Her mother was the widow of a government official, had a small fortune besides her pension, and lived in her own little house opposite the hotel close by the market.  She was an unassuming woman, whose husband had influenced her in everything; he had been her pride, her light, and when she lost him, the object of her life was gone; she became absorbed in religion; but, as she was not dictatorial, she allowed her only child—­who much resembled her father—­to follow her own inclinations.  The mother associated with no one except an elder sister, who owned a large farm near the town, but Ella was allowed to bring in her companions from school, boating, skating, and snow-shoeing; this, however, made no difference, for there was an instinctive prudence in her choice of friends; her liveliness was tempered by her mother’s society and the quietness of the house.  So that she was active and expeditious without being noisy, frank enough, but with self-command and heedfulness.

All the more strange, then, was an incident which occurred when she was between fourteen and fifteen.  She had gone with a few friends to a concert which the Choral Society of the town, and one or two amateurs, were giving in aid of the Christmas charities.  At this concert, Aksel Aaroe sang Moehring’s “Sleep in Peace.”  As every one knows, a subdued chorus carries the song forward; a flood of moonlight seemed to envelop it, and through it swept Aksel Aaroe’s voice.  His voice was a clear, full, deep baritone, from which every one derived great pleasure.  He could have drawn it out, without break or flaw, from here to Vienna.  But within this voice Ella heard another, a simultaneous sound of weakness or pain, which she never doubted that everybody could hear.  There was an emotion in its depths, an affecting confidence, which went to her heart; it seemed to say, “Sorrow, sorrow is the portion of my life; I cannot help myself, I am lost.”  Before she herself knew it, she was weeping bitterly.  Anything more impressive than this voice she had never experienced.  With every note her agitation increased, and she lost all control over herself.

Aaroe was of moderate height, and slender, with a fair, silky beard, which hung down over his chest; his head was small, his eyes large and melancholy, with something in their depths which, like the voice, seemed to say “Sorrow, sorrow.”  This melancholy in the eyes she had noticed before, but had not fully understood it until now, when she heard his voice.  Her tears would flow.  But this would not do.  She glanced quickly round; no one else was crying.  She set her teeth, she pressed her arms against her sides, and her knees together till they ached and trembled.  Why in the world should this happen to her and to no one else?  She put her handkerchief to her lips, and forced herself to think of the beam of light which she had seen flash out from the lighthouse and disappear again, leaving the sea ghostly in the darkness.  But no! her thoughts would return; they would not be controlled.  Nothing could check the first sob, it would break out.  Before all the astonished eyes she rose, left her seat, slipped quietly from the room and got away.  No one came with her; no one dared to be seen near her.