I am nearly at my goal.

Sunday evening I lay in a watchman’s hut not far from ?vreb?, so as to be on the place early Monday morning. By nine o’clock every one would be up, then surely I must be lucky enough to meet the one I sought.

I had grown dreadfully nervous, and kept imagining ugly things. I had written a nice letter to Falkenberg, using no sharp words, but the Captain might after all have been offended² at my fixing the date like that; giving him so and so much time. . . . If only I had never written at all!

Coming up towards the house I stoop³ more and more, and make myself small, though indeed I had done no wrong. I turn off from the road up, and go round so as to reach the outbuildings first — and there I come upon Falkenberg. He is washing down the carriage. We gave each other greeting, and were the same good comrades⁴ as before.

Was he going out with the carriage?

No, just come back the night before. Been to the railway station.

Who had gone away, then?

Fruen.

Fruen?

Fruen, yes.

Pause.

Really? And where was Fruen gone to?

Gone to stay in town for a bit.

Pause.

“Stranger man’s been here writing in the papers about that machine of yours,” says Falkenberg.

“Is the Captain gone away too?”

“No, Captain’s at home. You should have seen his face when your letter came.”

I got Falkenberg to come up to the old loft⁵. I had still two bottles of wine in my sack⁶, and I took them out and we started on them together; eh, those bottles that I had carried backward and forward, mile after mile, and had to be so careful with, they served me well just now. Save for them Falkenberg would never have said so much.

“What was that about the Captain and my letter? Did he see it?”

“Well, it began like this,” said Falkenberg. “Fruen was in the kitchen when I came in with the post. ‘What letter’s that with all those stamps on?’ she says. I opened it, and said it was from you, to say you were coming on the 11th.”

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