“Yes; but what then?” at last asked Ingeborg, with a soft smile and not withdrawing the hand that Bagger had seized.  “The proper meaning of what you have told me is that your troth is plighted to another, unknown lady.”

“No:  that isn’t the proper meaning—­”

“But yet it is a fact.  At the moment when you stand at the altar with one, another can step forward and claim you.”

“Oh, that kind of a claim!  A piece of paper without signature, sent away in the air!  In law it has no validity at all, and morally it has no power, when I love another as I love you, Ingeborg!”

“That I am not sure of.  It appears to me there is something painful in not being faithful to one’s youth and its promises, and in the consciousness of having deceived another.”

“You say this so earnestly, Ingeborg, that you make me desperate.  I confess that there is something ... something I would wish otherwise ... but for Heaven’s sake, make it not so earnest!”

As Ingeborg knew so well about it, she could not regard the matter as earnestly as her words denoted; but for another reason she had suddenly conceived or felt an earnestness.  It would not do to have a husband with so much fancy as Bagger, always having something unknown, fairy-like, lying out upon the horizon, holding claim upon him from his youth; and on the other hand it was against her principles, notwithstanding her confidence in his silence, to convey to him the knowledge that it was Miss Brandt who played fairy.

She said to him, “You must have your letter, your obligation, your marriage promise back.”

“Yes,” he answered with a sigh of discouragement:  “it is true enough I ought; but where shall I turn?  That is just the immeasurable difficulty.”

“Write by the same mail as before.”

“Which?”

“Let the whirlwind, that brought the first letter to its destination, also take care of this, in which you demand your word back.”

“Oh, that you do not mean!  Or, if you mean it, then I may honestly confess that I am not young any more or have not received another youth.  I have not courage to write anything, for fear it should come to others than to you.”

“So I see that, after all, I may act as witch to-day.  Write, and I will take care of the letter:  do you hesitate?”

“No:  only it took me a moment to comprehend the promise involved in this that you will take care of my letter.  I obey you blindly; but what shall I write?”

“Write:  ’Dear fairy,—­Since I woo Miss Hjelm’s hand and heart,’—­”

“Oh, you acknowledge it!  O Ingeborg, the Lord’s blessing upon you!” said Bagger, and would rise.

“’I ask you to send me my billet back.’—­Have you that?”

“Yes, Ingeborg, my Ingeborg, my unspeakably loved Ingeborg!  How poor language is, when the heart is so full!”

“Now, name, date, and address.  Have you that?  ’Postscriptum.  I give you my word of honor, that I neither know who you are, or how this letter shall reach you.’—­Have you that?”