of God in her mind is like water in a shallow pond:  it is there when it rains, but it is gone when the sun shines. 
     My eyes can endure no more at present, for they see well at a
distance, but pain me and fill with tears when I look at small objects.  In conclusion, I will advise you, Oyvind, to have your God with you in all your desires and undertakings, for it is written:  “Better is an handful with quietness, than both the hands full with travail and vexation of spirit.”  Ecclesiastes, iv. 6.  Your old school-master,
               BAARD ANDERSEN OPDAL.

TO THE MOST HONORED MAIDEN, MARIT KNUDSDATTER HEIDEGARDS:—­
     You have my thanks for your letter, which I have read and burned,
as you requested.  You write of many things, but not at all concerning that of which I wanted you to write.  Nor do I dare write anything definite before I know how you are in every respect.  The school-master’s letter says nothing that one can depend on, but he praises you and he says you are fickle.  That, indeed, you were before.  Now I do not know what to think, and so you must write, for it will not be well with me until you do.  Just now I remember best about your coming to the cliff that last evening and what you said then.  I will say no more this time, and so farewell. 
               Most respectfully,
                    OYVIND PLADSEN.

TO OYVIND THORESEN PLADSEN:—­
     The school-master has given me another letter from you, and I have
just read it, but I do not understand it in the least, and that, I dare say, is because I am not learned.  You want to know how it is with me in every respect; and I am healthy and well, and there is nothing at all the matter with me.  I eat heartily, especially when I get milk porridge.  I sleep at night, and occasionally in the day-time too.  I have danced a great deal this winter, for there have been many parties here, and that has been very pleasant.  I go to church when the snow is not too deep; but we have had a great deal of snow this winter.  Now, I presume, you know everything, and if you do not, I can think of nothing better than for you to write to me once more. 
               MARIT KNUDSDATTER.

TO THE MOST HONORED MAIDEN, MARIT KNUDSDATTER HEIDEGARDS:—­
     I have received your letter, but you seem inclined to leave me no
wiser than I was before.  Perhaps this may be meant for an answer.  I do not know.  I dare not write anything that I wish to write, for I do not know you.  But possibly you do not know me either. 
     You must not think that I am any longer the soft cheese you
squeezed the water away from when I sat watching you dance.  I have laid on many shelves to dry since that time.  Neither am I like those long-haired dogs who drop their ears at the least provocation and take flight from people, as in former days.  I can stand fire now. 
     Your letter was very playful, but it jested where it should not