fternoon the good
citizens of Ringeby walked out along the fjord, with their wives on
their arms. On these occasions most of the men wore frock coats and grey
felt hats; but Enebak, the tanner, being hunchbacked, preferred a tall
silk hat, as better suited to eke out his height.

On Saturday evenings, when twilight began to fall, the younger men would
meet at the corner outside Hammer's store, to discuss the events of the
week.

"Have you heard the latest news?" asked Lovli, the bank cashier, of his
friend the telegraphist, who came up.

"News? Do you tell me that there's ever any news in this accursed hole?"

"Merle Uthoug has come back from the mountains--engaged to be married."

"The devil she is! What does the old man say to that?"

"Oh, well, the old man will want an engineer if he's to get the new
timber-mills into his clutches."

"Is the man an engineer?"

"From Egypt. A Muhammadan, I daresay. Brown as a coffee-berry, and
rolling in money."

"Do you hear that, Froken Bull? Stop a minute, here's some news for
you."

The girl addressed turned aside and joined them. "Oh, the same piece
of news that's all over the town, I suppose. Well, I can tell you, he's
most tremendously nice."

"Sh!" whispered the telegraphist. Peer Holm was just coming out of the
Grand Hotel, dressed in a grey suit, and with a dark coat over his arm.
He was trying to get a newly-lit cigar to draw, as he walked with a
light elastic step past the group at the corner. A little farther up the
street he encountered Merle, and took her arm, and the two walked off
together, the young people at the corner watching them as they went.

"And when is it to be?" asked the telegraphist.

"He wanted to be married immediately, I believe," said Froken Bull, "but
I suppose they'll have to wait till the banns are called, like other
people."

Lorentz D. Uthoug's long, yellow-painted wooden house stood facing the
market square; the office and the big ironmonger's shop were on the
ground floor, and the family lived in the upper storeys. "That's
where he lives," people would say. Or "There he goes," as the broad,
grey-bearded man passed down the street. Was he such a big man, then?
He could hardly be called really rich, though he had a saw-mill and a
machine-shop and a flour-mill, and owned a country place some way out
of the town. But there was something of the chieftain, something of the
prophet, about him. He hated priests. He read deep philosoph