Bengt.
[Laughing.] Why, Margit, of what are you thinking? I told you but a moment agone that your kinsman—
Margit.
[Crossing to the table on the right.] Twelve years is a long time, Gudmund. The freshest plant may wither ten times over in that space.
Gudmund.
'Tis seven years since last we met.
Margit.
Surely it must be more than that.
Gudmund.
[Looking at her.] I could almost think so. But 'tis as I say.
Margit.
How strange! I must have been but a child then; and it seems to me a whole eternity since I was a child. [Throws herself down on a chair.] Well, sit you down, my kinsman! Rest you, for to-night you shall dance, and rejoice us with your singing. [With a forced smile.] Doubtless you know we are merry here to-day—we are holding a feast.
Gudmund.
'Twas told me as I entered your homestead.
