In a little time they were such good friends, he and the boys, that he was down on all-fours playing horses with them, and did some quite new tricks which they thought extremely amusing; he then invited them to come for a drive the next day.  After a thaw, there had been an unusually heavy fall of snow; the town was white and the state of the roads perfect.

Before he left Ella offered to brush him; the carpet had not been as well swept as it should have been.  He took the clothes-brush from her and used it himself, but he had unfortunately lain on his back as well, so she was obliged to help him.  She brushed his coat lightly and deftly, but she was never satisfied, nor was he yet properly brushed in front.  He had to do it over again:  she stood and looked on.  When he had finished she took the brush into the kitchen.

“How funny that you should still wear your plait,” said he, as she went out.  She remained away for some time, and came in again by another door.  He had gone.  The children said that some one had come across for him.

The next morning the little boys had their drive.  They did not return until late in the afternoon.  They had been to Baadshaug, a watering-place with an hotel and an excellent restaurant, to which people were very fond of making excursions during the winter.  His sister’s youngest boy was with them, and while all three went back with the horses to “Andresen’s at the corner,” Aaroe remained standing in the passage.  Never had Ella seen him so cheerful.  His eyes sparkled, and he talked from the time he came to the time he left.  He talked about the Norwegian winter which he had never realised before; how could that have been?  For many years he had had in his repertoire a song in praise of winter, the old winter song which she knew as well:  “Summer sleeps in winter’s arms”—­yes, she knew it—­and he only now realised how true it was.  The influence of winter on people’s lives must be immense; why it was nearly half their lives; what health and beauty and what power of imagination it must give.  He began to describe what he had seen in the woods that day.  He did not use many words, but he gave a clear picture; he talked till he became quite excited, and looked at her the whole time with a rapturous expression.

It was but for a few moments.  He stood there muffled in furs:  but when he had gone it seemed to her that she had never truly seen him before.  He was an enthusiast then—­an enthusiast whose depths never revealed themselves.  Was his singing a message from this enthusiasm?  Was this why his voice carried everybody away with it into another region?  That melancholy father of his, when a craving for drink seized him, would shut himself up with his violin, and play and play till he became helpless.  Had the son, too, this dislike of companionship, this delight in his own enthusiasm?  God be praised, Aksel Aaroe was saved!  Was it not from the depths of his enthusiasm that he had looked at her?