stretch over the green meadows on the other side of the water.
I heard voices ahead, and saw a man and a boy coming towards me. The landlord and his son were returning from the quarry. When we were close to each other the boy ran towards me with something white in his hand.
"Here is your letter," he called out.
"My letter?"
"Yes, I suppose it is one you wanted to post," said the owner of the quarry, "for it is addressed to Denmark."
"I found it where you sat so long while the boring was going on," said Hans.
With an uncomfortable feeling I took the letter, which was quite moist.
In the fading twilight I had some difficulty in discovering that the blurred address on the letter was to "Axel Stephensen, Esq., Artist." I wanted to see once more if my suspicions of the handwriting were correct, but the light dazzled my eyes.
"Yes, it is all right, thank you. Good-bye."
There stood the name of "The Danish Painter." If I had suddenly seen a ghost my back could not have felt more icily cold.
Axel Stephensen, indeed! Of course I knew him. Who does not know our young artists, even the least famous of the celebrities! It was some small consolation to me that, at any rate, I had not to cope with a genius. I knew him, that is to say, I had met him once at a café; I also remembered a rather nice landscape of his in the academy; and I had from time to time heard him mentioned, though not always in the most flattering terms, for he was considered rather fast. But what struck me as a most remarkable coincidence was the fact that, on this very day I
