she wished herself to add that she meant nothing by this, she half smiled at the same moment.  Her hair was rather dark than light, but it was wavy and crept far over the brow on either side, so that, together with the half closed eyes, it gave the face a hidden expression that one could never weary of studying.  It never seemed quite sure whom it was she was looking for when she was sitting alone and among others, nor what she really had in mind when she turned to speak to any one, for she took back immediately, as it were, what she gave.  “Under all this Jon Hatlen is hidden, I suppose,” thought Oyvind, but still stared constantly at her.

Now came the school-master.  All left their places and stormed about him.

“What number am I?”—­“And I?”—­“And I—­I?”

“Hush! you overgrown young ones!  No uproar here!  Be quiet and you shall hear about it, children.”  He looked slowly around.  “You are number two,” said he to a boy with blue eyes, who was gazing up at him most beseechingly; and the boy danced out of the circle.  “You are number three,” he tapped a red-haired, active little fellow who stood tugging at his jacket.  “You are number five; you number eight,” and so on.  Here he caught sight of Marit.  “You are number one of the girls,”—­she blushed crimson over face and neck, but tried to smile.  “You are number twelve; you have been lazy, you rogue, and full of mischief; you number eleven, nothing better to be expected, my boy; you, number thirteen, must study hard and come to the next examination, or it will go badly with you!”

Oyvind could bear it no longer; number one, to be sure, had not been mentioned, but he had been standing all the time so that the school-master could see him.

“School-master!” He did not hear.  “School-master!” Oyvind had to repeat this three times before it was heard.  At last the school-master looked at him.

“Number nine or ten, I do not remember which,” said he, and turned to another.

“Who is number one, then?” inquired Hans, who was Oyvind’s best friend.

“It is not you, curly-head!” said the school-master, rapping him over the hand with a roll of paper.

“Who is it, then?” asked others.  “Who is it?  Yes; who is it?”

“He will find that out who has the number,” replied the school-master, sternly.  He would have no more questions.  “Now go home nicely, children.  Give thanks to your God and gladden your parents.  Thank your old school-master too; you would have been in a pretty fix if it had not been for him.”

They thanked him, laughed, and went their way jubilantly, for at this moment when they were about to go home to their parents they all felt happy.  Only one remained behind, who could not at once find his books, and who when he had found them sat down as if he must read them over again.

The school-master went up to him.

“Well, Oyvind, are you not going with the rest?”