lf was looking up
in embarrassed surprise,--and Magnhild was now powerless to explain what
she had done. She hastened from the room. Profound silence reigned among
those left behind.

What was it? What had happened? It was _this_: in the forenoon Magnhild
had received a letter, as we know, and it had caused her to look with
new eyes on the life at the parsonage.

The tedium seemed uplifted, and behind it she beheld a kindness and an
innocence she had always overlooked. And she began to understand the
character of that home.

There was not a word in the priest's narratives, from beginning to end,
designed to call attention to the good he or any of his household had
done. The listener was left to find this out for himself. But the dog
had discovered it before Magnhild.

The dog returned thanks; had she ever done so? The thought had rushed
over her with such force that it caused her to feel an irresistible
impulse to express her gratitude. The universal astonishment caused by
her effort to do so made her for the first time realize how unaccustomed
her friends were to thanks, or indication of thanks from her, and she
became frightened. This was the reason why she had left the room.

She took the road leading up toward the church, perhaps because it had
just been mentioned. Her new views wholly absorbed her. Until now she
had seen only the ludicrous side of the life at the parsonage. The
members of the household had provoked, amused, or wearied her. But
hitherto she had not been aware that what had just been praised in
herself had been gained by her in this household whose influences had
spread themselves protectingly over her soul, just as the embroidery was
spread over the furniture in these rooms. Had all the weaknesses of the
house served Skarlie as a means to ensnare her, in this same house she
had acquired the strength wherewith to resist his power until the
present time.

If she had lived here without forming close relations with any one, the
fault lay not alone in the monotonous routine of the house: it was due
chiefly to herself, for even in the days of her life at the parsonage
she had wrapped herself up in dreams. It must have required all the
forbearance by which the family were characterized to bring her,
notwithstanding all this, to the point she had reached. In any other
family she would have been shown the door--dull, awkward, thankless as
she had been.

Yes, thankless! Whom had she ever thanked? Aye