Suddenly a thought strikes me, and I grasp the letter. Yes, it is for me;
I forgot ... yes, of course....
And I hurry out into the road, with something ringing in my ears all the
time, and open the letter, and read:
"_Skriv ikke til mig_--" [Footnote: "Do not write (skrive) to me."]
No name, no place, but so clear and lovely. The first word was underlined.
I do not know how I got home. I remember I sat on a stone by the roadside
and read the letter and put it in my pocket, and walked on till I came to
another stone and did the same again. _Skriv ikke_. But--did that
mean I might come and perhaps speak with her? That little, dainty piece of
paper, and the swift, delicate characters. Her hands had held it, her eyes
had looked on it, her breath had touched it. And then at the end a dash.
Which might have a world of meaning.
I came home, handed in the Lensmand's post, and went out into the wood. I
was dreaming all the time. My comrade, no doubt, must have found me an
incomprehensible man, seeing me read a letter again and again, and put it
back with my money.
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