The sun had set, and the evening bells, tolled in the towers of the
village churches, still sounded through the air; but no, it was not
the bells, but the cry of the frogs in the marshes. Now they were
silent, and all around was still; not a bird was heard, for they were
all gone to rest; and even the owl seemed to be at home; deep silence
reigned on the margin of the forest and by the sea shore: as Anne
Lisbeth walked on she could hear her own footsteps on the sand; there
was no sound of waves in the sea; everything out in the deep waters
had sunk to silence. All was quiet there, the living and the dead
creatures of the sea.

Anne Lisbeth walked on "thinking of nothing at all," as the saying is,
or rather, her thoughts wandered; but thoughts had not wandered away
from her, for they are never absent from us, they only slumber. But
those that have not yet stirred come forth at their time, and begin to
stir sometimes in the heart and sometimes in the head, and seem to
come upon us as if from above.

It is written that a good deed bears its fruit of blessing, and it is
also written that sin is death. Much has been written and much has
been said which one does not know or think of in general; and thus it
was with Anne Lisbeth. But it may happen that a light arises within
one, and that the forgotten things may approach.

All virtues and all vices lie in our hearts. They are in mine and in
thine; they lie there like little grains of seed; and then from
without comes a ray of sunshine or the touch of an evil hand, or maybe
you turn the corner and go to the right or to the left, and that may
be decisive; for the little seed-corn perhaps is stirred, and it
swells and shoots up, and it bursts, and pours its sap into all your
blood, and then your career has commenced. There are tormenting
thoughts, which one does not feel when one walks on with slumbering
senses, but they are there, fermenting in the heart. Anne Lisbeth
walked on thus with her senses half in slumber, but the thoughts were
fermenting within her. From one Shrove Tuesday to the next there comes
much that weighs upon the heart--the reckoning of a whole year: much
is forgotten, sins against Heaven in word and in thought, against our
neighbour, and against our own conscience. We don't think of these
things, and An