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out Fastrup way, and was skirting the edge of a long copse
of stunted oaks and dogrose that reached almost to her
shoulder, when suddenly she caught sight of Sören
Overseer, stretched at full length in the edge of the copse, his
eyes closed as if he were asleep. A scythe was lying at his
side, and the grass had been cut for some distance around.
Marie stood for a long time gazing at his large, regular
features, his broad, vigorously breathing chest, and his dark,
full-veined hands, which were clasped above his head. But
Sören was drowsing rather than sleeping, and suddenly he
opened his eyes, wide awake, and looked up at her. He was
startled at being found by one of the family sleeping when
he should have been cutting hay, but the expression in
Marie’s eyes amazed him so much that he did not come to
his senses until she blushed, said something about the heat,
and turned to go. He jumped up, seized his scythe and
whetstone, and began to rub the steel until it sang through the
warm, tremulous air. Then he went at the grass, slashing
as if his life were at stake.
After a while, he saw Marie crossing the stile into the
grove, and at that he paused. He stood a moment staring
after her, his arms resting on his scythe, then suddenly
flung it away with all his strength, sat down with legs
sprawling, mouth open, palms flat out on the grass, and thus
he sat in silent amazement at himself and his own strange
thoughts.
He looked like a man who had just dropped down from
a tree.
His head seemed to be teeming with dreams. What if any
one had cast a spell over him? He had never known
anything like the way things swarmed and swarmed inside of
his head, as if he could think of seven things at once, and
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