A man can be drunk with joy. I fire off my gun, and an unforgettable echo answers from hill to hill, floats out over the sea and rings in some sleepy helmsman’s ears. And what have I to be joyful about? A thought that came to me, a memory; a sound in the woods, a human being. I think of her, I close my eyes and stand still there on the road, and think of her; I count the minutes.

Now I am thirsty, and drink from the stream; now I walk a hundred paces forward and a hundred paces back; it must be late by now, I say to myself.

Can there be anything wrong? A month has passed, and a month is no long time; there is nothing wrong. Heaven knows this month has been short. But the nights are often long, and I am driven to wet my cap in the stream and let it dry, only to pass the time, while I am waiting.

I reckoned my time by nights. Sometimes there would be an evening when Edwarda did not come — once she stayed away two evenings. Nothing wrong, no. But I felt then that perhaps my happiness had reached and passed its height.

And had it not?

“Can you hear, Edwarda, how restless it is in the woods to-night? Rustling incessantly in the undergrowth, and the big leaves trembling. Something brewing, maybe — but it was not that I had in mind to say. I hear a bird away up on the hill — only a tomtit, but it has sat there calling in the same place two nights now. Can you hear — the same, same note again?”

“Yes, I hear it. Why do you ask me that?”

“Oh, for no reason at all. It has been there two nights now. That was all . . . Thanks, thanks for coming this evening, love. I sat here, expect............