would
sit or recline on the sofa, in languid revery.

As they were thus assembled together one day, and Magda stood at the
window, the little one said,--

"There goes a man into your house, Magnhild: he is lame."

Magnhild sprang up, very red.

"What is it?" asked Fru Bang, who was lying on the sofa with a headache,
and had been talking in a whisper with Tande.

"Oh! it is"--Magnhild was searching for her hat; she found it and
withdrew. From the open window she heard the child say: "A lame, ugly
man, who"--

Skarlie was working this year on the sea-coast. A foreign ship had been
wrecked there Skarlie and some men in Bergen had bought it; for they
could repair it at a much less outlay than had originally been
estimated. They had made an uncommonly good bargain. Skarlie supervised
the carpentering, painting, and leather work of refitting the vessel. He
had come home now after a fresh supply of provisions for the workmen.

His surprise on entering his house was not small. Everything in order!
And the room filled with a pleasant perfume. Magnhild came--it was a
lady who stood before him. Her whole countenance was changed. It had
opened out like a flower, and the soft, fair hair floating about neck
and drooping shoulders threw a lustre over head and form. She paused on
the threshold, her hand on the door-knob. Skarlie had seated himself in
the broad chair in the corner, and was wiping the perspiration from his
bald head. As soon as his first astonishment was over, he said:
"Good-day!"

No reply. But Magnhild came in now, and closed the door after her.

"How fine it looks here," said he. "Is it your lodger"--

He puckered up his lips, his eyes grew small. Magnhild looked at him
coldly. He continued more good-naturedly,--

"Did he make your new dress, too?"

Now she laughed.

"How are you getting on?" she asked, presently.

"I am nearly through."

He had acquired the comfortable air of a man who is conscious of doing
well in the world.

"It is warm here," said he; the sun had just burst forth after a long
rain, and was scorching, as it can be only in September. He stretched
out his legs, as far as the crooked one permitted, and lay back, letting
his large hands hang down over the arms of the chair, exact pictures of
the web-feet of some sea-monster.

"Why are you staring at me?" asked he, with his most comical grimace.
Magnhild turned with a searching glance toward the window.

The room had become fille