Ten months she has been at the Lensmand’s now, and ’tis no little time, reckoned out in days and nights, but an eternity reckoned in longing and oppression.  It had been bearable at first, Fru Heyerdahl looking after her kindly, giving her aprons and neat things to wear; ’twas a joy to be sent on errands to the store with such fine clothes to wear.  Barbro had been in the village as a child; she knew all the village folk from the days when she had played there, gone to school there, kissed the lads there, and joined in many games with stones and shells.  Bearable enough for a month or so.  But then Fru Heyerdahl had begun to be even more careful about her, and when the Christmas festivities began, she was strict.  And what good could ever come of that?  It was bound to spoil things.  Barbro could never have endured it but that she had certain hours of the night to herself; from two to six in the morning she was more or less safe, and had stolen pleasures not a few.  What about Cook, then, for not reporting her?  A nice sort of woman she must be!  Oh, an ordinary woman enough, as the world finds them; Cook went out without leave herself.  They took it in turns.  And it was quite a long time before they were found out.  Barbro was by no means so depraved that it showed in her face, impossible to accuse her of immorality.  Immorality?  She made all the resistance one could expect.  When young men asked her to go to a Christmas dance, she said “No” once, said “No” twice, but the third time she would say:  “I’ll try and come from two to six.”  Just as a decent woman should, not trying to make herself out worse than she is, and making a display of daring.  She was a servant-girl, serving all her time, and knew no other recreation than fooling with men.  It was all she asked for.  Fru Heyerdahl came and lectured her, lent her books—­and a fool for her pains.  Barbro had lived in Bergen and read the papers and been to the theatre!  She was no innocent lamb from the countryside ...

But Fru Heyerdahl must have grown suspicious at last.  One day she comes up at three in the morning to the maids’ room and calls:  “Barbro!”

“Yes,” answers Cook.

“It’s Barbro I want.  Isn’t she there?  Open the door.”

Cook opens the door and explains as agreed upon, that Barbro had had to run home for a minute about something.  Home for a minute at this time of night?  Fru Heyerdahl has a good deal to say about that.  And in the morning there is a scene.  Brede is sent for, and Fru Heyerdahl asks:  “Was Barbro at home with you last night—­at three o’clock?”

Brede is unprepared, but answers:  “Three o’clock?  Yes, yes, quite right.  We sat up late, there was something we had to talk about,” says Brede.

The Lensmand’s lady then solemnly declares that Barbro shall go out no more at nights.

“No, no,” says Brede.

“Not as long as she’s in this house.”

“No, no; there, you can see, Barbro, I told you so,” says her father.