And in the evening he would stick his head out of his two-paned window
that looked on to the street, and would see the lads and girls coming
back, flushed and noisy, with flowers and green boughs in their hats,
crazy with sunshine and fresh air. And still he must sit and read on.
But in the autumn, when the long nights set in, he would go for a walk
through the streets before going to bed, as often as not up to the white
wooden house where the manager lived. This was Klaus's home. Lights in
the windows, and often music; the happy people that lived here knew and
could do all sorts of things that could never be learned from books. No
mistake: he had a goodish way to go--a long, long way. But get there he
would.
One day Klaus happened to mention, quite casually, where Colonel Holm's
widow lived, and late one evening Peer made his way out there, and
cautiously approached the house. It was in River Street, almost hidden
in a cluster of great trees, and Peer stood there, leaning against the
garden fence, trembling with some obscure emotion. The long rows of
windows on both floors were lighted up; he could hear youthful laughter
within, and then a young girl's voice singing--doubtless they were
having a party. Peer turned up his collar against the wind, and tramped
back through the town to his lodging above the carter's stable.
For the lonely working boy Saturday evening is a sort of festival. He
treats himself to an extra wash, gets out his clean underclothes from
his chest, and changes.
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