is house there were
no noises. Its inmates were quiet people.

The servant had opened the door to the left. Marit went into the great
room and examined all its pictures and ornaments. It was terribly
overcrowded, but all the things in themselves had been well chosen, many
of them by connoisseurs--that she saw at once. Some of the paintings
were, she felt certain, of great value. But what occupied her most was
the thought that not until now had she understood her own old father,
although she had lived with him all her life--alone with him; she had
lost her mother early. Of just such a quantity of rare and precious
things was he composed--in a somewhat confused fashion, which prevented
his being appreciated. She felt as if he were standing by her, smiling
his gentle, kindly smile, happy because he was understood.

And there he was, sure enough! Through the open door she saw him on the
stair. Younger, yes! But that was of no consequence; the eyes were only
the brighter and warmer for that. He came towards her with the same
walk, the same movement of the arms, the same slight stoop and
circumspect carriage. And when he looked at her, and spoke to her, and
bade her welcome in her father's gentle, subdued manner, she was
conscious in him of the profound respect for the individual human being
which, in her estimation, characterised her father beyond any one she
had ever known. Her father's hair was thinner, his face was deeply
lined, he had lost some of his teeth, his skin was shrivelled. The
thought filled her eyes with tears. She looked up into the younger eyes,
heard the fresher voice, felt the grasp of the warmer hand. She could
not help it--she threw her arms round Anders Krog's neck, laid her head
on his breast, and wept.

This settled the matter. There was no resisting this.

Soon afterwards they both got into the boat in which she had come. It
was Marit who rowed round the point. Both for his own sake, and because
of the bathers, who saw them, he had made some feeble attempts to take
the oars. But from the moment when she threw her arms round his neck, he
was powerless. He knew that he would henceforth do the will of this girl
with the glory of red hair. He sat gazing at her freckled face and
freckled hands, at her superb figure, her fresh lips. At the edge of
her collar he caught a glimpse of the purest of white skin; there was
something in the eyes which corresponded exactly with this. He had not
seen his fill wh