Once outside, the thought came to him that he might as well end this suspense, and find out at once where he stood with Gertrude.  So he went straight down to the school-house.  When Ingmar opened the gate a mild spring rain was falling.  In the schoolmaster’s beautiful garden all things had started sprouting and budding.  The ground was turning green so rapidly that one could almost see the grass growing.  Gertrude was standing on the steps watching the rain, and two large bird-cherry bushes, thick with newly sprung leaves, spread their branches over her.  Ingmar paused a moment, astonished at finding everything down here so lovely and peaceful.  He was already beginning to feel less disquieted.  Gertrude had not yet seen him.  He closed the gate very gently, then went toward her.  When he was quite close he stopped and gazed at her in rapt wonder.  When he had last seen her she was hardly more than a child, but in one short year she had developed into a dignified and beautiful young lady.  She was now tall and slender and quite grown up, her head was finely poised on a graceful neck; her skin was soft and fair, shading into a fresh pink about the cheeks; her eyes were deep and thoughtful, and her mouth, around which mischief and merriment had once played, now expressed seriousness and wistful longing.

On seeing Gertrude so changed, a sense of supreme happiness came to Ingmar.  A peaceful stillness pervaded his whole being; it was as though he were in the presence of something great and holy.  It was all so beautiful that he wanted to go down on his knees and thank God.

But when Gertrude saw Ingmar she suddenly stiffened, her eyebrows contracted, and between her eyes there appeared the shadow of a wrinkle.  He saw at once that she did not like his being there, and it cut him to the quick.  “They want to take her from me,” he thought; “they have already taken her from me.”  The feeling of Sabbath peace vanished, and the old fear and anxiety returned.  Waving all ceremony, he asked Gertrude if it was true that she intended to join Hellgum and his followers.  She answered that it was.  Then Ingmar asked her if she had considered that the Hellgumists would not allow her to associate with persons who did not think as they did.  Gertrude quietly answered that she had carefully considered this matter.

“Have you the consent of your father and mother?” asked Ingmar.

“No,” she replied; “they know nothing as yet.”

“But, Gertrude—­”

“Hush, Ingmar!  I must do this to find peace.  God compels me.”

“No,” he cried, “not God, but—­”

Gertrude suddenly turned toward him.

Then Ingmar told her that he would never join the Hellgumists.  “If you go over to them, that will part us for ever.”

Gertrude looked at him as much as to say that she did not see how this could affect her.

“Don’t do it, Gertrude!” he implored.

“You mustn’t think that I’m acting heedlessly, for I have given this matter very serious thought.”