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not mentioning her condition; only once when she went out
with her painting paraphernalia did Mrs. Rasmussen ask her
anxiously if she did not think it unwise. She had worked hard
at first, standing behind a stone fence with her field easel, which
threatened to be upset every instant by the wind.
Below the stone fence the stubby rye field sloped towards a
swamp where the bog bean round the bluish water pools was
whitening, and velvety black peat stacks stood piled on the
grass. Beyond the swamp were the chalk-white peasants’ huts
set in rich dark green groves and surrounded by meadows,
stubbed rye fields, and turnip land as far as the water’s edge.
The beach was cut into tiny bays and points, the sand and the
short dried grass making it look a whitish yellow. To the
north a heather-brown hill with a windmill on top sloped down
towards the bay. Light and shadow flitted alternately over
the landscape as the clouds travelled across the wide, ever
restless sky.
When Jenny got tired she lay down by the fence, looking up
at the sky and out over the bay; she could not stand for long
at a time, but it made her only more eager. Two small pictures
painted from the fence were finished, and she was pleased with
them; a third one she painted in the village, where the low
whitewashed houses with thatched roofs almost covering the
windows, and climbing roses and dahlias in the gardens, stood
along a velvety green ditch, and a red brick church stretched
its gabled tower above the foliage of the vicarage garden. But
it made her nervous when people came to look at her, and
flaxen-haired youngsters clustered round her when she was
painting. When the picture was finished she moved with her
easel again to the stone fence.
In October the rain came, pouring down for a week or two.
Now and again the skies cleared a little, letting out a sickly
yellow ray of light between the clouds over the hill with the
pitiable willows, and the puddles in the road lay shining a
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