ELSIE: A Christmas Story

FROM THE NORWEGIAN OF
ALEXANDER L. KJELLAND

BY
MILES MENANDER DAWSON

CHICAGO
CHARLES H KERR & COMPANY
1894

I.

MADAM SPECKBOM owned a house which was called “Noah’s Ark.” Down in the bright comfortable rooms on the side toward the sun, she lived herself; above lived Miss Falbe with her brother; and up in the garret—there were only two stories—in attic rooms, under the stairs and back of the chimney-pots lived a number of unclean animals which went under the common title, “the gang.”

Madam Speckbom was not only a wise woman; she was literally a klog-kone or quack as well; for she was a doctor or, as the regular doctor called her, a quack.

But that did not trouble Madam greatly; she had her good, sure practice, and her skill brought her money and professional triumphs as well.

That part of the community which called Madam Speckbom was, of course, not the finest, but beyond comparison the most numerous. It might be that she had five or six patients lying under treatment in little nooks and closets of which there was an incredible number in the old house; and especially of an evening after working-hours, her time was all taken up with making her calls or receiving patients of all kinds.

And then when some one came among them, who had been under the treatment of the regular practitioner—district-physician Bentzen—then there was a sparkle in Madam Speckbom’s little brown eyes, and she tossed the three gray curls which hung from a comb over each ear, while she said: “When you come from so learned a gentleman, surely you can’t be helped by a toothless old woman.”

Then there was a course of maneuvering necessary before she sympathized with the patient; but once she had taken him under treatment, she showed a very especial concern for this one whom the regular doctor “had given up.”

And among the town’s people—even up among the higher classes—there were spread numberless accounts of Madam’s wonderful cures; and one had only to mention her name before Dr. Bentzen, and the old gentleman would jump up, swear and curse—grow fiery red about the head, seize his hat and make off.

The fact was, that when Dr. Bentzen came to common people, he never condescended to give any explanation—he despised their ignorance too deeply for that. He only said:

“You are to do this or that, and there is the medicine.”

But now, when the medicine did not help at once—and that can happen with the best of medicine—then the people grew tired of the high-priced druggist, and the harsh doctor who only turned on the floor, gave an order, and went away.

And then Madam Speckbom would come.

She would sit down and explain methodically what it was that ailed the patient—perhaps it might be some kind of fever, for example, “earth-fever,” or “water-fever,” or say, “body-fever,” or “a drop of blood which had stuck fast,” or some such thing.

You see, that was something one could understand; and when they got medicine from the Madam, it was something that both smelled and tasted strong, so they could see that it was no “stuff and nonsense.”

And if it did not do good every time, everybody understood one thing; that even Madam Speckbom did not have dominion over life and death; yet what could be done, was done, and that was always better than to be torn to pieces by the doctor’s suspicious learning, as so many had been. And besides, Madam was much—very much cheaper.

To aid her in her practice, she had a young girl, called Loppen. Madam had brought her home with her, after she had cured her of a bad disease of the eyes.

Loppen had no parents; her name was Elsie.

A surname I do not think she ever had. For she was in fact a daughter of one of the town’s finest gentlemen—whose name could not stand on the church records in that capacity.

In a Foundling’s Home, Loppen grew up after her mother—a servant girl—was dead. And there it was, too, that she had received her nickname [which means “a flea”].

It came from a dark brown cloak which she had received at a Christmas distribution. It was at first so long and big that when the child hopped about in it, she looked so much like a flea that some one was at last witty enough to give her the name.

And this cloak was of such indestructible material that it followed her through her childhood—first as a cloak, then as a jacket, next as a belt, and at last as a hat with a rose-red band.

She was yet in this hat, with a rose-red band, when she took the disease of the eyes. Bentzen, as the physician of the institution, trifled with her a good half year until she lay like a little beast in a dark corner, and screamed whenever they turned her to the light.

But then Miss Falbe secretly placed her under Madam Speckbom’s treatment, and, be it as it may, the child recovered.

Dr. Bentzen was exultant; at last it was his fortune to win the battle with that stiffnecked inflammation.

Then Madam Speckbom could be still no longer, and there was a great scandal. Miss Falbe had to step out of the institution’s directorate where she had perhaps been secretly disliked already; Dr. Bentzen was in a rage, and little Elsie, herself, had to suffer on account of her new bright eyes.

But Madam Speckbom took the child home with her then—partly because she was well-to-do and good-hearted, partly because Elsie’s bright eyes were a testimony for her of her skill as an oculist; and finally, she used the child to tease Dr. Bentzen with.

He could never go by the Ark—and his road lay by it many times a day—but Madam Speckbom would seize the child, set her up in the window, and thump her on the neck, so she would bow to the doctor. And when she could get him to look in with his malicious grin, Madam Speckbom would shake her six curls in triumph and give Loppen a piece of candy.

As she grew up, Elsie became a fine, slender girl—blonde and a little pale, but still healthy.

She was sprightly and nimble, and had a way of her own of keeping herself and everything about her neat and orderly. But when Madam Speckbom began to try to have her wash, scour, sew, and “be of use,” Loppen showed herself utterly incapable. She “felt bad” here and there, and all Madam’s good counsel and bitter scoldings were without result.

Madam Speckbom was, as I have said, a wise woman too. She very well understood that disease which came exactly on scrubbing days, and always disappeared, as if by magic Sunday morning. But when she saw that the ailment in this case came up in an incurable form, she confined herself to shaking her curls and mumbling something about “that accursed, aristocratic blood.”

But the sick were fond of Loppen, although indeed she was not a faithful or sacrificing nurse. But if she only went through the room or thrust her head in at the door, it was as if their pains and weariness were lightened; and Madam Speckbom fully appreciated what a share of her cures she owed to Loppen’s merry laughter.

For it was laughter unlike all other laughter that was ever heard in Noah’s Ark. It could steal up the stairs and down into the cellar, through the keyhole to the sick, and right into men’s hearts, so that some became very tender and others had to laugh with her. But every one of them would give whatever you will, to hear Loppen laugh.

And she laughed free at everything and nothing. She had red lips and white sound teeth; but her eyes shone over all—they were Madam Speckbom’s pride, for the learned doctor had quite “given them up.”

Madam Speckbom’s Ark was not so well built as Noah’s. It was—to speak plainly—an old tumble-down of a house, which yet stood, because it was built together with a newer and stronger one. But, since like all old folks, it could not bear to accept the support of youth, it continually threw itself more to one side, to protest against the union; and so it came to hang menacingly out over the steep bank, which led down on the east to the harbor and wharves.

It was a corner-building, painted white toward the street, and red on the rear side. All sorts of curves, crooked lines, wry doors, outbuildings and additions seemed to have sent representatives to this Ark; and, as it stood there, in all its impossibility, it was just as great a puzzle for modern architecture as Noah’s.

But it must have been strong, notwithstanding; or else “the gang” would certainly have tumbled down into the cellar long ago—such a life as they often led there. It was a a great nuisance to the Falbes, especially at night, when there was trouble up in “the gang.” In the daytime, sister and brother both were out. She had a girl’s school in the finer part of town and he was, at any rate, not at the Ark.

They belonged to an old, official family; but there had been something wrong about their father. Rumor said that he had hung or shot himself, on account of an embezzlement; but it was several years ago, and in quite another part of the country; so no one knew anything certain about it.

Sure it is that the children became half-foreign in the town and lived alone and frugally. Miss Falbe’s lady-school was in high repute; although she herself was by no means a favorite. She was too imperious and odd for that.

Miss Falbe may have been thirty-five years old; her brother was two or three years younger. She was a blonde, with a big, humped nose and earnest eyes. But at certain times she could smile so friendly that people were quite astonished when they saw it the first time.

Christian Falbe resembled his sister; but he was a handsome man. The big, family nose became him better.

Already, by his thirtieth year, a rosy cloud had gathered about that same nose; for Christian Falbe drank a great deal.

If he had lived in a large city, he would probably have become a quite moderate saloon visitor. But in a little town, where one cannot visit cafes, one steals in at the back door and then learns to drink.

Naturally, all the town knew this about Falbe; but his sister imagined that she kept it hidden from everybody. For that was her constant thought and endless struggle from morning to evening, and oftentimes from evening to morning. She had given up reforming him; she was tired of all his good promises and luckless trials. Now it only remained to support him in some way and so to hide it. They knew their father’s fate; but with her, the family pride had collected itself into energy; with him, on the contrary, in futile discontent and bitterness.

He was bright and of good parts; when he had his better periods, he gave private instructions in languages. But then drink would overcome him again, and he would disappear for whole weeks at a time and turn back to the Ark in the most miserable condition.

The sister earned enough for them both. She put money in his purse when he was asleep; she smiled on him when he came home drunk in the evening; she prepared food—the best food she could get, for him. He ate and drank and never thanked her.

But that was Miss Falbe’s only weakness; she said so to herself at times, when she was alone. Else was she firm, plucky, confident and tirelessly industrious.

In the Ark they stood more in awe of her than of Madam Speckbom herself; and even the boldest of “the gang” walked on tip-toe when they passed Miss Falbe’s landing.

It was a hard, old, creaking stairway, which took its own good time with many stops; but toward the top, it became as steep as a ladder. It was one of Loppen’s early pastimes to glide down the bannisters, from the top to the bottom, with a little hop at every landing—that is, when Miss Falbe was at her school.

That lady was always friendly to Loppen, in her somewhat austere way. In the evening, when Madam Speckbom was engaged with her practice, Elsie would sit up in the Falbes’ room and read or look at pictures, while the lady corrected compositions. If Christian came home, his sister would cast a hasty look upon him and, according to the result, Elsie was either sent down or permitted to stay.

Then Christian could set to romping or playing chess with her; and Miss Falbe would look up from her compositions, with her handsome smile, when they laughed heartily at one another.

However, Loppen enjoyed herself much more up in the attic, with “the gang.” There was a peculiar, mysterious dusk spread over all the wonderful corners and cramped recesses up there. Besides, one was never sure who lived there, for the company changed constantly. Sometimes there were only two or three of the steady tenants; then it would swarm with people in every corner—all men, who slept, played cards, drank, or put their heads together and whispered.

The chief person of the garrets was Puppelena, a large, robust woman, with dark hair, small eyes and an uncommonly thick underlip. She leased all the rooms up there, immediately from Madam Speckbom, which was very convenient for the Madam. But otherwise the relations between the two ladies were not without disturbances. For “the gang” was a great annoyance to the house with music, noise, and the like; besides it placed the Ark in bad repute throughout the whole town.

But, however that might be, Puppelena did not let herself be dislodged. Many times Madam had given her notice, and twice Puppelena went too. But after a short time a compromise was effected and she returned to the Ark—just like the dove with the olive-leaf—as old Schirrmeister expressed himself.

Old Schirrmeister was a besotted German musician who had come there with a traveling orchestra many years before. In the beginning he had done well. He played very well on the violin and was besides able to perform respectably, at least, on almost all possible instruments.

So he obtained pupils in the best houses. But little by little he went out of style; drink got the upper hand; and at last he threw his rags together, with his former servant girl, Lena, whom he was accustomed to call “My Puppe” (or nymph). From that she gained the popular nickname, “Puppelena.”

Now the old artist was reduced to living from copying music and from Puppelena’s generosity. Under the sloping roof stood his old pianoforte, which served as a table for note-copying, and for eating and drinking; and farthest in by the wall stood the violin case, hidden, dusty, and forgotten.

When Elsie was alone with old Schirrmeister, she could get him to play; but that was not often. For the old musician was so far gone, that it pained him to hear music. So he had to be a little drunk; but then he could play, so it sighed and sobbed in the old piano and Loppen sat breathless on the edge of the bed and sobbed too.

As long as he had something to drink, he would keep on playing while he partly sang, partly told her what it was that he was playing. And in this way he came to paint his youth full of hope and music and enthusiasm; how he had played “Commers mitt den Gottinger studenten,” and how the great Spohr had once laid his hand upon his head and said: “He will go high in it.”

And old Schirrmeister would toss off his light yellow wig, that she might see the head on which the great master’s hand had rested.

“Yes—yes, he has gone high in it, the old hog!” he would say to himself, and look about in his gabled-room, take a swallow and play on.

And Loppen heard and saw all sorts of wonderful things. Beaming pictures spread out before her; elegant ladies and gentlemen, lights, music, roses, carriages, and glossy horses, brides in white satin—and roses again, whose fragrance she could fairly smell.

One summer evening, the dormer-window stood open and the light of the sun, which was setting, fell in crimson over the little musician who sat and played for Elsie with his bottle by his side.

His eyes were moist from drink and emotion, while tenderly and in the cautious way of old age, he performed an adagio from Mozart’s Sonatas. That was an especial favor for Elsie; for usually he was not to be induced to play the old classics, when they asked it of him.

But he had noticed that Elsie could follow him. And when he saw how he could sway her to his music, so that the bright eyes now stood full of tears, now opened as if before a revelation, then the old wreck sighed: “She will go high in it, too.”

Out in the garret a wonderful clatter was heard, and some one took hold of the door.

“Tra-tra-tra! the drummer is there!” shouted Schirrmeister, and struck up a gay march.

The door opened and in came a drum, strapped to a long, spare fellow in a blue uniform coat with long skirts. Next came a big, fat man with a flute under his arm.

One needed only to see his underlip to know at once that he was Puppelena’s brother. But whether the flute was to blame or it lay in his temperament, his lip was much thicker, and hung twice as far down.

This person had in his day been steward (Okonomen) in the prison but had been discharged. And now he lived at his sister’s “pension” as he said. Among “the gang” he went under the sobriquet, Olkonomen (from Ol or ale); and so far as one could discover, he did not do a single, blessed thing but drink, play the flute, and run errands for his sister.

There was something mysterious, by the way, about these errands, which were always undertaken after dark. Olkonomen’s long, double-breasted coat was singularly stuffed when he went out; but when, comparatively thin, he returned, his sister threw herself upon him, like a hawk, before any one else got a hand on him; for it was the common opinion in “the gang” that after such expeditions, he brought home money.

Loppen knew both Olkonomen and Jorgen Tambur well; she rose at once and made room for them as well as she could.

Jorgen Tambur had brought with him two bottles of ale, and a quart of brandy for the concert. Olkonomen winked mysteriously and said he had sent a message; something he always said. Nobody knew what kind of a message it was or where it was sent; but they all knew perfectly well that it would never be answered.

Meanwhile, old Schirrmeister cast a deprecating look at the drinkables and announced that he would not play that day.

“Orders from Puppelena,” said Jorgen Tambur and at that moment she herself thrust her head in at the door and said in an uncommonly kind tone: “Well? You are not playing? Perhaps it might be a little something to drink?”

“No—no—does the blessed sun shine to-day?” shouted old Schirrmeister and Olkonomen nodded and wiped the keys of his instrument with a red handkerchief, while Jorgen Tambur thoughtfully put the brandy into his breast pocket, and the two bottles of ale deep down in the long skirts of his coat; when Puppelena was going to treat, he could save his for another time.

The concert opened with a Rondo Grazioso by Fürstenau. Olkonomen had once really been able to play Fürstenau; but with the years, a veil of spit, so to speak, had laid itself over his playing, and his fingers were so thick and stiff that he held them out straight when he played.

Jorgen Tambur performed his part with taste and discretion, when with subdued ruffs he covered up where Olkonomen’s trills and runs spent themselves in splutter and wind. But old Schirrmeister accompanied from his own head.

He must have been pretty far gone to take part in these trios; and at times, in his pain and shame, he played so wild an accompaniment, that surely poor Fürstenau would hardly have recognized his peaceful Rondo Grazioso.

When they were well under way, Puppelena peeped in at the door, and a moment after, two young fellows came in; they looked like day laborers or the like. One was one-eyed, and Loppen knew that he was a tinker; on the contrary, the other was a strange fellow who at once set to work making court to her. Elsie preferred to sit in peace and listen to the music which she found exquisite; but aside from that, she was so used to having the men up there pinch her and be familiar, that she did not trouble herself farther about it.

Puppelena herself came in now, as well; and locked the door after her; and at the same time—almost as if he came out of her skirts—one person more appeared; so it was crowded enough in the little room.

He was a small, sallow man. Loppen had seen him there once a short time before, and she had an impression that he was an important personage.

As he sat down on a bench close by the hostess, his little sea-blue eyes ran about into every corner, over all the people, up to the dormer-window, and ended over by the door where the bolt was caught and the key turned.

His face was thin and pale as if he had lived long in the dark; his hair was light red, almost white, and clipped close, with great ridges about the temples. He had whiter hands than the others; but they were seldom to be seen, for he had a habit of sitting on them.

Loppen had to look across at him every minute; he had such a wonderful face; but the most wonderful of all was, that he had a new one every time she looked over at him. And when he noted her surprise, he set to making grimaces, and at last made so hideous a face that Loppen gave a little scream and started up.

But then he laughed silently, without a sound, and showed his yellow teeth. Then a whispered conversation began between him and Puppelena; different things which Loppen could not see went from hand to hand under the table. The tinker and the other young fellow were drawn into this private conversation. But every time the music made a halt, Puppelena shouted to them encouragingly and the artists recovered themselves in a hurry and played on.

But in the midst of an excellent allegro spirituoso, when Olkonomen’s flute wandered off in trills and runs, so it was a pleasure to listen, there was a knock at the door.

The man of the many faces vanished in a trice under Puppelena’s chair; and Elsie saw with astonishment that her cavalier and the tinker had all at once turned to playing cards—with cards which must have fallen down from the roof. Yes, they were already in a hot dispute about a jack of clubs.

“But Jorgen—how you drum!” cried Schirrmeister, offended; for, after drinking, Jorgen Tambur became more fiery; he remembered the proud time when he drummed for the people’s assembly or beat the alarm in the streets when there was a fire.

“Hush!” commanded Puppelena when there was a second knock. The trio became silent.

“Who knocks?” asks the hostess in an insolent tone.

A voice answered from without.

“Open it,” said Puppelena, reassured. “It is only Miss Falbe.”

The tinker drew the bolt, turned the key and opened the door.

Miss Falbe remained standing on the threshold and exchanged a look with Puppelena, which was not very friendly, to say the least. Then she said quietly, and without heeding the others: “Come, Elsie; you must not stay here.”

Elsie arose, shame-faced, and went with her. There was no one in “the gang” who dared grumble. When they came to Miss Falbe’s door she took Loppen about the waist and said:

“Dear Elsie, promise me that you will never go up there again. You are now a grown girl; you must understand that it will not do for you to be with bad men.”

Elsie grew red as blood and promised, with tears, that she would never go up to “the gang” again. And when she was by herself, down in her own little bed-room, she repeated her promise as she undressed herself.

Miss Falbe was right; they were indeed bad men—those up in the attic. It was better to attend Madam Speckbom’s patients, or sit with Miss Falbe and read of an evening.

But before she went to bed she had to look after her roses in the window, for Elsie loved roses.

She took care of all Madam Speckbom’s flowers, and Madam had flowers in all her windows. But Elsie took the best care of the roses; and when they were about to bloom, she got permission to keep them in her own room, for the morning sun shone there.

There were three or four half blossomed out, and she inhaled the delicate, fresh fragrance while she leaned over them. And with that fragrance from her roses, came visions of all sorts of wonderful things; elegant ladies and gentlemen, lights, music, carriages and glossy horses, and music again, which she heard trembling far in the distance.

And when she crept into bed she did not think of Madam Speckbom’s patients or of Miss Falbe’s quiet room; but she slept in the midst of roses and music and dreams of white satin with swan’s-down about the shoulders. She was seventeen years old.

Life in the Ark went its broken way with a kind of regularity. Madam Speckbom waged her silent war with Dr. Bentzen; Miss Falbe toiled on with her school and with her brother; and “the gang” led their mysterious life above.

For a long time Elsie kept from going to the attic until one day she heard old Schirrmeister playing. She had such a longing to see if he was alone; there could be no harm in that.

He was not alone; but when she was once there, she staid there anyhow. And little by little, all became as before; except that now she did everything to keep her visits a secret from Miss Falbe.

Such was Madam Speckbom’s Ark, and in all that, Elsie grew up.

II.

“YES, but we must bear in mind, ladies and gentlemen, that it not only concerns us here to come to the help of oppressed humanity in the aggregate; but that we have set ourselves at the task of working within distinct boundaries. Therefore, while with all my heart I can concur in the views advanced by Consul With, at the same time, I must insist that we should not go beyond our proper limits. It is possible enough that need—and what now especially interests us, moral depravity among young girls—that it may be just as great—yes, perhaps much greater in St. Paul’s parish than here in St. Peter’s. But I believe, indeed, that if our labors are really to bring forth visible fruits for blessing, we should confine ourselves to the bounds indicated by God himself, and that is—I think—our own parish.”

“Oh, how true that is that the chaplain says;” said Mrs. Bentzen joyfully. “It is just as it was before I took my own poor. All that I gave, that we poured forth, it disappeared without doing any good, and there were only more and more, who came and begged. But now I only let the maid say: ‘We have our own to take care of.’ So one is sure that no unworthy person gets it, and so one can see the invisible fruits—no, blessed fruits. How was it the chaplain expressed it; it was at once so true and so graceful?”

“Visible fruits for blessing,” said the chaplain with a modest blush.

“Yes—that was it,” said the lady, and repeated the words half aloud, so as to remember them.

“I, for my part, do not even think that it is right to give and help indiscriminately,” said the young wife of the new chief of police, and modestly cast down her handsome eyes.

The chaplain bowed in acknowledgment to the lady, and remarked that it was also said in the Scriptures, that it is not right to take bread from children and cast it before small dogs. Besides, he added some comments, in which he again insisted that the institution for fallen women, which they were met there to organize, ought to confine its labors strictly within the limits of St. Peter’s parish.

Merchant With, had, in fact, not the least objection to that. He had spoken some common-place words on the spur of the moment, in order to say something. Now he had to explain that it had been his intention as it were in large outlines—hem—to give a suggestion of what according to his—hem—opinion should be done concerning this—hem—this social evil.

The chaplain complimented him on the valuable contribution the Consul had made to the illumination of the matter. After which the discussion on that point was considered at an end, and the name proposed by the chaplain was adopted: The Institution for Fallen Women in St. Peter’s Parish.

Consul With stroked his black moustache, and stole an opportunity to look at his watch. It was his wife who had compelled him to take part in this meeting, at which no men except himself and the chaplain were to be found. Aside from them, it was a selection of the finest ladies of the town, who had come together on this occasion at the solicitation of the chaplain. Consul With was included, because they desired one of the town’s wealthiest and best names among the founders.

Malicious men might perhaps think that Consul With looked a little strange in an organization of just that character; for in reality, he did not have the best reputation.

Some found an excuse for him, in the circumstance that Consul With had done almost the same as Kierkegaard has it that Luther did, namely, married an ironing-board. For Mrs. With was certainly one of the flattest one’s eyes were like to meet.

Others thought she deserved nothing better, for being so foolish as to imagine that the handsome Otto With had chosen her for anything but old sailor Randulf’s money.

But the Consul himself was so easy and smooth, so companionable and affable that the reports slid off from him. Those who knew him intimately, laughed at him; he was now quite beyond reformation; but the most thought that he was not so bad as was told.

Meanwhile matters were progressing; the preliminary labors were discussed and divided among those who were present. That, in its turn, was not without its difficulties, and the chaplain had to be careful to the last degree, to maneuver among all these ladies without offending somebody.

He noticed, especially, that there were several of the ladies who aspired to the post of secretary of the Institution. And that was partly the chaplain’s own fault. For he had, half in sport, described it as interesting and responsible in this way to keep a big, thick register with red and blue headings.

The police-chief’s wife seemed to have been especially smitten by this thick register; and every time the secretaryship came under discussion, she let her handsome eyes rest upon the chaplain in a shy appeal.

But there were others who might be worthier of that distinction. First, there was Mrs. With, in whose elegant parlors the meeting was taking place, and from whom they expected the heaviest contribution. But the chaplain had shrewdly devised a compromise with her by making her husband, Consul With, chairman of the Institution.

Then there was the wealthy Mrs. Fanny Garman, from Sandsgaard? To be sure, she looked as if she was only bored and did not trouble herself about anything; but it might be that she would take a slight illy; one can never be sure about it.

And then it was a great problem, too, whether properly he ought not tender his pastor’s wife this secretaryship. Pastor Martens had, in his wife’s behalf, accepted the invitation to take part in the organization. But he had added, to be sure, that, although his Lena was interested with heart and soul in the matter, yet she was so weakly that, like a quiet housewife, she remained entirely within the sheltered enclosure of her home. Neither was she present at the meeting.

The chaplain began to grow uneasy; he was comparatively strange in the parish; and the founding of this Institution for Fallen Women in St. Peter’s parish was really to be his great debut. Now he felt the difficulties already; this secretaryship—what was he to do with it? But while he was sitting and writhing in all these considerations, there was a knock at the door, and Miss Falbe walked in.

After a hasty salutation to Mrs. With, she began curtly and emphatically, turning to the assembled company:

“I have been informed that you are organizing a society for rescuing young girls; and as I thought there might be a rush for places, I have made haste to present a young girl who very badly needs rescue from her environment. You certainly know her too, Mrs. Bentzen; it is little Elsie, at Madam Speckbom’s.”

Mrs. Bentzen tossed her head and brushed a thread off of her dress—of course she knew her; everybody knew the little out-cast; but she must plainly understand—

Several of the other ladies also muttered and whispered to each other; but Consul With was so unguarded as to call out:

“Ah! you mean Loppen, Miss Falbe—a handsome—hem, hem!”

It did no good to cough; the ironing-board sent him a look and Mrs. Garman laughed openly behind her large fan. But Miss Falbe continued her recommendation, describing all the temptations of life at the Ark.

“That Miss Falbe can bear to live at such a house,” said the ironing-board aside.

Miss Falbe forced herself to be silent. But when no one seemed disposed to make any response, the little wife of the chief of police said:

“Pardon, I am yet so strange here; but does the young girl you speak of, live within the bounds of St. Peter’s parish?”

That keen-witted question made so good an impression on the chaplain, that he decided she should have the secretaryship. But it was soon brought to light that the Ark really was inside the limits of St. Peter’s parish; and then again ensued a short, painful pause. For every one was anxious to oppose Miss Falbe, but no one saw what excuse they were to give.

Then the chaplain said: “Pardon, Miss Falbe; but as you know the object of this institution, you also understand what class of people in society we are starting out to rescue. Allow me, therefore, one question: Is the girl proposed by you, a fallen woman?”

“That I do not know,” answered Miss Falbe hurriedly, and colored; but just after, she continued composedly: “She is no more than seventeen years old and just on that account I hoped she could be saved. For, from the surroundings in which she has grown up, it seems to me almost a necessity that she must fall and go down, as we so often see girls in her position do.”

“Yes, Miss, to that I must answer, that in the first place I do not share these modern views about necessity. I, for my part, believe—and I am—even if the new wisdom of our times will laugh at me—I am happy to believe that right there, where human eyes see the certain, the necessary way to destruction, that right there is the place for God’s loving providence. And as to the matter itself,” added the chaplain, and looked about among the company, “I must now repeat what I have already had the honor to point out in this connection—that, just as have we found it our duty to confine our labors to a certain parish, so we must also maintain that our work of rescue comprehend a distinct class of our fellow men. That, too, we have intended to indicate in the name we have chosen: The Institution for Fallen Women—so only for the unfortunates whom we designate fallen women—of St. Peter’s Parish.”

This address was received with subdued, but warm approval, by all the ladies around the table; and several might be heard—“certainly,” “that is clear,” “it must be that way of course.”

For a moment it looked as it Miss Falbe would return a sharp answer; she was often that unaccountable; but she stopped and let it pass with a dry apology, “that she had mistaken,” as she expressed it.

Then she left the company.

“That’s always the way with Miss Falbe,” exclaimed Mrs. With, when the door was closed. “Something disagreeable’s always tagging after her.”

“She is so dreadfully severe,” said Mrs. Bentzen.

“I fear she lacks the proper spirit,” said the chaplain with a mild solemnity.

“So far as I know,” insinuated the police-chief’s wife in her guileless tone, “Miss Falbe is not a member of any charitable organization in town.”

“No, we had her with us at first in the Foundling’s Home,” answered Mrs. Bentzen. “But she was so unmanageable and domineering, and at last came the story of the quack doctor.”

This story was then related. It was the more suitable for the occasion, as it turned just on this same Elsie, whom Miss Falbe had presented. The wife of the police-chief inquired very anxiously about the difference between the ages of Miss Falbe and the young girl—a shrewdness which the chaplain could not fail to recognize to himself.

When just then Dr. Bentzen came in—he was the family physician—they had already had a full account of the whole scandal.

When he heard what they were talking about, he turned his red nose up in air, and began to rake down the Ark from top to bottom, in a torrent of words. It was a disgrace to the whole town; Puppelena was a thieves’ go-between, who kept a dolt of a musician to fool the police. Miss Falbe and her brother were of about the same stripe; but when he came to Madam Speckbom and Loppen, he talked himself into such a fury that his wife, as was her wont, had to go over to him, and soothe him, and gently push him out of doors.

After these interruptions they could not get affairs under way again. Mrs. Fanny Garman had buttoned her gloves, and they had seen the Sandsgaard horses before the window long ago. Mrs. Fanny had not opened her mouth, except to gape. Now and then she made a grimace of weariness to Consul With, which he answered when he dared.

The chaplain would have preferred to close with a little benediction. But it did not happen so. The ladies’ silk dresses rustled and crackled so much as they now began to rise, that he did not manage to begin.

This Institution was besides a little different from the numerous missions and charitable associations, where religious people are usually so prominent. The most of the ladies present commonly did not take part in such affairs; and it had been precisely the chaplain’s design for this Institution to gather the most aristocratic ladies, who would otherwise confine themselves to furnishing financial support alone.

By this, it was by no means his intention to make his Institution more aristocratic and exclusive than the other organizations of the town. But he was of the opinion that the ministers of our day pay too much attention to the middle class, and neglect to admonish those who stand highest in society, and think themselves in the possession of the loftiest culture.

That was the idea he wished to carry out.

But the town understood him, alas! not at all. And just as competition and strong rivalry always hold sway among the innumerable organizations for all sorts of missions and the numberless swarms of bazaar-committees for every imaginable purpose, so they were all united in looking with envious eyes upon this new rival—this aristocratic, highly-connected Institution for Fallen Women of St. Peter’s Parish—with Consul With for chairman.

III.

MADAM SPECKBOM had some practice, too, in the suburbs of the city; and she was very proud when a carriage, or even a gig, stopped before her door.

Elsie was now and then permitted to go with her when there was room; and these trips were, in fact, all that Loppen saw of country life. Otherwise, she never went beyond the narrow, crooked streets of the town; or, at most, stole a boat and rowed a way out in the bay.

But one pleasant day toward the last of August, she was permitted to go into the country with Madam; a call had come from Consul With’s brick-works, where the foreman’s wife was one of Madam’s old patients.

The whole Ark was in a commotion because of the event, and all the children of the neighborhood stood in awe about the gig to see Madam Speckbom climb in. Christian Falbe stood above and nodded; “the gang” had gathered around the front window of the garret, from which they could see the gig drive away; and they shouted and winked at Loppen. She turned, beaming with delight, and laughed so it rang in the narrow street.

The sun was not really bright yet. It shone violet-grey through the motionless, heavy, autumn fog which rose from the water and damp marshes, and mingled with the dark brown, morning smoke from all the chimneys down in the town.

But when they came up higher, there was no more fog, except far below, where a dot still hung over the parks or over the big trees by the church. And it grew warm and quite clear, so one could glimpse the strip of open sea, out in the west. But over the fjord with its islands, and the lofty, blue mountains, down over the meadows and golden harvest-fields, and up over the hillocks and patches of heather, which were blue with blossoms, over all lay the early autumn morning, so peacefully—so peacefully and softly.

Loppen laughed and talked so much at first that Madam Speckbom bade her hold her tongue. Madam had rather entertain herself with the coach boy, who stood behind, about the state of health and things in general out in the country.

Elsie held her tongue then, not just because she cared so much about what Madam said, but gradually she lost all desire to talk.

She began to enjoy it more by herself—all that she saw around her. She no longer cried out, every time she saw a cow; but it made her happy to think how good it seemed to walk about and feed in the fresh, cool grass.

It was quite motionless; and the water which came and vanished among the hills was as bright as a mirror. The rye was light golden; but the oats yet had flecks of green, down in the valleys, where the soil was deep. The heavy, short heads hung low, after the wind which had blown the day before; and over all was such a warm, ripe fragrance.

But when they had gone so far from town, that the fields ceased and the heather spread in great, violet tufts on both sides of the road; then the air became so oppressively rich that Elsie threw her breath all out several times, and clasped her bosom; it felt as if her bodice was too tight.

All this beauty of nature, of which she knew so little, filled her with a kind of pain, so that tears came into her eyes. She reviewed all her little short-comings, and thought she was not good enough to be shone upon by this blessed sun.

But after that, she felt a boundless, warm vigor flow through her, from head to foot. All at once she became so happy, so secure, so thankful for everything, to everybody, that she would have leaped out of the gig into the arms of anybody whatsoever—only to give thanks, because she was so happy, so overwhelmingly happy. She thought she owed all the world so much.

For a presentiment of a great, great boon in store for her came over her; she leaned back as well as she could in the humped-up gig and gave herself up to dreaming.

But it was not the old dreams about the bride and carriages. It was a new dream; great, wonderful, formless, almost dreadful.

Elsie stole a chance to open a couple of buttons in her dress to get at her bodice; it was really too tight.

When they arrived, it was Loppen who felt like telling Madam to hold her tongue, so deep was she in her dreams and so painful was it to be torn out of them.

The foreman’s house lay a little away from the other buildings of the brick-works; and while Madam went in to see her patient, Elsie looked about through the long building, with shelves instead of walls.

Still half in her dream, she walked and looked at all the wonderful things, and everything to-day made a peculiar, unreal impression upon her.

She paid no attention to the workmen, who moved about her, grimy and besmeared with clay; but she was a long time standing and watching the big water-wheel, which drove the clay mills. At the back side of the wheel, as the buckets went over, hundreds and thousands of minute drops of water sprang off; they leaped up in arches, and fell in little, pearly stars, which glittered against the dark wheel as it turned around.

It was cool and refreshing below the water-wheel, and the regular beat of the buckets as they splashed around, and the bright pearls of water dancing before her eyes, ensnared her into new dreams, until some one cried out to her. She stood directly in the way of a giant, who came groaning in from the clay-bank with a heavy load for the tile mills.

Elsie walked in through the long passage-ways where building brick stood piled in rows like psalm-books—high over her head and far, far ahead of her, clear to the end of the passage, where she saw some very little people moving about out in the sunshine.

Through the roof where there were broken tiles, a sunbeam broke here and there, and drew a long, glowing streak aslant down through the air, and fixed a round sun-spot on the floor.

The sparrows which had had their nests up there, still maintained a sinful life, with battles and bickerings. From the passage near by, came the rapid beating of the paddles which made the bricks smooth before they dried; far in the distance a lusty young fellow was singing a mournful love ditty as he worked; and through it all the big water-wheel went on splashing, patiently and monotonously, and drove the mills so they creaked.

Elsie heard voices and turned curiously into a side passage; there were three young boys shaping brick. Her eyes at once fixed themselves on the one who stood at the moulding-table and pressed the brick into the moulds.

He might have been nineteen or twenty years old, with coal-black hair, a little curly about the ears, eye-brows large and rather heavy; but when he now glanced up from his work he fixed a pair of dark, almost black eyes on Elsie.

She looked away and colored. Never in her life, thought she, had she seen anything so handsome. He had a little, dark down under the nose; else the mouth could as well have been a girl’s mouth, so red and tender was it.

Elsie at once thought it was the mouth she had dreamed about all day.

She went a step beyond the passage; but turned and drew near again on tip-toe. Then she heard some one in the side passage saying:

“By George, you must know her, Svend! She blushed so when she saw you.”

Svend smiled; she could just see his mouth through the piles of brick. Then he wiped his forehead with his bare arms, and so besmeared himself worse with clay, and said:

“That was a deuce of a pretty woman.”

Loppen thought that was neatly spoken beyond comparison, and she felt proud and flattered. Softly she stole away to enjoy her triumph in solitude.

Very soon, however, she had to go back again; but just then the dinner-bell rang. The laborers streamed out of the alleys and down to the sea to wash a little before dinner; and a little boy came to call Elsie. She was to dine with Madam at the foreman’s house.

In the afternoon, Madam had a few calls to make at the neighboring farms and Elsie was to go along. But she seemed so inattentive and clumsy that Madam Speckbom lost all patience and said she had better go where she pleased.

Loppen laughed, and ran down to the brick-works again. It was almost four o’clock. As soon as Svend caught sight of her, he declared that he would stop for that day. The others wished him to go on until the usual tale was reached; but he threw down the mould and went away to dress himself.

His fellows growled, but let him have his way; they knew that he could be just as obstinate at times as he was usually good-humored; and, besides, there was wild blood in Svend; that is, he was from the gypsies and they are dangerous to cross.

When a little later, he presented himself before Elsie in a clean collar, a blue suit, and round hat, she scarcely recognized him. She was altogether taken with his charms. However, she soon noticed that he was more awkward and rustic than she had supposed, and it was not many minutes before she felt quite superior.

After she had asked him about different things, he offered to show her about the factory. And then, he all at once regained his speech; yes, he even laughed at her once or twice when she was too dumb.

They now walked through the long passages together, while he explained to her everything they saw; he took her clear up on the furnace, where she could peep down on the glowing brick which were being fired.

All this was pleasant to Loppen, just as everything that day was pleasant. Only to walk at his side and hear him talk was a pleasure; and that she did not understand half that he was explaining, that was just in line with this wonderful day with all its new impressions and new dreams.

But Elsie was sent for once more. Madam Speckbom was through and was ready to go to town. There was no other way than to comply. Loppen dragged herself up to the foreman’s house where Madam was already seated in the gig.

“Come on, Elsie,” she cried impatiently. “It is almost seven o’clock. We must be home by dark.”

Loppen took courage; “May I not walk to town? it is such lovely weather.”

Madam Speckbom looked at Svend and smiled.

“Aha! you have good company, sure enough, I must say. Well, well! Suit yourself then, Elsie; but don’t be too late coming home;”—with that Madam drove off.

She was a very liberal lady, Madam Speckbom, and she saw nothing wrong in the young people being out together in the delightful evening; besides she thought well of Svend’s face.

The two young people walked slowly toward the sea, while Madam took the direct road to town. Loppen was happy over her fortune; but when she a little coquettishly asked Svend if he would accompany her to town, that bungler answered: “Of course I will.”

Loppen felt a little exasperated at that; she was used to gallant cavaliers. But he regained all her favor by climbing the hedge into the bellman’s garden, and stealing a rose for her from a bush which could not be seen from the house.

It was only a simple, pale red garden rose which was left hanging still after the real flowering. But it had the fragrance still—the fragrance of roses which belonged to her dreams.

And while she walked along by his side in the fragrance, she felt again that overwhelming desire to give thanks, to share with some one her good fortune. She could have thrown herself about his neck, have kissed him, have committed the most incredible follies; but he walked a little apart from her, and looked so cold and serious that she was ashamed of herself.

Yet he was even then walking along, tormenting himself with the same matter. He was so dreadfully anxious that they should sit down on the heather and talk with each other; but he was careful not to propose it.

There had been a slight breeze at noon; but at evening it was again motionless. The fjord lay smooth as glass, with bright circles where a bird had just dipped, or with long, waving lines behind a fisher-boat which was going out on the sound to catch cod.

There was not a chirrup from the birds; there was not the least sound from anything; but a mellow, wooing silence in which one might hide himself, to whisper something to some one which no one must hear.

For Elsie felt again as if her bosom would burst out. She walked along, bending over her rose.

And as they walked along in this way, little by little they came closer to each other; and at last they came as close to each other as they could; they no longer talked, but drew quick breaths; she stumbled and took him by the arm; he clasped her hand to him and thus they went a few steps without conscious thought.

But a carriage came rapidly down over the hill behind them. The coachman cried out to them and they sprang one to each side.

It was Consul With, who was returning from his brick-works. When he caught sight of Elsie, he had the carriage stop, leaped out and took her by the hand.

“Good evening, little miss; you are going to town, are you not? Come and ride with me.”

Elsie would have made excuses; but he fairly lifted her into the carriage. She at once recognized the rich, distinguished Consul With, and was partly too abashed to oppose him; and perhaps it partly arose before her what a high honor it was to ride in his carriage.

But as they bowled away, she became frightened completely. She caught but a glimpse of Svend, who stood astounded by the roadside; then the carriage ran down from a second hill and he was out of sight.

Besides she had enough to handle in the Consul, who put his arm about her waist and tried to kiss her on the neck.

Loppen was used to such things, and to keeping men away from her. But it was another affair altogether, now. She could not cuff Consul With, whom all the town saluted and who was so elegant.

Besides he was so old—thought she; and finally she was so possessed and strangely unnerved by this long day with the many new things; it all blended together before her; she did not clearly realize who it was she was sitting with in the dark carriage; all the time she was thinking of Svend, and was so confused that she felt so very, very fortunate and tired.

In summer Consul With lived in a villa down by the fjord. He had the coachman drive into the enclosure; but alit with Elsie at the garden gate. She did not wish to go in with him; but he seized her by the hand.

“Oh! my rose!” cried Elsie; he had broken off all its petals.

“Only come along, and you shall have all the roses you want,” he whispered and drew her with him.

It was quite dark in the narrow walk between the bushes, where he let her go before him.

She begged him to let her go home—half deferentially yet, but he answered only in jest.

Close to the house stood some rare, yellow roses; the Consul looked up at the windows, then stole up to them, and cut them all off with his pen-knife.

Elsie had her hands full; she had to thank him indeed; they were so lovely there in the dusk; and they had a peculiar, fine perfume which she had never smelled; they were roses and yet they were not her roses.

But when he opened a small door at the rear of the house, it ran through her that that was for no good purpose. She tried to flee; but he seized her nimbly about the waist, drew her inside, and closed the door.

IV.

THE Institution for Fallen Women of St. Peter’s Parish was thus brought into active existence, and the police-chief’s wife was not a little proud of her register. It was a thick, solemn book, in yellowish parchment, with red-leather back and the Institution’s name in gilt letters.

Otherwise the work of the Institution was yet preparatory; for the endowments were not yet sufficient to establish a separate foundation with buildings and managers. Besides, it was rather slow work to collect the support; public opinion was not enthusiastic. Neither did it seem so easy to find the fallen women of St. Peter’s Parish.

But then that was not the Secretary’s business. She held open office in her drawing-room every morning from ten to eleven; the register lay opened at the first page, where as yet there stood nothing but the headings above the columns: Name, age, by whom presented, etc. At one side stood the ink-stand with a decorated quill-pen for ornament and a new steel-pen to write with.

But no one came, and the lady was oftentimes a little impatient. Now and then meetings were held, or the chaplain called on her to talk about the Institution’s affairs. In this way it was her part to talk about these things with a young man, and her handsome eyes had often to droop deep down over the register. But it was still an inspiring feeling—so the chaplain said—that one should, in her own purity, have an eye for the evil about her, and do what was in human power to rescue the fallen.

At home at the Ark they lived as they could, but not always as they should. The man of the many faces had shown himself several times, and upon these visits always ensued a mutual prosperity and an obliging mood in the sulky hostess.

The trio-concerts were therefore flourishing, and they not only extended to poor Fürstenau, but also Onslow and Kalliwoda—yes, even Father Haydn had to give himself up to be trilled by Olkonomen, drummed by Jorgen Tambur, and pounded by old Schirrmeister, who played like a madman, and drank—like a Dutch musician.

During the autumn Christian Falbe had one of his very worst periods; and that engrossed his sister so much that she did not take notice how pale and changed Elsie had become.

Madam Speckbom, on the other hand, noticed it quick enough; but she smiled her philosophical smile; when young folks are in love, it looks just like that for a time.

The moment she saw Svend and Elsie together, she said to herself: “That will be a match.” They mated each other so completely—that Madam saw at once, and she had a sure eye in such matters.

So when Svend presented himself one Saturday afternoon, awkward and embarrassed, Madam Speckbom treated him very kindly indeed, and bade him be seated on the sofa, while she went into the kitchen to call Elsie.

But Elsie was not there; she was nowhere, she was not to be found. She only came to light a good while after Svend had at last gone away. Madam scolded her, but nevertheless smiled shrewdly to herself; for that symptom she understood, too; girls act just so when they are the most seriously smitten.

During the first few days Elsie had not lifted her eyes. She took hold of the housework very actively, and never went out. But through the night she wept for shame and anguish; every morning she expected the whole world had learned of it.

But as day after day slipped by without anything happening whatsoever, and as everything went on as before, without the least attention to her, she began to think that perhaps it was not so dangerous after all. There was an anxiety over her which was new; neither could she laugh as of old; but her light disposition soon helped her over the worst of it and, little by little, she regained her good, sound sleep and her bright eyes.

But Svend she would not see. Every time she thought of him, she blushed red as fire; it was much harder to think of him than of the other.

She had seen the Consul walk by the house several times at dusk; but to her joy she knew that he did not dare to come in. But almost every evening that Madam Speckbom was out, a middle-aged woman came, who was so smiling and pleasant. She invited Elsie so persistently to call on her; she lived near by, down on Strand street. But at the same time she sedulously enjoined her not to mention a word to Madam Speckbom about her visits.

But one evening there was a terrible scene. Madam Speckbom had caught a strange man in the dark entry; and as he would not give his name, Madam resolutely threw open the door to the drawing-room, where Elsie was sitting with the lamp.

A single glance at the young girl’s distracted face, when it was seen that it was Consul With she had caught, was enough for Madam. She knew the Consul so thoroughly that she saw it all in an instant; and Madam Speckbom had no respect for him, at least. So he was hustled out of doors with a powerful thrust, and attended by a stream of abuse and curses which the elegant gentleman pocketed with exquisite grace—glad to get away.

But then Madam had a settlement with Elsie, which ended by driving her out of doors that self-same evening.

For, as she said, had it been some one else—for instance, the boy at the brick-yards—she should not have had a word to say, but should rather have helped them to come together and begin house-keeping. No one could say of Madam Speckbom that she was hard on young folks. But throw herself away on such an old hog as Consul With—no! no! if Elsie did not hold herself any higher than that, then she could remain no longer under Madam Speckbom’s roof.

The usually mild-tempered lady was raging, now that she had once become angry. And this had stirred and vexed her to the uttermost. Such a boundless falseness in Elsie, to fool her with the boy from the brick-works—her, Madam Speckbom, who had so sure an eye in such matters—and then, Consul With! No, there could be no question at all that Elsie had shown the blackest ingratitude, and was a detected false and giddy thing.

Loppen was standing out in the dark street before she fairly had her wits again. She had cried at first; but now she stopped to think it over. Her greatest fear was whether Madam would hold her peace, or whether everybody would hear of it.

It was cold where she was standing; the wind was blowing and she was without a wrap. She decided to go to a friend of hers, who worked in the neighborhood, and wait awhile; perhaps Madam would reconsider.

Loppen staid with her friend for the night, and the next morning she went over to Madam Speckbom’s house. But Madam saw her as she came down the hill and shut the door in her face.

Then only did Elsie realize that she was cast out in earnest; and her misfortune fell upon her with sudden force which seemed about to crush her. She slunk into the narrowest streets along the beach and walked along sobbing, with bowed head, without noticing where she was going.

Then she met the pleasant woman who had called on her several times.

“Poor, little Elsie!” said the kind woman. “What have they been doing to you? Come in with me; I live near by, and there you shall have such a good time and no one shall touch you. Come, my child.”

It made Elsie unspeakably happy to hear these friendly words, and she gladly went with her.

The house was rather small and lay hidden between two big warehouses which belonged to Consul With. The woman took her up into a cosy, little room which looked toward the sea. Farther in was a yet smaller and yet cosier bed-chamber.

“See! you can stay here as long as you like,” said the woman and fondled her; “I have expected you to come ever so long.”

Elsie was even then not much astonished.

In the dreams she had been wont to dream to Schirrmeister’s music, it had been quite like this and yet more wonderful. And the last few weeks, with all their mighty upheavals and emotions, had so shattered reality for her that she neither doubted nor questioned, but let herself float with the current—happy and content at being freed from that horrible desolation which she had felt for a time.

It was only when the pleasant woman, quite en passant, mentioned Consul With while she was changing her stockings—there were stockings, too, ready in the bureau—that Elsie realized it with a pang; she arose from the sofa and tried to flee.

But the woman clung to her and talked away so feelingly about the kind Consul, told so many generous and gentle things of him; and besides—where would she fly to?

Loppen lay down on the sofa again; and when the pleasant woman shortly after brought in coffee, eggs and wheat-bread on a salver with a white napkin, she fell to eating and amusing herself at watching the boats row by out on the bay.

During the fall and winter, Elsie lived there and had a pleasant time. Little by little she accustomed herself to the Consul, who was kind and good-humored. She went out very seldom, and there were some of her acquaintances whom she was dreadfully afraid to meet. On the contrary, others stopped and talked with her, looked at and felt of all she wore; and their envy was a sort of compensation to her. But before Miss Falbe she was so afraid that she ran whenever she saw her out on the street.

And then, she was still more afraid of Svend. She knew that he had come to town after the work at the brick-yards had stopped in the fall; and one evening she noticed that he was following her along Strand street.

She hurried on and locked herself in. Soon she heard him shake the latch and call to her half aloud. But she kept very still and so he went away again.

But a day or so afterwards he was standing in the center of her room before she dreamed of such a thing. Elsie ran to the chamber door to fasten herself in. Meanwhile, Svend stood very quietly and looked about himself. He was changed. His face was no longer handsome and brown as in the summer, and Elsie could plainly see that he had been carousing of late.

“I know it all, Elsie,” he began. “But it makes no difference at all. I have a hundred crowns left from my summer’s work; if you will go with me right now, we will get married and go to my uncle’s in Arendal, where I am promised work.”

Elsie dropped the latch; she was no longer afraid now; but she hung her head for shame and said:

“No, Svend; that you must not ask of me, for I cannot do it. I am much obliged, though, that you did want to.”

Svend sat down on a chair by the door, and when he saw that Elsie was crying, he cried too. In this way they wept together for a time, each in his corner.

But suddenly Elsie chanced to think that some one might come. She dried her eyes in a hurry and begged him to go—to go as quick as he could.

Kindly and humbly he let himself be driven away; but he said he would come again.

And he did come again often, at times when they could be undisturbed. Every time she looked at him her shame flamed up again, but constantly a little lighter, until she could sit long hours and talk with him. With a strange, nervous interest she heard how his money grew less and less. She inquired anxiously about his companions, and when she heard that he had fallen in with some of “the gang,” she knew that he was going wrong.

But she did not warn him; neither did she think it so bad. It would have been much, much worse if he had remained as handsome and innocent as when she saw him the first time, now that she herself had sunk so low.

The day he had twenty crowns of his money left, he offered them to her, half confident, half humbly, for a single kiss.

But, both frightened and angry, Elsie drew back; not for all the world would she touch him or his money.

Svend bore it, ashamed, and crouched like a dog that gets a blow. But when he slunk towards the door, she took pity on him and so kissed him for nothing.

So the winter passed away.

But as the days lengthened and brightened through February and March, all sorts of rumors, which had lain quiet, hatching in the darkness of winter, began to rustle their wings, and a new story about Consul With flew blustering from house to house.

The Consul resorted to his usual expedient; he sailed for London on business. And one day the pleasant woman came to Elsie with an altogether new face, in which there was not the least trace of a smile left, and announced curtly and decidedly, that the Consul had gone away now for a year at least, and Elsie had no further business in the house, but must bundle herself off and not take a thing with her.

Loppen was no longer the same girl as when she was cast out of Madam Speckbom’s. She got up and roundly abused the pleasant woman, and there ensued a short-lived brawl, which ended by the woman swearing that Loppen should be out of the house before the sun went down.

“Gladly—very gladly, indeed,” answered Elsie; that had long been her intention; she was sick of it all. And when Svend just then came up the stairs, she cried out, with flashing eyes: “Now, I will go with you, Svend.”

But Svend seemed more puzzled than happy, and he whispered despondently:

“I haven’t a shilling left.”

Then Loppen laughed; she laughed so it rang through the house, up the stairs and down the stairs; but Svend was almost frightened.

And beaming, as if it was the grandest triumph in the world, she took his arm and walked past the woman, who stood and laughed at them in disdain.