more to come. But Inger was
perhaps the strangest of all; so altered she was, and good and clever
again.

The great event of last year, when things had come to a head, was
hardly enough in itself, perhaps, to change her careless ways; there
was backsliding now and then, as when she found herself beginning to
talk of the "Institute" again, and the cathedral at Trondhjem. Oh,
innocent things enough; and she took off her ring, and let down that
bold skirt of hers some inches. She was grown thoughtful, there was
more quiet about the place, and visits were less frequent; the girls
and women from the village came but rarely now, for Inger no longer
cared to see them. No one can live in the depth of the wilds and have
time for such foolishness. Happiness and nonsense are two different
things.

In the wilds, each season has its wonders, but always, unchangingly,
there is that immense heavy sound of heaven and earth, the sense
of being surrounded on all sides, the darkness of the forest, the
kindliness of the trees. All is heavy and soft, no thought is
impossible there. North of Sellanraa there was a little tarn, a mere
puddle, no bigger than an aquarium. There lived some tiny baby fish
that never grew bigger, lived and died there and were no use at
all--_Herregud_! no use on earth. One evening Inger stood there
listening for the cowbells; all was dead about her, she heard nothing,
and then came a song from the tarn. A little, little song, hardly
there at all, almost lost. It was the tiny fishes' song.

* * * * *

They had this good fortune at Sellanraa, that every spring and autumn
they could see the grey geese sailing in fleets above that wilderness,
and hear their chatter up in the air--delirious talk it was. And as if
the world stood still for a moment, till the train of them had passed.
And the human souls beneath, did they not feel a weakness gliding
through them now? They went to their work again, but drawing breath
first; something had spoken to them, something from beyond.

Great marvels were about them at all times; in the winter were the
stars; in winter often, too, the northern lights, a firmament of
wings, a conflagration in the mansions of God. Now and then, not
often; not commonly, but now and then, they heard the thunder. It came
mostly in the autumn, and a dark and solemn thing it was for man and
beast; the animals grazing near home would bunch together and stand
waiting. B