There were several places where we could meet--at the mill, on the road,
even in my hut. She came wherever I would. _"Goddag!"_ she cried, always
first, and I answered _"Goddag!"_

"You are happy to-day," she says, and her eyes sparkle.

"Yes, I am happy," I answer. "There is a speck there on your shoulder;
it is dust, perhaps, a speck of mud from the road; I must kiss that
little spot. No--let me--I will. Everything about you stirs me so! I am
half out of my senses. I did not sleep last night."

And that was true. Many a night I lay and could not sleep.

We walk side by side along the road.

"What do you think--am I as you like me to be?" she asks. "Perhaps I
talk too much. No? Oh, but you must say what you really think.
Sometimes I think to myself this can never come to any good..."

"What can never come to any good?" I ask.

"This between us. That it cannot come to any good. You may believe it or
not, but I am shivering now with cold; I feel icy cold the moment I come
to you. Just out of happiness."

"It is the same with me," I answer. "I feel a shiver, too, when I see
you. But it will come to some good all the same. And, anyhow, let me pat
you on the back, to warm you."