THE AMERICAN-SC AN DIN AVIAN REVIEW 
745 
went on smoking for a long time after the flame was extinguished. 
Peter had now become feverish. His brown, tanned face was 
flushed and red, and his cold, clear eyes were languid and moist. He 
was not afraid, but he did think it was a little uncomfortable to be 
lying here miles away from any human being. No one knew where 
he was. He had told them at home that he was going to Bjodal, but 
was so long and devious that any indications of lo¬ 
cality were of necessity vague. There was as little chance of finding 
him here as of finding a needle in a haystack. For that matter it 
would be long enough before any one thought of looking for him; for 
when Peter went to the forest, they did not expect him back until 
they saw him at the door. 
No, it must be confessed that the situation was a little unpleasant. 
The hours passed with astonishing rapidity, and as they passed, 
the fire in Peter’s tough, hardy body grew hotter. He fought with 
all his will against the illness, but the illness was stronger than his 
will, and his will had to keep on giving way. By the end of the after¬ 
noon the inflammation had taken a firm hold. 
Away on the field-fence a little bird sat singing its song while the 
rays of the evening sun played upon its soft plumage. 
The change from day to night is rapid, indefinite, and noiseless. 
The shadows on the floor become indistinct, while they still remain 
for a little time longer on the window-sill; but at last they are lost 
there too. It is darkest in the corner where Peter is lying, and the 
gloom grows deeper and deeper, and spreads to the other corners. A 
tin pan on the wall holds the light for a time, and the new shingle roof 
of the cow-shed in the field shines white in the evening light. 
All day Storm has been restless, for he cannot comprehend why 
Peter has gone to bed and makes no attempt to go out. Again and 
again he goes up to the bed, and pushes his cold nose into Peter’s 
face; and then Peter puts out a hand and pats the dog’s head. “Poor 
old fellow!” he says. “Poor old fellow!” 
For a time it is quite dark, and the stillness of night rests upon 
the hut. The only sound within is the unnaturally rapid breathing of 
the man in the bed—a heavy, gasping breath, as after long running. 
The sick man seldom turns in his bed. 
Outside, the moonlight is again flooding the river and the frosty 
meadow. What o’clock it is Peter does not know, when Storm sud¬ 
denly rises and begins to snuff at the door. He puts his nose close to 
the narrow crack between the door and the frame, where a cold draught 
from without enters, and keeps on snuffing and snuffing. He then be¬ 
gins to growl and his back bristles, and at this Peter’s attention is 
aroused. The dog has evidently noticed something unusual. Peter 
listens for foot-steps. Oh, if only it were people! Never before had 
he so longed to see a human being. 
