crumpled newspapers, in which I had occasionally carried home bread. I
rolled my blanket up and pocketed my reserve white writing-paper. Then I
ransacked every corner to assure myself that I had left nothing behind,
and as I could not find anything, went over to the window and looked out.

The morning was gloomy and wet; there was no one about at the burnt-out
smithy, and the clothesline down in the yard stretched tightly from wall
to wall shrunken by the wet. It was all familiar to me, so I stepped back
from the window, took the blanket under my arm, and made a low bow to the
lighthouse director's announcement, bowed again to Miss Andersen's
winding-sheet advertisement, and opened the door. Suddenly the thought of
my land-lady struck me; she really ought to be informed of my leaving, so
that she could see she had had an honest soul to deal with.

I wanted also to thank her in writing for the few days' overtime in which
I occupied the room. The certainty that I was now saved for some time to
come increased so strongly in me that I even promised her five shillings.
I would call in some day when passing by.

Besides that, I wanted to prove to her what an upright sort of person her
roof had sheltered.

I left the note behind me on the table.

Once again I stopped at the door and turned round; the buoyant feeling of
having risen once again to the surface charmed me, and made me feel
grateful towards God and all creation, and I knelt down at the bedside and
thanked God aloud for His great goodness to me that morning.

I knew it; ah! I knew that the rapture of inspiration I had just felt and