expected anything more decisive, and, as he had not been flatly refused, came frequently to the house and chatted with her father, while his eyes followed the vivacious Katrine as she tripped about her household duties.  But Hans was perpetually kept at a distance; the humming-bird would never alight upon the outstretched hand.  He had not the wit to see that their natures had nothing in common, although he did know that Katrine was utterly indifferent towards him, and after some months of hopeless pursuit he began to grow sullenly angry.  He was not long without an object on which to vent his rage.

One evening, as Katrine was returning homeward, she chanced to pass Carl’s cottage.  Carl was loitering under a tree hard by, listening to the quick footsteps to which his heart kept time.  It was the coming of Fate to him, for he had made up his mind to tell her of the love that was consuming him.  Two days before, with tears on his bashful face, he had confided all to his mother; and, at her suggestion, he had now provided a little present by way of introduction.  Katrine smiled sweetly as she approached, for, with a woman’s quick eye, she had read his glances long before.  His lips at first rebelled, but he struggled out a salutation, and, the ice once broken, he found himself strangely unembarrassed.  He breathed freely.  It seemed to him that their relations must have been fixed in some previous state of existence, so natural was it to be in familiar and almost affectionate communication with the woman whom before he had loved afar off, as a page might sigh for a queen.

“Stay, Katrine,” he said,—­“I had nearly forgotten.”  He ran hastily into the cottage, and soon returned with a covered basket.  “See, Katrine, these white rabbits!—­are they not pretty?”

“Oh, the little pets!” exclaimed Katrine.  “Are they yours?”

“No, Katrinchen,—­that is, they were mine; now they are yours.”

“Thank you, Carl.  I shall love them dearly.”

“For my sake?”

“For their own, Carl, certainly; for yours also,—­a little.”

“Good-bye, Bunny,” said he, patting the head of one of the rabbits.  “Love your mistress; and, mind, little whitey, don’t keep those long ears of yours for nothing; tell me if you ever hear anything about me.”

“Perhaps Carl had better come and hear for himself,—­don’t you think so, Bunny?” said Katrine, taking the basket.

The tone and manner said more than the words.  Carl’s pulses bounded; he seized her unresisting hand and covered it with kisses.  “So! this is the bashful young man!” thought Katrine.  “I shall not need to encourage him any more, surely.”

The night was coming on; Katrine remembered her father, and started towards the mill, whose broad arms could scarcely be seen through the twilight.  Carl accompanied her to the gate, and, after a furtive glance upward to the house-windows, bade her farewell, with a kiss, and turned homeward, feeling himself a man for the first time in his life.