Marit Knudsdatter.
You must be sure to burn this letter.
To Ovind Thoresen Pladsen.
I have said to you Ovind, that he who walks with God shall have a good
inheritance. And now listen to my advice: look not to the world with
too much longing and anxiety, but trust in God and let not your heart
be discouraged.
Your father and mother are both well, but I suffer a good deal, for now
I feel the effects of the hardships I endured in the war. That which
you sow in your young days you reap in your old, both in body and soul,
and this is now my experience. But the aged should not complain, for
sorrow teacheth wisdom, and affliction worketh patience, and
strengthens for the last journey.
There are many reasons why I take the pen to write to you to-day, but
first and foremost on Marit's account, for she has grown a good girl,
though she is light of foot as a reindeer and is changeable. She would
wish to keep to one, but it is not in her nature. I have often observed
that with such tender hearts the Lord is merciful and lenient, and does
not suffer them to be tempted above that they are able to bear.
I duly gave her the letter and she hid it from all but her own heart.
If the Lord will further this matter I have nothing against it. That
she finds approbation in the eyes of the young men can easily be seen,
and she has abundance of this world's goods and also of the heavenly,
but with the latter there is much unsettledness; the fear of God with
her is like water in a shallow dam, it is there when it rains but away
when the sun shines.
Now my eyes will not bear any more, for though I can see pretty well at
a distance, they begin to water when I look closely at anything.
Finally, let me remind you, Ovind, whatsoever you aspire to, take
counsel of God, as it is written:--"Better is an handful with
quietness, than both the hands full, with travail and vexation of
spirit."--(Proverbs IV. 6.)
Your old schoolmaster,
Baard Andersen Opdal.
To Marit Knudsdatter Heidegaard.
Thanks for your letter, which I have read, and burnt as you told me to
do. You write a great deal, but you don't say anything about that I
want you to, and I dare not write about a certain matter until I know
how you fare in every respect.
The schoolmaster says nothing to be depended upon, he praises you, but
he calls you wavering. That you were before. Now I don't know what to
believe; you must write, for I shall feel uneasy until I have heard
from you. Just now I often think of that last evening when you came to
the ridge, and of what you then said.