XIV. FINDING A LOST SONG.

Kampen was a beautiful place. It was situated in the middle of a plain, bordered on the one side by a ravine, and on the other, by the high-road; just beyond the road was a thick wood, with a mountain ridge rising behind it, while high above all stood blue mountains crowned with snow. On the other side of the ravine also was a wide range of mountains, running round the Swart-water on the side where Böen was situated: it grew higher as it ran towards Kampen, but then turned suddenly sidewards, forming the broad valley called the Lower-tract, which began here, for Kampen was the last place in the Upper-tract.

The front door of the dwelling-house opened towards the road, which was about two thousand paces off, and a path with leafy birch-trees on both sides led thither. In front of the house was a little garden, which Arne managed according to the rules given in his books. The cattle-houses and barns were nearly all new-built, and stood to the left hand, forming a square. The house was two stories high, and was painted red, with white window-frames and doors; the roof was of turf with many small plants growing upon it, and on the ridge was a vane-spindle, where turned an iron cock with a high raised tail.

Spring had come to the mountain-tracts. It was Sunday morning; the weather was mild and calm, but the air was somewhat heavy, and the mist lay low on the forest, though Margit said it would rise later in the day. Arne had read the sermon, and sung the hymns to his mother, and he felt better for them himself. Now he stood ready dressed to go to the parsonage. When he opened the door the fresh smell of the leaves met him; the garden lay dewy and bright in the morning breeze, but from the ravine sounded the roaring of the waterfall, now in lower, then again in louder booms, till all around seemed to tremble.

Arne walked upwards. As he went farther from the fall, its booming became less awful, and soon it lay over the landscape like the deep tones of an organ.

"God be with him wherever he goes!" the mother said, opening the window and looking after him till he disappeared behind the shrubs. The mist had gradually risen, the sun shone bright, the fields and garden became full of fresh life, and the things Arne had sown and tended grew and sent up odor and gladness to his mother. "Spring is beautiful to those who have had a long winter," she said, looking away over the fields, as if in thought.

Arne had no positive errand at the parsonage, but he thought he might go there to ask about the newspapers which he shared with the Clergyman. Recently he had read the names of several Norwegians who had been successful in gold digging in America, and among them was Christian. His relations had long since left the place, but Arne had lately heard a rumor that they expected him to come home soon. About this, also, Arne thought he might hear at the parsonage; and if Christian had already returned, he would go down and see him between spring and hay-harvest. These thoughts occupied his mind till he came far enough to see the Swart-water and Böen on the other side. There, too, the mist had risen, but it lay lingering on the mountain-sides, while their peaks rose clear above, and the sunbeams played on the plain; on the right hand, the shadow of the wood darkened the water, but before the houses the lake had strewed its white sand on the flat shore. All at once, Arne fancied himself in the red-painted house with the white doors and windows, which he had taken as a model for his own. He did not think of those first gloomy days he had passed there, but only of that summer they both saw—he and Eli—up beside her sick-bed. He had not been there since; nor would he have gone for the whole world. If his thoughts but touched on that time, he turned crimson; yet he thought of it many times a day; and if anything could have driven him away from the parish, it was this.

He strode onwards, as if to flee from his thoughts; but the farther he went, the nearer he came to Böen, and the more he looked at it. The mist had disappeared, the sky shone bright between the frame of mountains, the birds floated in the sunny air, calling to each other, and the fields laughed with millions of flowers; here no thundering waterfall bowed the gladness to submissive awe, but full of life it gambolled and sang without check or pause.

Arne walked till he became glowing hot; then he threw himself down on the grass beneath the shadow of a hill and looked towards Böen, but he soon turned away again to avoid seeing it. Then he heard a song above him, so wonderfully clear as he had never heard a song before. It came floating over the meadows, mingled with the chattering of the birds, and he had scarcely recognized the tune ere he recognized the words also: the tune was the one he loved better than any; the words were those he had borne in his mind ever since he was a boy, and had forgotten that same day they were brought forth. He sprang up as if he would catch them, but then stopped and listened while verse after verse came streaming down to him:—

Arne stood listening till the sound of the last verse, the last words died away; then he heard the birds sing and play again, but he dared not move. Yet he must find out who had been singing, and he lifted his foot and walked on, so carefully that he did not hear the grass rustle. A little butterfly settled on a flower at his feet, flew up and settled a little way before him, flew up and settled again, and so on all over the hill. But soon he came to a thick bush and stopped; for a bird flew out of it with a frightened "quitt, quitt!" and rushed away over the sloping hill-side. Then she who was sitting there looked up; Arne stooped low down, his heart throbbed till he heard its beats, he held his breath, and was afraid to stir a leaf; for it was Eli whom he saw.

After a long while he ventured to look up again; he wished to draw nearer, but he thought the bird perhaps had its nest under the bush, and he was afraid he might tread on it. Then he peeped between the leaves as they blew aside and closed again. The sun shone full upon her. She wore a close-fitting black dress with long white sleeves, and a straw hat like those worn by boys. In her lap a book was lying with a heap of wild flowers upon it; her right hand was listlessly playing with them as if she were in thought, and her left supported her head. She was looking away towards the place where the bird had flown, and she seemed as if she had been weeping.

Anything more beautiful, Arne had never seen or dreamed of in all his life; the sun, too, had spread its gold over her and the place; and the song still hovered round her, so that Arne thought, breathed—nay, even his heart beat, in time with it. It seemed so strange that the song which bore all his longing, he had forgotten, but she had found.

A tawny wasp flew round her in circles many times, till at last she saw it and frightened it away with a flower-stalk, which she put up as often as it came before her. Then she took up the book and opened it, but she soon closed it again, sat as before, and began to hum another song. He could hear it was "The Tree's early leaf-buds," though she often made mistakes, as if she did not quite remember either the words or the tune. The verse she knew best was the last one, and so she often repeated it; but she sang it thus:—

Then she suddenly sprang up, scattering all the flowers around her, and sang till the tune trembled through the air, and might have been heard at Böen. Arne had thought of coming forwards when she began singing; he was just about to do so when she jumped up; then he felt he must come, but she went away. Should he call? No,—yes! No!—There she skipped over the hillocks singing; here her hat fell off, there she took it up again; here she picked a flower, there she stood deep in the highest grass.

"Shall I call? She's looking up here!"

He stooped down. It was a long while ere he ventured to peep out again; at first he only raised his head; he could not see her: he rose to his knees; still he could not see her: he stood upright; no she was gone. He thought himself a miserable fellow; and some of the tales he had heard at the nutting-party came into his mind.

Now he would not go to the parsonage. He would not have the newspapers; would not know anything about Christian. He would not go home; he would go nowhere; he would do nothing.

"Oh, God, I am so unhappy!" he said.

He sprang up again and sang "The Tree's early leaf-buds" till the mountains resounded.

Then he sat down where she had been sitting, and took up the flowers she had picked, but he flung them away again down the hill on every side. Then he wept. It was long since he had done so; this struck him, and made him weep still more. He would go far away, that he would; no, he would not go away! He thought he was very unhappy; but when he asked himself why, he could hardly tell. He looked round. It was a lovely day; and the Sabbath rest lay over all. The lake was without a ripple; from the houses the curling smoke had begun to rise; the partridges one after another had ceased calling, and though the little birds continued their twittering, they went towards the shade of the wood; the dewdrops were gone, and the grass looked grave; not a breath of wind stirred the drooping leaves; and the sun was near the meridian. Almost before he knew, he found himself seated putting together a little song; a sweet tune offered itself for it; and while his heart was strangely full of gentle feelings, the tune went and came till words linked themselves to it and begged to be sung, if only for once.

He sang them gently, sitting where Eli had sat: