say what they liked to him.  There was, therefore, no longer any pleasure in teasing him, and he was allowed to go in peace.  Among the workmen he was held in the greatest respect, not only because he had been in the shop for more than fifty years, but because he had had so much sorrow in his old age, and especially because of the misfortune of Marianne, who was the apple of his eye and the light of his life.  Martin, too, had brought him nothing but trouble:  he was quite hopeless, and the captain with whom he had returned on his last voyage had complained of him, and refused to take him out again; so now he stayed at home, drinking and getting into mischief.

The evening was dull and rainy, and a light already shone in the cottage as Begmand and Marianne approached.

“There they are, drinking again,” said she.

“I believe they are,” answered Begmand.

She went to the window, the small panes of which were covered with dew, but she knew one which had a crack in it, through which she could look.

“There they are, all four of them,” whispered Marianne.  “You’ll have to sit there, in front of the kitchen door, grandfather.”

“Yes, child; yes!” answered the old man.

When they entered the room, there was a pause in the conversation, which was carried on by four men who sat drinking round the table.  They had not long begun, and were only in the first stage of harmless elevation.

Martin greeted them in a cheerful tone, which he thought would hide his guilty conscience.  “Good evening, grandfather.  Good evening, Marianne.  Come, let me offer you a drop of beer.”

The thick smoke from the freshly lighted pipes still lay curling over the table, and round the little paraffin lamp without a globe.  On the table were tobacco, glasses, matches, and half-empty bottles, while on the bench stood several full ones awaiting their fate.

Tom Robson, who sat opposite the door, lifted the large mug which had been standing between him and his friend Martin, and, with his hand on his heart, began to sing—­

     “Oh, my darling! are you here,
     Marianne I love so dear?”

He had composed this couplet himself, in honour of Marianne, to the great annoyance of the hungry-looking journeyman printer who sat in the corner close by him.

Gustaf Oscar Carl Johan Torpander was a most remarkable Swede, inasmuch as he did not drink; but otherwise there was about him that exaggerated air of politeness, and that imitation of French manners, which seems generally to attach to the shady individuals of that nation.  He had risen when Marianne came into the room, and was now making a low bow, with his shoulders, and especially the left one, well over his ears.  His head was on one side, and he kept his eyes the whole time fixed on the young girl.  While Tom Robson was singing his poetry, the Swede shook his head with a sympathetic smile to Marianne, by which he meant to express his regret that they met in such bad company.