Egholm walks up from the gate, lithe and erect, just as in the old days when he came home from the office. But at every step his knees give under him, he stumbles, and his wet cloak hangs uncomfortably about him. At last he comes to a standstill, heedless of the fact that his broad boots are deep in a puddle of water.
Once he looks up, and Sivert and his mother hold their breath. But the flower-pots in the window hide them. His head droops forward, he stands there still. A little after, they see him trudging along close to the wall, past his own door.
The watchers stand on tiptoe, pressing their temples against the cold glass, straining to see what next.
Egholm stops at the Eriksens' gate, glances round, and kneels.
Kneels down full in the mire, while the gale flings the cape of his ulster over his head. Now he snatches off his hat and crushes it in his fingers; his bald head looks queerly oblong, like a pumpkin, seen from above.
And the two at the window shudder, as if they were witnessing some dreadful deed.
The mother pulls herself together--she must find strength for two.
"You need not hide to-day. Take your little saw and be doing some work. You'll see, it will be all right to-day."
"Hadn't we better tell him at once? Shout out and tell him as soon as he comes in, and say Hedvig took it?"
"No, no. Sit still, Sivert dear, and don't say a word. Maybe God will help us. We might put something over the bowl ... no. Better leave it as it is."
Heavy steps on the stairs outside. Egholm walks in, strong and erect again now.
He hangs up his wet things, and fumbles with a pair of sodden cuffs.
"Didn't get a place, I suppose?" asks his wife, looking up from the machine. Sivert sits obediently at a little table at the farther end of the room.
"Is it likely?" Egholm's face is that of one suffering intensely. And he speaks in an injured tone.
"I only thought.... You're home earlier than usual."
No answer. Egholm walks over to the window and stares into the greyness without, his long, thin fingers pulling now and again at his dark beard.
His wife does not venture to disturb him, though he is shutting out the fading light. She keeps the machine audibly in motion, making pretence of work.
A long, long time he stands there. Sivert has been sawing away conscientiously all the time, but at last he can bear it no longer, and utters a loud sigh. Fru Egholm reaches stealthily for the matches, and lights the lamp. Her fingers tremble as she lifts the glass.