ng, strange look which almost frightened her.

The years slipped by, and before Borghild knew it, she had grown into
womanhood. The down on Truls's cheeks became rougher, and he, too, began
to suspect that he was no longer a boy. When the sun was late and the
breeze murmured in the great, dark-crowned pines, they often met by
chance, at the well, on the strand, or on the saeter-green. And the
oftener they met the more they found to talk about; to be sure, it was
she who did the talking, and he looked at her with his large wondering
eyes and listened. She told him of the lamb which had tumbled down
over a steep precipice and still was unhurt, of the baby who pulled
the pastor's hair last Sunday during the baptismal ceremony, or of the
lumberman, Lars, who drank the kerosene his wife gave him for brandy,
and never knew the difference. But, when the milkmaids passed by, she
would suddenly forget what she had been saying, and then they sat gazing
at each other in silence. Once she told him of the lads who danced with
her at the party at Houg; and she thought she noticed a deeper color on
his face, and that he clinched both his fists and--thrust them into
his pockets. That set her thinking, and the more she thought, the more
curious she grew. He played the violin well; suppose she should ask him
to come and fiddle at the party her father was to give at the end of the
harvest. She resolved to do it, and he, not knowing what moved her,
gave his promise eagerly. It struck her, afterward, that she had done
a wicked thing, but, like most girls, she had not the heart to wrestle
with an uncomfortable thought; she shook it off and began to hum a
snatch of an old song.

"O'er the billows the fleet-footed storm-wind rode,
The billows blue are the merman's abode,
So strangely that harp was sounding."

The memory of old times came back to her, the memory of the morning long
years ago, when they sat together on the strand, and he said; "I think I
would rather be your bridegroom, Borghild." The memory was sweet but it
was bitter too; and the bitterness rose and filled her heart. She threw
her head back proudly, and laughed a strange, hollow laugh. "A bastard's
bride, ha, ha! A fine tale were that for the parish gossips." A yellow
butterfly lighted on her arm, and with a fierce frown on her face she
caught it between her fingers. Then she looked pityingly on the dead
wings, as they lay in her hand, and murmured betwe