It seemed
to Peer like some kindly old grandmother, calling so lovingly: "Come,
come--old and young--old and young--from fjord and valley--northways and
southways; come, come--this day of all days--this day of all days--come,
come, come!" So it had stood, ringing out the chimes for one generation
after another through hundreds of years, and now it is calling to us.
And the young folks are there, looking at one another in their new
clothes, and blowing their noses on clean white handkerchiefs, so
carefully folded. There comes Peter Ronningen, passed by good luck this
year, but forced to turn out in a jacket borrowed from Peer, as
the tailor wasn't ready with his own new things. The boys say
"how-do-you-do" and try to smile like grown-up folks. One or two of them
may have some little account dating from old school-fights waiting to
be settled--but, never mind--just as well to forget old scores now. Peer
caught sight of Johan Koja, who stole a pencil from him last summer,
but, after all, even that didn't seem worth making a fuss about. "Well,
how've you been getting on since last summer?" they ask each other, as
they move together up the stone steps to the big church door, through
which the peal of the organ comes rolling out to meet them.
How good it seems, and how kind, the little church, where all you see
bids you welcome! Through the stained-glass windows with their tiny
leaded panes falls a light so soft that even poor ugly faces seem
beautiful.
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