treats himself to an extra wash, gets out his clean underclothes from
his chest, and changes. And the smell of the newly-washed underclothing
calls up keenly the thought of a pock-marked old woman who sewed
and patched it all, and laid it away so neatly folded. He puts it on
carefully, feeling almost as if it were Sunday already.

Now and again, when a Sunday seemed too long, Peer would drift into the
nearest church. What the parson said was all very good, no doubt, but
Peer did not listen; for him there were only the hymns, the organ, the
lofty vaulted roof, the coloured windows. Here, too, the faces of the
people looked otherwise than in the street without; touched, as it were,
by some reflection from all that their thoughts aspired to reach. And
it was so homelike here. Peer even felt a sort of kinship with them all,
though every soul there was a total stranger.

But at last one day, to his surprise, in the middle of a hymn, a voice
within him whispered suddenly: "You should write to your sister. She's
as much alone in the world as you are."

And one evening Peer sat down and wrote. He took quite a lordly tone,
saying that if she wanted help in any way, she need only let him know.
And if she would care to move in to town, she could come and live with
him. After which he remained, her affectionate brother, Peer Holm,
engineer apprentice.

A few days later there came a letter addressed in a fine slanting hand.
Louise had just been confirmed. The farmer she was with wished to keep
her on as dairymaid through the winter, but she was afraid the work
would be too heavy for her. So she was coming in to town by the boat
arriving on Sunday evening. With kind regards, his sister, Louise Hagen.