from sheer haste.  He seemed to be stumbling over himself.  Sometimes this appeared absurd, but then he laughed and it was forgotten.  The school-master and the father sat watching to see if any of the old thoughtfulness was gone; but it did not seem so.  Oyvind remembered everything, and was even the one to remind the others that the boat should be unloaded.  He unpacked his clothes at once and hung them up, displayed his books, his watch, everything new, and all was well cared for, his mother said.  He was exceedingly pleased with his little room.  He would remain at home for the present, he said,—­help with the hay-making, and study.  Where he should go later he did not know; but it made not the least difference to him.  He had acquired a briskness and vigor of thought which it did one good to see, and an animation in the expression of his feelings which is so refreshing to a person who the whole year through strives to repress his own.  The school-master grew ten years younger.

“Now we have come so far with him,” said he, beaming with satisfaction as he rose to go.

When the mother returned from waiting on him, as usual, to the door-step, she called Oyvind into the bedroom.

“Some one will be waiting for you at nine o’clock,” whispered she.

“Where?”

“On the cliff.”

Oyvind glanced at the clock; it was nearly nine.  He could not wait in the house, but went out, clambered up the side of the cliff, paused on the top, and looked around.  The house lay directly below; the bushes on the roof had grown large, all the young trees round about him had also grown, and he recognized every one of them.  His eyes wandered down the road, which ran along the cliff, and was bordered by the forest on the other side.  The road lay there, gray and solemn, but the forest was enlivened with varied foliage; the trees were tall and well grown.  In the little bay lay a boat with unfurled sail; it was laden with planks and awaiting a breeze.  Oyvind gazed across the water which had borne him away and home again.  There it stretched before him, calm and smooth; some sea-birds flew over it, but made no noise, for it was late.  His father came walking up from the mill, paused on the door-step, took a survey of all about him, as his son had done, then went down to the water to take the boat in for the night.  The mother appeared at the side of the house, for she had been in the kitchen.  She raised her eyes toward the cliff as she crossed the farm-yard with something for the hens, looked up again and began to hum.  Oyvind sat down to wait.  The underbrush was so dense that he could not see very far into the forest, but he listened to the slightest sound.  For a long time he heard nothing but the birds that flew up and cheated him,—­after a while a squirrel that was leaping from tree to tree.  But at length there was a rustling farther off; it ceased a moment, and then began again.  He rises, his heart throbs, the blood rushes to his head; then something breaks through the brushes close by him; but it is a large, shaggy dog, which, on seeing him, pauses on three legs without stirring.  It is the dog from the Upper Heidegards, and close behind him another rustling is heard.  The dog turns his head and wags his tail; now Marit appears.