now for many years. The master took no further notice of him, but
went on reading; and Bjerregrav sank into his dumb pondering; his
pale hands feeling one thing after another, as though the most
everyday objects were unknown to him. He took hold of things just
as a newborn child might have done; one had to smile at him and
leave him to sit there, grubbing about like the child he really was.
It was quite impossible to hold a continuous conversation with him;
for even if he did actually make an observation it was sure to be
quite beside the mark; Bjerregrav was given to remarking attributes
which no one else noticed, or which no one would have dwelt upon.

When he sat thus, pondering over and fingering some perfectly
familiar object, people used to say, "Now Bjerregrav's questioning
fit is coming on!" For Bjerregrav was an inquirer; he would ask
questions about the wind and the weather, and even the food that
he ate. He would ask questions about the most laughable subjects--
things that were self-evident to any one else--why a stone was hard,
or why water extinguished fire. People did not answer him, but
shrugged their shoulders compassionately. "He is quite all there,"
they would say; "his head's all right. But he takes everything the
wrong way round!"

The young master looked up from his book. "Now, shall I inherit
Bjerregrav's money?" he asked mischievously.

"No--you've always been good to me; I don't want to cause you any
misfortune."

"Worse things than that might befall me, don't you think?"