... How it impressed her that
he so frankly told her of his poverty!
"Besides, I am not sure that my life is safe here any more," he said
smilingly. "Did you tell my friend Ole how I acted?"
"It is never too late to do that," she said.
They told the driver to stop. They walked ahead, talking gaily and
happily. He asked her to forgive him his rashness--not that he wanted her
to think that he had forgotten her, or could forget her.
"I love you," he confessed, "but I know it is useless. I have now one
thing left--my pen. I may write a verse or two to you; you must not be
angry if I do. Well, time will tell. In a hundred years everything will be
forgotten."
"I am powerless to change anything," she said.
"No, you are not. It depends, of course--At least, there is nobody else
who can." And he added quickly: "You told me to give you a little time,
you asked me to wait--what did you mean by that?"
"Nothing," she answered.
They walked on. They came into a field. Irgens spoke entertainingly about
the far, blue, pine-clad ridges, about a tethered horse, a workingman who
was making a fence. Aagot was grateful; she knew he did this in order to
maintain his self-control; she appreciated it.
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