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? This forced itself upon her for the first time; she had been
occupied before by the change in him, but now it forced itself upon
her--hotly, with a thrill of fear and joy. A message of gladness
which still quivered with doubt. Was the decisive moment of her life
approaching? She felt that she coloured. She could not remain quiet;
she went to the window to look for him; then paced the room, trying to
discover what she might believe. All his words, his looks, his
gestures, since he had first come there, rose before her. But he had
been reserved, almost niggardly, with them. But that was just their
charm. His eyes had now interpreted them, and those eyes enveloped
her; she gave herself absolutely up to them.

Her servant brought in a letter; it was a Christmas card, in an
envelope without a direction, from Aksel Aaroe--one of the usual
Christmas cards, representing a number of young people in snow-shoes.
Below was printed:

Winter white,
Has roses red.

On the other side, in a clear round hand, "In the woods to-day I could
not but think of you. A. A.." That was all.

"That is like him, he says nothing more. When he passes a shop-window
in which he sees