forced to say went too far.  He became grave; his face, which had been so round and soft, grew thinner and sharper, his eye more stern; he rarely sang, and never played; the right time never seemed to come.  When the temptation to do so beset him, he felt as if some one whispered, “later, later!” and always “later!” The children slid, shouted, and laughed a while as of old, but when they failed to entice him out either through his own love of coasting, or by shouting to him with their faces pressed against the window-pane, they gradually fell away, found other playgrounds, and soon the hill was deserted.

But the school-master soon noticed that this was not the old Oyvind who read because it was his turn, and played because it was a necessity.  He often talked with him, coaxed and admonished him; but he did not succeed in finding his way to the boy’s heart so easily as in days of old.  He spoke also with the parents, the result of the conference being that he came down one Sunday evening, late in the winter, and said, after he had sat a while,—­

“Come now, Oyvind, let us go out; I want to have a talk with you.”

Oyvind put on his things and went with him.  They wended their way up toward the Heidegards; a brisk conversation was kept up, but about nothing in particular; when they drew near the gards the school-master turned aside in the direction of one that lay in the centre, and when they had advanced a little farther, shouting and merriment met them.

“What is going on here?” asked Oyvind.

“There is a dance here,” said the school-master; “shall we not go in?”

“No.”

“Will you not take part in a dance, boy?”

“No; not yet.”

“Not yet?  When, then?”

Oyvind did not answer.

“What do you mean by yet?”

As the youth did not answer, the school-master said,—­

“Come, now, no such nonsense.”

“No, I will not go.”

He was very decided and at the same time agitated.

“The idea of your own school-master standing here and begging you to go to a dance.”

There was a long pause.

“Is there any one in there whom you are afraid to see?”

“I am sure I cannot tell who may be in there.”

“But is there likely to be any one?”

Oyvind was silent.  Then the school-master walked straight up to him, and laying his hand on his shoulder, said,—­

“Are you afraid to see Marit?”

Oyvind looked down; his breathing became heavy and quick.

“Tell me, Oyvind, my boy?”

Oyvind made no reply.

“You are perhaps ashamed to confess it since you are not yet confirmed; but tell me, nevertheless, my dear Oyvind, and you shall not regret it.”

Oyvind raised his eyes but could not speak the word, and let his gaze wander away.

“You are not happy, either, of late.  Does she care more for any one else than for you?”