Those were happy days; but they could not last forever. The neighbors
were separated, the mother of the little girl was dead, and her father had
thoughts of marrying again and of residing in the capital, where he had been
promised a very lucrative appointment as messenger. The neighbors parted
with tears, the children wept sadly; but their parents promised that they
should write to each other at least once a year.
After this, Knud was bound apprentice to a shoemaker; he was growing a
great boy, and could not be allowed to run wild any longer. Besides, he was
going to be confirmed. Ah, how happy he would have been on that festal
day in Copenhagen with little Joanna; but he still remained at Kjøge, and
had never seen the great city, though the town is not five miles from it. But
far across the bay, when the sky was clear, the towers of Copenhagen could
be seen; and on the day of his confirmation he saw distinctly the golden
cross on the principal church glittering in the sun. How often his thoughts
were with Joanna! but did she think of him? Yes. About Christmas came a
letter from her father to Knud’s parents, which stated that they were going
on very well in Copenhagen, and mentioning particularly that Joanna’s
beautiful voice was likely to bring her a brilliant fortune in the future. She
was engaged to sing at a concert, and she had already earned money by
singing, out of which she sent her dear neighbors at Kjøge a whole dollar,
for them to make merry on Christmas eve, and they were to drink her
health. She had herself added this in a postscript, and in the same postscript
she wrote, “Kind regards to Knud.”
The good neighbors wept, although the news was so pleasant; but they
wept tears of joy. Knud’s thoughts had been daily with Joanna, and now he
knew that she also had thought of him; and the nearer the time came for his
apprenticeship to end, the clearer did it appear to him that he loved Joanna,
and that she must be his wife; and a smile came on his lips at the thought,
and at one time he drew the thread so fast as he worked, and pressed his
foot so hard against the knee strap, that he ran the awl into his finger; but
what did he care for that? He was determined not to play the dumb lover as
both the gingerbread cakes had done; the story was a good lesson to him.
