that he looked with suspicion upon those who
selected Saturday nights for their visits.[5]
When Brita was twenty years old, however, her
father thought that it was time for her to make
her choice. There were many fine, brave lads
in the valley, and, as Bjarne thought, Brita
would have the good sense to choose the finest
and the bravest. So, when the winter came, he
suddenly flung his doors open to the youth of
the parish, and began to give parties with ale
and mead in the grand old style. He even
talked with the young men, at times, encouraged
them to manly sports, and urged them to taste
of his home-brewed drinks and to tread the
spring-dance briskly. And Brita danced and
laughed so that her hair flew around her and
the silver brooches tinkled and rang on her
bosom. But when the merriment was at an
end, and any one of the lads remained behind
to offer her his hand, she suddenly grew grave,
told him she was too young, that she did not
know herself, and that she had had no time as yet
to decide so serious a question. Thus the winter
passed and the summer drew near.


[5] In the country districts of Norway Saturday
evening is regarded as "the wooer's eve."