There was not a breath stirring, and the West Fjord heaved in long, smooth swells.  The fjord lay like a giant at rest, sunning itself.  The wonderfully clear air allowed the eye to see over the mountain ranges, almost into eternity, while an aerial reflection—­an inverted mountain, with a house under it and a couple of spouting whales—­built up a fairytale for us over the blue stretch of sea.  Now and then we met a sea-fowl, floating on the smooth water; and in our wake gambolled a porpoise or two.

A little before midday we got in among the Vaette Rocks, and set about fishing; for first, without considering the provision basket, we had to procure our own dinner.

On the outer side of the rocks the surf broke noisily in the still day, and sent up great white jets, or retreated with a long sucking sound, as if the ocean drew deep, regular, breaths.  Restless as Susanna was, she bent over the gunwale, until her hair almost dipped in her own image in the water, to look through the transparent sea at the fish, which, at a depth of fifteen or twenty fathoms, glided in and out among the seaweed over the greenish-white bottom, and crowded round the lines with which the grown-up people with their double tackle often drew up two fish at once.  In her eagerness she called me stone-blind, whenever I could not see just the fish she meant.  And short-sighted I was, too, but Susanna’s slightest movement interested me more than any fish.

The scene was indeed enchanting.  The white boat rocked over its image, as if it hung in space.  Gunnar’s Place, too, lay reflected in the water, with field-patches below it, and birch-clad slopes above and around it.  The air, which had, later in the day, become misty with the heat, was filled with the strong scent of foliage, such as is only known in the south when it has been raining.

In less than an hour the pail was full of fish, enough for a “boiling,” and we landed.

The minister’s wife meantime had a table brought out on to the grass in front of the house, and on the fine damask cloth she had placed several milk-rings.  She had also made romme groed, [Thick cream, either sweet or sour, boiled.] and, as far as space would permit, had loaded the table with courses from the provision basket.

But at last the wine and good things began to confuse the sheriff’s brain a little.  To the intense horror of the minister’s wife, he related how her husband, grey-haired and strict as he now was, had been an unusually gay fellow in his youth, and how they had played many a mad prank together.

When the sheriff found that he had made a mistake, he tried to mend matters by a serious toast, in which he expressed a hope that, for the sake of the district, the minister would be able to defeat all the machinations of his intriguing neighbour—­here he was stopped in his speech by a meaning look from the minister over at me, as I sat at the end of the table—­and ended with some wandering remarks, which were meant to turn off the whole thing.