BOOK II

LOTTA HEDMAN

ONE day toward the end of September 1915 a train came down from Norrland to the south. In a third-class compartment sat a young woman, very simply and decently dressed in black, with a black hat almost devoid of trimmings. She was talking to her fellow travellers. She was not afraid of raising her voice at times, and the voice in itself being somewhat shrill, she could be heard by all those near. It was soon evident that this was the first time she had travelled on the railway. And the strangeness of it all, coming out into the world and meeting strange, kindly people, seemed to have lifted her to a sort of ecstasy. All that she had been unable to find outlet for during years of life in a confined situation broke out now. She talked unceasingly, and always of herself. She was loth to lose an opportunity of letting people know who she was, and what strange message she had to bring.

"And I'm just one that's never studied at all, beyond the Bible," said she. "My head's not heavy with knowledge. Not all confused with doctrines of error. I am as an unwritten page; as the white scroll on which God Himself writes His own thoughts. And I was born far away in Lapland, and live in a little settlement, and every day I go to work at a box factory, and I'm all alone and poor, and neither husband nor child. And nobody asks whether I live or die, and nobody comes to see after me if I'm ill, and there's no one there at home that I can talk to about what's most of all to me. And I know well enough that people make fun of me behind my back, and I'm already getting shy of going about among people."

A kindly old lady sitting opposite, who had entered into conversation with her at first, and got her to speak, now laid a hand on her knee, as if to calm her, but she went on, as if driven by an irresistible inner force.

"And all my days Death has been after me like a ravening wolf. His strivings after me have been manifold. He tried to compass me about while I was yet in my mother's womb. He sent forth a madman to frighten my mother, and I was born into the world too early, and a weak and wretched thing at birth. And once he tried to drown me when I was bathing, and once, out in the forest, he let a tree fall on me, and once he sent a serpent to bite me in the foot when I was out picking berries, and once he threw me down from a scaffold on a building. And he's plagued me with sickness beyond counting."

It was not only her opposite neighbour that listened to her now. A peasant and his wife, sitting next to her, followed her words with the greatest attention. The tone and the choice of words reminded them of mission meetings, and they put on an almost pious expression.

"And in the days of my youth," went on the girl--she could not have been more than twenty-six or twenty-seven at the most--"I stretched forth my arms to God, and asked Him why He suffered Death to persecute me with sickness and wounds, but now, these last few years, I have ceased to ask. I know now that the Evil One strove to strike me down because it was God's purpose to speak through me; yes, out of my mouth God should set a barrier against the raging of the Enemy."

She paused for breath, and looked round, but finding only kindly looks and attention among the rest, she went on again:

"And I have wondered in myself why I should live so far away in the north, and why I should always walk the same little streets and never see anything of the glories of the world. Why have I been granted so little understanding to make my way and manage for myself, and why have I so little pleasure on that which pleases others? Why does the foreman at the factory never say a kindly word to me, however hard I work? Why should it be so hard for me to get milk, and why should I live in a little room where no one else would be?

"But now I have ceased from wondering of these things, for now I know that it is God that has made all waste and miserable about me. And I may be glad that He has not sent me out into the forests, or into the mountains, or sent me to live in a Lapp tent, and wander about with reindeer in the wilderness. I must be thankful that He has suffered me to dwell in a place where others besides myself have their homes."

It was not only the three sitting nearest who now gave heed to the young woman's words. One or two of those farthest off stood up to listen. "What was it?" some asked. Or, "Who was it carrying on like that for all the carriage to hear? Some of those Salvation Army people?"

"For it is God's will that my thoughts should be for Him alone," went on the woman in black. "It is His will that I should think and consider much; that I should interpret Daniel and make clear Ezekiel, and draw forth wisdom from the Revelations. And in the evenings, when others are dancing and feasting, Lotta Hedman sits with her Bible, sits searching after knowledge of God, and things are clear to her which no other in the world can understand."

A thrill of wonder went through all those who heard, and the speaker did not fail to notice it. The attention she had awakened egged her on; even if she had wished, she could not stop now till she had finished. Her long-closed lips moved now with or against her will.

"And in the winter nights, when the clock strikes twelve, and one and all Sweden has gone to rest, and the great white land lies stretched in the calm of sleep, I sit in a poor little room, a room so mean that no other would ever live there, and I see God's finger pointing to words and figures in Holy Writ. And then it is revealed to me how it shall be with all the others, all those who lie sleeping through the winter night. A revelation to me, poor and despised as I am, yet given to no other, to none among the learned and the worldly-wise."

Her voice rose yet shriller; the woman sitting opposite laid one hand again with a kindly touch on her knee. A conductor, making his round through the train, stopped to listen, wondering if one of the passengers had been suddenly seized with a fit of madness.

"And all that I have seen and learned, I have written down in plain words, and sealed and sent it to the King. To the great palace in Stockholm, a letter from the poor factory girl at Stenbroträsk, from one that the boys run after in the street, hunting and snarling like Lapp dogs after a wild she-wolf.

"And I have waited for many days for an answer from the King, but there has come no answer from the King. And I have written my letter all again, and sent it to the papers, and the papers would have nothing to do with my letter, but sent it back.

"And then I was greatly distressed, for my letter is more important than many things. For I know when the Great War is to end, and I know that after it shall come the great Destruction, when Nature shall lay waste the earth, but that after the Great Destruction shall come the bright Millennium. And I know that a third part of all mankind on earth shall perish in the Great War, and a third shall perish in the Great Destruction, but the last third shall be left alive in the Great Millennium, which is the Kingdom of the Lord on Earth."

The words, flung out with violent force, pierced many of the listeners like cold steel, and they shivered with dread. A few years earlier, such a speech would have been received with derision, but this was the second year of the World War, when all hearts were filled to the utmost with horror and expectation. Even in Sweden, no one could feel safe from day to day, but wondered what the Russians were about up at Haparanda.

"These things and much more--all are in my letter to the King. And I wrote to him and told him how he should act so that he and all in Sweden should escape the coming time of wrath, and how they might come to share in the Millennium of God.

"But I have prayed to God for help, and asked Him how my letter could be made known to the world, since no one will help me. And God has given me His commands, and told me what remained for me to do. For there is a great sin to be atoned for before my letter can be sent abroad and made known to all men. And it is to atone for my sin that I am going south to-day."

The excitement in the carriage was at its height. Here was one who claimed to know what all longed to know: when the war was to end. A voice from someone among those farthest off was heard asking her:

"When is the war to end?"

And many others took up the cry: "When is it to end? If you know, tell us, tell us now."

It seemed as if the end of all those horrors and perils that weighed down mankind were suddenly brought within view. Perhaps before long there might yet come a time when the murdering out in the great world was at an end; when men could think once more of other matters than of war; could live without suffering day and night from the thought of old women mourning, terrified fugitives, prisoners dying slowly in their captivity.

Peasants thought of the days when they would no longer have to send their sons and hired men to guard the still precarious neutrality of their country; small tradesmen, who had done flourishing business at the beginning of the war, but were now threatened with dearth of all commodities; workmen, who saw themselves face to face with increased cost of living and scarcity of the bare necessaries of life--all asked with one voice: "When is it to end? When is all this misery to cease?"

But the prophetess from Stenbroträsk did not seem to have expected such an effect of her words.

"It is all in my letter," she cried. "It shall be made known when I have atoned for my sin, and God lets my words be published abroad throughout the world."

There was a perceptible loss of interest among the listeners; evidently this woman knew no more than anyone else. Most of those who had risen sat down again.

And the end of her speech, the few words she uttered afterward were scarcely heard by any save the kindly woman sitting opposite, who had first spoken to her.

"And I have no time to write except at night," said the girl--"at night, when work is over, and then my fingers are stiff and unwilling, and I am not quick at writing properly. They talk differently in our parts. It makes me very tired, all the writing.

"And I live in poverty and wretchedness," she went on. "Poor and ill and alone, and living in a place where no one else would ever live, and I tremble to think of all that must come."

She had marked well enough that no one seemed to care any longer for her words. Her voice grew fainter, and there was a dreamy look in her eyes. At last she spoke only in a whisper, and lowered her glance. None but those nearest could hear what she said.

"But I pray to God to spare me, that I may live to be one among the purified host. I pray that I may be counted among that last third, and that I, who have been chosen to proclaim its coming when all despised me, may share in the Millennium of the Lord, and stand among the elect and see this earth resplendent in the glory of righteousness."

THE WONDERFUL MUSIC

THE long train from the north rolled on unceasingly from station to station. Those in the compartment where Lotta Hedman sat gradually got out: first the peasant and his wife, then the kindly woman who had got her to speak at first of who and what she was. Then there entered a man, who, by the look of him, might have been a lay preacher of some sort, and sat down in the comfortable corner. He had been in another part of the train before, and came now to find a better seat.

The newcomer at once entered into conversation with Lotta. He asked her whether any revelations had come to her before the time of the war, or if it was only since its beginning that she had been aware of her gift. He spoke in low tones, with a soft, gentle, and very winning voice, exhibiting the warmest interest, without either expressing doubt or faith. To others, his manner of speaking might seem irritating in its extreme humility, but Lotta Hedman was pleased to be addressed with some measure of respect, now that she had for the first time shown herself among strangers and revealed her calling.

"I should be glad indeed if you would tell me something about your visions," said the man. "It is too much to ask, perhaps, seeing that I am a stranger to you, but be sure I should feel it a great honour."

The young woman could not resist such an appeal, and began at once to tell about the first time she had noticed anything strange. But she spoke now with far greater calm than before. True, she raised her voice, and found also more listeners than the one directly addressed, but the man before her seemed unwittingly to exert a calming influence, and her eagerness was restrained.

"I was only fourteen at the time," she said, "and was just recovering from a serious illness that had been sent by my persecutor Death; I was very weak, and all my body felt as if it were withering and falling to nothing. But I did not live alone then, as I do now; I lived at home with my father and mother. And they were only poor peasant folk, but they cared for me in my weakness, and let me stay at home, instead of sending me out to service among strangers. And Mother asked no more of me than that I should help her with light work and errands, and read aloud a chapter of the Bible every day.

"There was no sawmill at Stenbroträsk in those days, and no box factory, and no workmen's dwellings, nor even the beginning of a settlement. All our side of the river there were no houses beyond a couple of small farmsteads. The church and the Deanery and the big farms were all over on the other side, just as they are now.

"Then, one Sunday evening, Mother told me to row over with some milk to the Deanery, for it was summer time, and everyone there had their cows out at a distance for months together, and they could not get milk nearer than from us.

"I got into the boat, and started to row across, and it was all so easy and light of a sudden. As if the heavy boat was turned to the lightest little thing, and the water changed to smooth, fine oil, and the oars to delicate wings. And everything was very quiet and still. The oars did not creak in the rowlocks, nor splash in the water, and there was no sound from either shore. Not so much as a cow-bell anywhere. No men and girls sitting talking on the banks, and all the swallows that always used to build in the high banks and were always fluttering and flying about outside their holes, they seemed to be gone all at once, and never a sign of them.

"And when I had rowed across, and taken the milk and started up to walk to the Deanery, it wasn't hard walking at all, though it was uphill all the way, and I had the sun right in my face. The sun didn't seem hot in the least, and the milk wasn't heavy at all.

"And I thought to myself they must be waiting eagerly for me, and it must mean something good for me somehow; for I had never found it so easy to get over there before.

"And then when I came into the kitchen, it was all quiet there too, and not a soul to be seen that I could give the milk to, so I had to stay waiting at the door.

"And then, almost as soon as I came in, I heard someone playing in one of the rooms above, and I could hear it so clearly I almost fancied it must be in the same room where I stood. And it was so beautiful, I was glad the housekeeper and the maid were not there, so I could stay quietly and listen. I was in no hurry to go now--I could have stood there the whole night and not wanted to go.

"At that time I'd never heard any sort of music but a harmonica and the old church organ at Stenbroträsk, and I wondered so much what fine instrument it could be that was playing now. And it wasn't any sort of tune I knew. Just long-drawn tones like a strong soughing of the wind, and full of sound, and so clear, it felt as if they stroked my cheek so gently, passing by.

"And I had such lovely, splendid thoughts as I listened. I felt as if I were freed from earth, and half-way up to God's heaven.

"Then someone came into the kitchen, and suddenly the wonderful music stopped.

"When the housekeeper had poured off the milk, she set out something to eat for me on the table, and told me to sit down. They had had a funeral that day, she said; it was the old lady that was dead, the Dean's mother, and they had had guests to dinner. And I was to have a little of the good things, she said.

"And because she was so kind and nice, I took courage, and asked who it could be that had played so beautifully up above.

"But the housekeeper, she was so astonished, she could hardly speak.

"'What's that you're saying, child? You can't have heard anybody playing up above. The piano's at the other end of the house, and we can't hear it out in the kitchen. And you can think for yourself there's no one likely to be playing music here the day old mistress is laid to rest!'

"Then nobody said anything for a time. I knew, of course, that I had heard what I had heard, but I didn't like to contradict.

"And the housekeeper, she sort of thought it over to herself a little, and then she began again trying to put me right.

"'It's old mistress's room that's here above the kitchen,' she said, 'and the last place in the world any one would ever think of playing music this day.'

"The tears came into my eyes then, for I knew she thought I had been telling untruth. And I felt like running away at once, only it would look so strange to run off before I'd finished what she'd given me.

"And then, what do you think? Just as I was sitting there wishing myself a hundred miles off, the door opens, and the Dean himself looks in and asks hadn't they heard the bell for evening prayers?

"And they were abashed at that and made excuses.

"'It's Lotta Hedman there; she frightened us so we forgot everything else. She says she came into the kitchen a little while back, when there was nobody here, and hears someone playing music up above. And we can't make it out, for we know surely enough there's no one here would play a note the day of the funeral.'

"And I, poor thing, being pointed out like that, I didn't know what to do with myself. I set down my knife and fork and pushed away my plate, and was just getting ready to run out of the door.

"'Music?' says the Dean. 'Now let us all give thanks to God. This is a wonderful act of grace indeed. I knew well that my dear mother would send a greeting if it were in her power. She would not leave me for all eternity without a sign to be a guidance to me living on in darkness and uncertainty.'

"And he came up to me and laid his hand on my head.

"'So you are one of the chosen,' he said. 'One of those appointed to bring tidings from the dead to the living. Well, well, it may be that God Himself will speak one day through you on earth.'

"And he said no more, only turned my face upward and looked deep into my eyes, and sighed, and went away.

"But when I rowed back across the water, I sat thinking of all that had happened that day. And I felt that in some strange way I was changed now, and could never be the same again.

"And that was the first time anything wonderful ever happened to me; the first time I found that I was appointed to see and hear things that are hidden from the wise and learned.

"And already I believed I was to be one of the prophets of the Lord, such as I had read of in Holy Writ. I believed I should one day utter forth words that should endure as long at heaven and earth. I believed I was to be exalted among mankind, and never dreamed that I should come to be only a poor working girl in a factory."

SIGRUN

THE stranger thanked Lotta Hedman sincerely for her story.

"I am more than glad that I happened to be in the train to-day," he said. "Ah, if we could only hear the heavenly music oftener! Then the world would be different in many ways."

With this remark he drew back into his corner. He pulled his hat down over his eyes, but Lotta Hedman felt sure that he had not done so in order to sleep, but to think at ease over what he had heard.

After a little she felt a powerful desire to speak with him again. "Talk to him of Sigrun. Ask his advice about your journey," said a voice within her very clearly. "But why should I speak of Sigrun to one who is a stranger to her and to me?" she protested to herself. Nevertheless, in a moment the desire was there again. "Speak to him of Sigrun! Look at him, now that his hat has slipped aside. A good man who has suffered much. And of a humble heart. Whoever he meets, however fallen and deep in sin, he holds them for greater than himself. To such a man one can speak of anything. Tell him of Sigrun!"

"No, Lotta Hedman, be careful! You are not at home in Stenbroträsk now, where you know everyone. How do you know this man is as good as you say? Perhaps he is even now laughing at you in his thoughts."

The train rolled on and on, from station to station. People got out and others entered. At a great junction where several lines met, all the passengers in the third-class carriage got out, except Lotta Hedman and the stranger sitting opposite.

Hardly were they alone when the man sat straight up in his seat, put his hat in the rack above, and began to speak.

He was kind and wise, cheerful, and, above all, gentle and humble in manner. It was this gentleness that marked him, so that people could not look at him for five minutes without longing to tell him all their troubles.

"That man would understand my weakness"--so thought all who met with him. "It would be good to speak with him. He would understand how hard it is for me."

And it was not long before Lotta Hedman broke off in the middle of a conversation about the box factory and work in Stenbroträsk.

"I should like to ask you about something," she said. "I am in trouble, and you know I live all alone and have no one to ask. Perhaps you could give me good advice."

"Do not say you want me to advise you," said the man. "I am surely but ill-fitted to advise. But tell me, at least, what it is that troubles you. You speak well, and this is a long journey. I am going all the way to Dalsland myself. It will be a couple of days before I get home."

"Well, it was this way. Once I had a friend. She was the eldest daughter of the Dean at Stenbroträsk. We were both going to be confirmed, and went to classes together."

Her voice choked a moment, and her eyes reddened.

"I never cared so much for anyone on earth as I did for her," she went on, after struggling a moment with her emotion.

The man sat quite still, making no attempt to hurry or assist her. He looked, indeed, somewhat embarrassed.

"Let me tell you how it was she first came to speak to me. Then you will understand what she was like."

"Do," he said. "That will be best. And take your time. We have all the day before us."

"Well, it was when we were going to the confirmation classes, and one morning, in the interval, some of us, a dozen, perhaps, were standing in a corner of the churchyard talking about a piece in the catechism. I remember one of the boys said he was sure God loved mankind, for He had made us, and so, of course, He must be pleased with His own work.

"Now the few of us standing there together, we were the youngest at the classes, and poor folk's children, all of us. The others, who were better and finer than the rest of us, walked up and down outside the church in little groups, and now and then stopped to gather round the Dean's daughter; she was going to be confirmed that year too. She was beautiful to look at, and there was something about her that drew people to her. You could hardly help looking over to where she was.

"But we others, we knew, of course, that we couldn't expect her to take any notice of us, and so we had to be content with standing in a corner talking about the catechism.

"'If we were all like her,' I said to the others, 'then God might well be pleased with us all.'

"It was the Dean's daughter we were thinking of, and then we all turned and stood looking at her.

"She had the loveliest soft brown hair, all curling at the temples and falling in soft waves over the brow and neck. A longish face, with thin cheeks and long eyelashes, and eyes like a deep well to look down in. And she seemed to be made somehow of finer stuff than the rest of us. Like some berries you can see through. She was rather tall, and walked with her head a little drooping to one side, and it seemed to us that suited her, with her looks and manner altogether."

The listener bent forward suddenly, covering his eyes with his hand. The vision of a dearly loved face rose up before him. He saw it now as it had appeared to him that day at sea, when beauty after beauty passed before their eyes. So strangely young and questioning.

"Sigrun was her name," said Lotta Hedman. "And it was an uncommon name, but that was not the only thing uncommon about her.

"Just on that day, watching her as she stood there, in the sunlight outside the church, I understood why it was one could not help looking at her.

"True, she was a human being like the rest of us. With eyes and nose and mouth as anyone else, and born in the Deanery at Stenbroträsk, and her parents ordinary people like everyone else's. But that could not deceive any with eyes to see. Sigrun was of another sort than ordinary people; she was from another world." The man, still sitting with his head resting on his hand, nodded involuntarily. That was the very word. From another world--a bird of passage that had lost its way, separated from its fellows, and somehow come among another flock not of its kind.

"For there _are_ other worlds," said Lotta Hedman. "Many worlds besides the one we live in. And Sigrun was from one of them. But perhaps you cannot understand?"

"Yes," said the man, "I understand. I have met someone myself once who was from another world. At least, I think I understand," he added, as if fearing he had spoken too confidently.

"And I slipped away into a corner under the belfry," went on Lotta Hedman, covering her eyes. "I wanted to think over what this meant; that Sigrun was different from all the rest.

"If she were from another world, then surely she must be able to see that I was one of the chosen, appointed one day to speak the words of God. And would she not want to speak to me herself? She who was better than all the rest, would she not be better able to judge and choose than they?

"But I was not left alone with my thought for long. The others came up, all of them from our corner, that did not dare to go up to _her_; they came and gathered round me.

"'Here's Lotta Hedman sitting crying, because Sigrun won't look at her,' said one.

"'Of course she won't--Sigrun to look at one like you, indeed, such a sight!' said another, and tried to make me see it the same way.

"'Look at your hair--sticking out all round your head like a wild bush.'

"And I sat still and let them go on. 'If it was only that,' I thought to myself. 'But it's because Sigrun is from another world, and that's worse than all the rest.'

"'And such a figure you've got,' said the others. 'No shape at all. You can never get your clothes to sit properly like others do. And your eyes are sharp and hard, and you've a voice like a raven....'

"Now I hadn't been crying before, but then I felt the tears coming, because the others were all so harsh and unkind, when they tried to comfort me.

"But then all of a sudden it seemed as if a warm, gentle light filled the air in front of me--like sunlight in a room on a cold winter's day.

"A cool, soft hand drew my hands away from my face, and when I looked up it was Sigrun standing there, and smiling at me, and asking if I would row her across in my boat later on, when we had finished lessons for the day.

"And though I knew that the others must have told her that I was only a poor girl, and always ill besides; though I knew it was only for pity's sake she asked me, still I felt so happy, so happy. Oh, you can never understand how wonderful it was to feel, and I loved her from that moment."

"And I loved her from that moment," repeated the listener to himself, and felt once more the touch of a woman's lips on his face, and a little merry laugh. "Though I knew it was only for pity's sake," he whispered to himself--"though I knew well it was only for pity's sake.

"Sigrun," he murmured half aloud, "why should you come back to me like this to-day? I thought I had sent you away for ever. Why do you come back now?"

Lotta Hedman went on with her story. "But that afternoon, when we were rowing across, she asked me, Sigrun, if it was I that had heard the wonderful music in the Deanery on the day of the funeral, and asked me to tell her all about it. And I told her that and more. All the other things I had seen and heard, I told her everything, and told her, too, that I believed I was to be a seer and a prophet of God. And she did not laugh at me. Only said quite humbly that she never saw such things herself, but her dearest wish was to be a nurse. Not for ordinary people, ill with this or that, but for those stricken by the plague, or leprosy. Or if that could not be done, then she would go and care for witless folk, or teach the blind to read or deaf-mutes to talk. Her greatest sorrow, she said, was that she feared her father and mother would not let her go away to such work.

"I can remember even now," said Lotta Hedman, "how beautiful she was when she spoke of that."

The man sitting opposite looked up a moment, and his eyes shone. "Your story is a great delight to me," he said. "Far more than you know."

"It is very good of you to say so," said Lotta Hedman. "I thought you would have been tired of it long ago."

"Do not think that," said he. "That girl--the Dean's daughter from Stenbroträsk--you might talk to me of her all the rest of the way, and I should not be tired of hearing. And then I suppose you were friends after the day you went out in the boat together?"

"Yes," said Lotta Hedman; "we were good friends--that is true. We went out in the boat nearly every evening, as long as the lessons lasted. Sigrun liked to sit in a boat and just drift up and down, not going anywhere, but just drifting. She did not care for steamers nor for railways, and did not care for driving with horses, but she loved to drift about in a little boat. And the thing she longed for most of all was the sea."

The man sitting opposite bowed his head once more and covered his eyes. "True," he thought to himself. "She longed to see the sea. She told me that. How she had longed for it ever since she was a child of fifteen. But it was given to me to show her that. At least, I have done one good thing in my life."

Lotta Hedman did not need much encouragement from a listener; she went on, undisturbed, with her story.

"Then I thought, as soon as the confirmation classes were over, we should never see each other again, but all that summer after, Sigrun came down to the shore nearly every day, and we rowed up and down the river for hours together. And so it went on, summer after summer; it was the happiest time in all my life."

The man sighed. "Why have you come back, Sigrun?" he whispered to himself. "You, so young and good, so beautiful and unspoiled, why do you come back to me now? I have tried to think of you as a woman ageing, a mother of children, a loving and affectionate wife. Why do you come now in all the freshness of youth?"

"And now I must tell you the end of that friendship," said Lotta Hedman.

"After it had lasted four years, I was sitting at home one Sunday afternoon in spring, looking at a big red-painted farmhouse that grew up outside the east window. One wing showed out after another, and I was wondering what sort of a house it could be, and why it was being built up so grandly just that evening.

"It was getting late, and nearing twilight already. Father and mother had been to church that morning, and were sitting on either side of the hearth, smoking and talking. But I sat at the window, watching the house grow up against the grey evening sky.

"It was a red house on two floors, set high on a hill with a lot of old apple trees on the slope in front, and on one side of the orchard I could see a cowshed and barn, and on the other, stables and outhouses and a big stone store-cellar with one little room built over.

"Close by the store-cellar was a tree, of a sort I did not know. It was all knotty and rough, with a thick trunk and wide-spreading branches, and looked ever so old--there was something misshapen and threatening about it.

"Father and mother, sitting by the hearth, sat without speaking now--just thinking together. They knew each other so well.

"'It's a pity about Lotta,' said mother. And father answered at once without asking what she meant, that it was a pity, surely. He'd been thinking of the same thing, you know.

"But I thought to myself that they did not know at all, really--for how could it be a pity about me in any way, as long as I had all my visions and voices to be happy with?

"And the big farmhouse stood there clear and plain as ever. It looked as if I could just walk in at any moment through the gate and talk to the people indoors. I could see tools and things lying about in the yard, and the bucket by the well, and the dog-kennel and the pigeon-loft, and I could see it was a fine big place, but something old and out of date about it.

"It was all very still and quiet and forsaken. Not a soul, not a beast of any kind was moving anywhere.

"And then I saw something that was more surprising than all the rest. There was a stone wall round the farm and buildings and yard, between them and the fields, and in the middle a gate. And one of the gateposts stood up straight and firm, but the other was grey and almost rotted through, and would have tumbled down if it hadn't been for a whole lot of struts and supports round it.

"Just as I caught sight of that old gatepost, I felt a shiver through me. And I knew that there was something I was afraid of, and did not want to see any more.

"I put my hands before my eyes, and turned away from the window; it would not go away. Next time I looked out, there it was, just as before, a splendid place to see, standing out against the black hills behind. And looking at a place like that in reality, you would surely think it must be rich and powerful people that lived there. Everything was well kept, except that one gatepost.

"And I tried not to look at it, because it made me afraid, but just as I turned my eyes away from it, I saw that there was someone in the house after all. Someone sitting at the window of the little room above the cellar, almost opposite the gatepost, and looking down at it.

"It was an old woman, with a stern but beautiful face, and white hair set up under a cap--I had never seen anyone wear a cap like that before. She sat quite still, with folded hands, and her eyes fixed on the post. Sitting there like a stone, just looking and looking at it all the time.

"Now I felt more afraid of her than of the post itself, and I turned away from the window, and tried to make her go away, by thinking of Sigrun.

"I thought what good friends we had been, and still were. There was nothing that could separate us. The winter before, Sigrun had been away, to visit some relatives in the south, and stayed with them for several months, but when she came back, we were just as good friends as before.

"I never needed to do more than just call for Sigrun to make all darkness vanish away. But it did not help me this time. When I turned to the window again, there was the farmhouse, just as before, and the old woman still staring darkly and fixedly down at the same spot.

"Father and mother, sitting by the hearth, were talking the same way as before.

"'Yes, it will be hard for Lotta,' said mother. 'But she's young, and young folks soon forget.'

"'Yes, that's true. As long as you're young,' said father.

"And then they sighed, and puffed away at their pipes.

"Heavy thoughts weighed on me now. I felt that father and mother were right, and that something cruel was going to happen to me.

"Then I tried again. I thought of Sigrun, as she had been, when she came to me a few months back and told me that she was engaged to a clergyman she had met while she had been away staying with her friends.

"She had been so happy at the thought of marrying a priest. It was just the thing for her, as a clergyman's daughter. And he had a living of his own already, and his own congregation, though he was only a little over thirty. It was only a small place, but then he was not to be there long. With his powers, he would certainly end as a bishop.

"So, really, it was a fine thing that he had a home of his own already, and they could get married in the autumn.

"I was a little astonished at first, for I had always thought she was going to be a nurse, but she said it was just the same when you married a priest. Better, indeed, for now she would have a whole congregation to help and look after.

"I thought over all this, and looked out again, thinking it would be better now. But it was only worse, for now the old woman stood up, and I could see her face. And it was dark with anger and hate, and she lifted a clenched hand and shook it toward me, pointing with the other hand toward the gatepost. It was just as if she had said, if I dared to touch it, it would be the worse for me.

"She was terrible to look at, and I was frightened, but at the same time, she was so pitifully old and helpless, I felt like crying with pity for her.

"But then, just as she raised her hand, the whole thing disappeared. All--farmhouse and gatepost and the old woman herself. As if there had never been anything there at all. And oh, I felt such a relief.

"Why should I be anxious, just because Sigrun had her lover staying on a visit for a day or so? And why should mother and father be anxious about me, just because they had seen him in church that day?

"And then at last I saw a couple of heads appear on the river bank. And I was so glad, and called out to mother and father:

"'That's Sigrun, I'm sure, coming to show me her lover. Come and look, if it isn't right--the two there coming down toward the river?'

"Then mother made haste to put away her pipe and move all the chairs about and wipe up a few drops of water spilt on the floor.

"But father came over to me by the window, and we stood looking out at the two. And now I saw the man for the first time, walking there with Sigrun on his arm. He was not so very tall, but strongly built--a broad-shouldered, powerful man. And handsome, with a fine head. I could not see anything to find fault with, unless it were that he was short-sighted and wore glasses.

"When they came in, they looked proud and happy. And I was pleased, too, with Sigrun's lover, and glad they had come to see me. He looked as if he could take care of his wife, whatever might happen. As long as she had him to support her, surely she could never be unhappy or discouraged.

"The priest spoke kindly to father and mother. But when he came to speak to me, he blinked his eyes a little behind his glasses, and looked at me with a sort of smile.

"'Aha,' said he, 'so this is the great seer, the wise young woman from Stenbroträsk. I'm quite afraid of her. She can see through people, of course, and what if she were dissatisfied with me!'

"And he laughed, and Sigrun too, and father smiled a little.

"It was as if I was just something to laugh at and make fun of.

"I went all red at first, with the blood rushing to my face. Then I felt I turned all stiff and hard. And I could not understand how anyone could talk so openly about the thing that was my holiest secret. And how could Sigrun ever have betrayed me, and told her lover, when I had told her just because I could trust her?"

Lotta Hedman's voice rose to a shriller tone, just as when she had spoken of her hard and lonely life. The pain of her thoughts rang in her words.

The man before her looked up with a sad smile.

"You might surely have known it must be so," he said. "Sigrun had given herself to him with all her soul, with all her thoughts, and all she had ever known."

"That was so, perhaps," said the other, "but it was cruel to me to feel. Mother tried to answer for me, for she knew I could not say anything myself then.

"'She has but a foolish mother, has my girl,' said mother. 'But the Lord has heard my prayers. He has given me a daughter that sees and understands more than most.'

"I felt how brave it was of mother to speak out. I could have gone down on my knees and thanked her, but she was silent, she too, when the priest gave her one sharp look through his eyeglasses, and began talking with a thick and heavy voice, all important, as if he might have been standing in the pulpit.

"'We've need to be ever watchful, those of us who are Christians,' he said, 'lest we should fall back into heathen ways. And whosoever seeks to penetrate into the unknown is trying, as it were, to go their own way instead of the way that is Christ Jesus. Beware of setting up other gods; of setting up oneself as God.'

"And he preached like that for a long while. And nobody in the room dared to say a word against him now. And where was all that I had seen and heard before? It all seemed blown away in a breath, the moment that man came into the house. And I had to sit there, helpless, without a word, and hear him preaching and correcting me in front of Sigrun and mother and father.

"I looked over at Sigrun, and there she was sitting, looking up at her lover all humbly and admiring. And I could see she was pleased that he was trying to lead me into the right way. And she, too, felt now just as he did, that all we had had to talk of together before was something wicked and harmful. He was speaking for my good, and all I had to do was to turn from my erring ways and try to be like everyone else.

"I was so miserable; it was so cruel. I would rather have died than sit there and see Sigrun turn away from me like that."

The listener looked up once more.

"Yet it was good, surely, that she had no other thought, no thought of her own, but only his thoughts," he said. "That is the beautiful thing about her."

Lotta Hedman went on without heeding.

"They stayed some time, not talking to me alone, you understand, but to mother and father too. And all that the priest man said was kind and sensible in a way; he knew how to speak. When he dropped out of the preaching tone, his voice was cheerful and bright. It was easy to understand that Sigrun was fond of him.

"I did not say a word as long as he was there, and Sigrun looked at me every now and then with a sort of surprise, and at last she asked me was I ill? But I only shook my head. She didn't seem to think anything but that I ought to be quite happy about it all.

"It was a relief when at last they were gone. But then a thing happened. Sigrun had forgotten her gloves, and came back by herself to fetch them."

The man sitting listening had changed countenance. "What right have you," he asked himself, "to sit and listen to all this talk of Sigrun? Take care! Longing will return, sorrow will return, and love wake afresh. It will be just as it was six years ago, when you sat on the rocks dreaming of love. Day after day, dreaming of her."

"And then," Lotta Hedman went on--"then she asked me if I did not think her lover was wonderful and splendid; had I ever believed there was such a man in the world? And when I still said nothing, she lost patience altogether.

"'Whatever is the matter with you to-day?' she asked. 'What makes you silent and hard all at once? I thought it would do you good to talk to a priest. And he was so eager to see you himself, and I've told him so much about you, and how strange you were. And what will he think now?'

"I sat quite still until she was out of the door. But then I ran after her.

"'Oh! Sigrun, don't marry him!' I cried. 'He will make you miserable.' And Sigrun looked at me all astonished, and I said again, 'He will kill your soul, as he has killed mine!'

"Then Sigrun drew herself up.

"'Now you are wicked and unkind,' she said, 'to speak like that just because someone says things that do not please you to hear.'

"And then she went away for good.

"And I was glad that mother and father did not say anything, did not try to comfort me or explain things. I went out into the kitchen, all cold as it was, and sat down and cried. Cried for hours together. Crying for our beautiful friendship, and for my own soul that had been taken away and could never come back; I felt myself wronged and betrayed; and for the first time in my life I tasted that bitter fruit."

Lotta Hedman had lowered her voice, just as when she had ended her long speech about the letter to the King and the Millennium. Her face showed deep suffering; she felt the agony of humiliation.

HÅNGER

OH, BUT Lotta Hedman was glad to tell her story. It was a delight to be able to speak of Sigrun.

And she tried so hard to speak properly, and not in her country dialect; tried to speak as seriously as a book of devotion. And she was grateful to her listener, who sat there still, following all she said, with a patience that seemed as if it would never end.

"And now there is only one thing more I have to tell you before you can give me the advice I want," she said.

"Do not put yourself out in any way at all," he said. "Talk as you please; we have time enough before us."

Lotta Hedman dropped back immediately into the tone of the story-teller.

"Well, then, it was in the autumn of that same year," she began again, "and it had just come on to rain so heavily that we were obliged to hurry back into the house, father and mother and myself, or we should have been drenched to the skin.

"And we had hardly got indoors when the door opened and a couple of big, burly men came rushing in. They asked quite nicely if they might stay till the rain was over. And father bade them welcome, and mother and I set out each our chair for them by the door.

"And one of them was talkative, and asked father if he thought they could get work at the new sawmills they were building at Stenbroträsk. But the other man was very quiet, and said nothing, only sat staring out of the east window all the time.

"And the rain was pouring against that window with full force. There was such a stream of water down the panes you could hardly see out.

"I wondered what it could be he was staring at. For I was quite sure he must be looking at something else besides raindrops and hailstones.

"And I went up and sat down in my old place by the window and looked out.

"But there was nothing to be seen except the little grey outhouses and the water streaming from all the roofs. And it was so thick and dark outside you could hardly see as far as the river bank. And the rainclouds hung over beyond as close as a curtain.

"I thought how I had sat at that window on dark evenings, when the darkness had not hindered me from seeing; had sat there in dense snowstorms, but the snowflakes had not hindered me; I had seen ships sailing and railway trains rushing by, and kings making entry into beautiful cities, and wedding processions and angels dancing and at play before my eyes.

"But what could it help me now, though I sat at the east window? My seeing eye was closed; I could make out nothing now but the yard and the sheds and the pouring rain. There came no warnings to me now, no message, no revelations any more.

"I fancied I could see something that looked like red houses and tall woods against the grey wall of cloud, but it was all dark and indistinct.

"And I tried to feel glad that I was like others now, but my life seemed poor now, and weighed me down, now that I no longer saw or heard anything beyond what was real. I felt no joy in living. I was like one that has sat for a long time at a feast with all things plentiful, and now had not so much as a crumb to ease my hunger.

"And there was no one now that could comfort me, for Sigrun was just about to be married, and going to move down to the husband's place at Applum, in Bohuslän. She had asked me if I would go with her to her new home, and help her there, for that was what we had agreed long before. But I told her I would rather stay with mother and father in Stenbroträsk. For I would not go with Sigrun now. She had never been the same since she heard me speak ill of her lover, and I could no longer look at her now as a strange bird that had lost the way; she seemed well enough at home now among earthly things.

"Then just when my thoughts were darkest, I heard footsteps, and the silent stranger stood beside me, leaning toward the wet panes.

"'A very strange window, this,' he said, and touched my arm to make me look. 'I wonder now if you can see the same as I do?'

"'I can't see anything,' I said. 'But why do you say it is a strange window?'

"'It must be strange,' he said, 'since I am looking at Hånger farm in Dalsand through the window of a house in Stenbroträsk, ever so far away.'

"'Is that a farm standing high on a hill, with apple trees on a slope in front?' I asked. 'Is there a store-cellar with a little room on top, and a gate with one old rotten gatepost, and an old woman sitting at the window?'

"'Yes,' he said, leaning down to see better; 'that is right. There is an old woman sitting at the window of the cellar room; it is all as you say.'

"'And she is staring at the gatepost; isn't that right? Staring as if she could not take her eyes from it?'

"'Yes,' he said, and drew a deep breath. 'Yes, sitting there watching lest the gatepost should fall. She must hold by that till the end of the world.'

"And I could see how anxious he was about what he saw. There were big drops of sweat on his forehead, and he was deadly pale, and could hardly speak.

"But then he turned away from the window, and looked quickly at me. 'But you say you can see nothing?'

"'I can see nothing now,' I said. 'But one day last spring I saw the farmhouse as you say it is.'

"And now I noticed that father and mother and the other stranger had come closer and were listening.

"'There are many in our family who have that gift,' said the other stranger to father, in a low voice, 'but I have never heard until to-day that my brother had it too.'

"But the one who had spoken to me before turned his eyes to the window again, and next moment he started back, afraid.

"'She has seen me!' he cried. 'It is all over with me now!'

"And it was strange to see him so afraid, that great, strong man. But not even mother, who was always ready enough to laugh, so much as smiled at him now.

"'Let us sing a hymn,' I whispered to mother. And we sang the first verse that came into our heads.

"And while we were singing, the rain stopped. The grey cloud hung no longer like a wall above the river bank, and a ray of sunlight stole into the room.

"The man who had seen the vision had sat down on a chair, with his hands before his face, not daring to look up or even to move.

"But now, when it cleared up and grew bright again, his brother spoke to him sensibly.

"'Come now, Jon,' he said. 'The rain has stopped, and we can go on now. Look up; you can see it is all gone now.'

"But Jon sat huddled up in his chair, and only moved his elbow to say he would not be disturbed.

"'No, Anders, no,' he said. 'Let me be. I dare not.'

"Then Anders came over to us, and shook his head.

"'It is no wonder he was afraid,' he said. 'For the thing he saw was something that once was, and the place he spoke of is the place our grandfather's father came from.'

"'I think he said it was called Hånger,' I said, seeing that none of the others spoke.

"'Yes,' he answered. 'Hånger it is, and it lies in Dalsland, and we who come from there are called the trollfolk of Hånger. We are bigger in body than most men, and they say we are ill to meet, but, for my part, I know of nothing strange about us, beyond that we all die by our own hand. My father did so, and his father and his father's father before him.'

"When he had spoken, all was silent again. We shuddered, and could not ask nor speak a word. But the stranger seemed to feel that when he had said so much, he must go on.

"'They say it all comes of an old story,' he said. 'In the old days, the men of Hånger were proud and rich, and would submit to none, and often they were at feud with the priests. And once it seems that one of them killed a priest in a fit of jealousy. But it was never found out who had done it. The crime was never atoned, and for the sake of that sin, it has been so ever since, that all the men from Hånger must die a violent death, by their own hand or another's.'

"'But surely that can't be,' said mother. 'That the innocent should suffer for the guilty, no.'

"It happens, for all that, and none so rarely to my mind,' said the man. 'It's not easy to say how it's managed about that. But there was a woman there at Hånger, mother to him that had murdered the priest. And they say she knew all about it, and helped the son to dig a grave under one of the gateposts and long after he was dead she used to sit watching the spot, that no one should pull it up or break it down or put another post in its place. She moved down into the little room above the store-cellar, that was closer to the gate, and there she would sit watching night and day, and some say she's watching there still. And Hånger's passed from our family now, and the trollfolk of Hånger are scattered about all parts, but it seems that all of her blood can still see her. She follows us, folk say, and sees that never one of us escapes the penalty of that crime.'

"But mother would not give in.

"'It can't be that this should go on,' she said. 'There must be something you could do to make an end of it?'

"'True,' said the man. 'And there's those that have tried. Two of us there were that thought it would be well if they themselves became priests. But I don't know if the old lady found that to her mind. One of them died when he was still young--the other is still alive.'

"I was getting more and more frightened now, and, putting together all that had passed, I knew well enough what answer I should get when I put my question.

"'And is his name Rhånge?' I asked.

"'But--heavens, child!' cried mother.

"The man answered at once:

"'That's right. Rhånge he calls himself. It's just Hånger spelt round another way. He's the Pastor at Applum in Bohuslän, and just married, so I've heard, a daughter of the priest at Stenbroträsk.'"

The listener in the corner gave a sudden start.

"Well, now, I don't mean one should always go by such old stories," said Lotta Hedman. "But there might be something in this after all, and perhaps it was wrong of me not to have gone with Sigrun to Bohuslän after I had heard all this. And perhaps that's why everything has gone wrong with me since. For though I've got back my seeing and hearing again, there's none will ever listen to what I say, and perhaps that's because I failed in my duty to Sigrun. And would it be right now?"

She broke off; her face, that had been alive with feeling, stiffened and hardened all at once.

"I can see something," she said. "Ice and snow, all white. And a tent--a black tent--and a long sledge...."

The train entered a station. Lotta Hedman's fellow traveller rose hurriedly from his seat and reached up for his luggage on the rack.

Lotta Hedman did not heed; she was full of the vision that had come to her.

The man had left the train, and was moving across the platform when he heard Lotta's voice calling him back. But he went on without turning round.

Lotta pulled at the strap of the window with all her might, but by the time she had opened it, the man had disappeared.

THE MEETING

TWO days later, Lotta Hedman sat in a hired cart, jolting on along a stony road in the parish of Algeröd, in the eastern part of Bohuslän, far from the sea, right up on the Dalsland side.

"Heavens!" she thought, looking round; "this is worse than Lappland. Bare rock everywhere--I never saw the like in all my life. How can anyone live and get their wherewithal in such a desert?"

And indeed the country she was passing through was little more than a level stretch of rocky upland. Heather and juniper, moss and stunted fir showed here and there, but the rock was everywhere.

The more she looked at her surroundings, the more her spirits sank.

"What could Sigrun and her husband have been thinking of," she wondered, "to move out to a place like this? They were not so badly off before, by all accounts. Close to the sea, with a well-to-do congregation, and people round about. What possessed them to come out to a wilderness like this?"

The stony waste seemed filling her with its own desolation.

"There's no living to be got here, for priest nor any other. Well, if they've not enough to have me with them, I'll just have to go back home again, that's all."

At the moment, she felt doubtful if she had acted wisely in coming thus to visit Sigrun without an invitation, or even sending word herself beforehand of her coming. She ought at any rate to have sent a message through Sigrun's parents, or let her know in some way.

"_Herre Gud_!" she thought to herself, as she drove on. "And six years now since Sigrun left her home at Stenbroträsk, and all that time I've hardly heard a word of her. A letter or two the first year, and then I saw her once or twice the summer she came home to visit her people, but neither of us did anything really to be friends again like we used.

"I can't forget the beautiful letter she wrote me when her little daughter was born. I was so glad. And she wanted me to come to her then and help her with the little one. But I couldn't leave them at home, and I didn't really want to, I suppose. It seemed hard to go and stay with Sigrun as a maid, and I was afraid of her husband, too. Anyhow, I've regretted it since, for when the child died I couldn't help thinking it might have lived if I had been there helping Sigrun as she asked. And perhaps she thinks so too. I've never heard a word from her since then."

She felt a weight at her heart. Perhaps, after all, the long journey would come to nothing.

She strove to repress her anxiety. "What will be, must be," she told herself. "Day after day I heard voices and had warnings telling me to go. I had no peace nor rest to work things out. 'Sigrun, Sigrun, first of all,' something was always saying, when I was trying to find out about the war and the millennium. And then, when father and mother died, and my brother took over the place and gave me the wretched little cellar room to live in--why shouldn't I start out and see if she needed me? There, Lotta Hedman, now pull yourself together. At least, you are seeing something of the world, and not wasting your money all to nothing."

As she was thus endeavouring to raise her drooping courage, the driver lifted his whip and pointed to a dark, pointed church-tower rising from a clump of trees.

"There's the church already," he said. "We're nearly there now."

Directly after, the road began to slope down into a narrow valley, with a winding river at the bottom, some farms and houses and fields, groups of trees, and a little wooden church.

But before they reached the place, the driver lifted his whip again.

"Bless me, but I do believe it's Mistress from the parsonage herself going down the road, ahead there."

At his words Lotta Hedman felt the weight at her heart almost stifling her. She could hardly breathe, and all her courage was gone in a moment.

"Oh, why ever did I come like this?" she asked herself. "Perhaps she won't even remember me. What ever made me set off on this wild adventure? Perhaps, after all, only to be laughed at and treated with scorn."

The driver of the cart evidently thought he was driving a new servant to the vicarage; he turned to Lotta and asked if he should pull up, so that she might speak to her new mistress as they passed.

"Oh, heavens!" she thought. "If I could only turn back now."

And then, when they were within a few steps of Sigrun, Lotta felt her fears completely overwhelming her. All her faith in voices and warnings was gone; she stretched out her hand to grasp the reins.

"Turn, turn back!" she cried. "I am not going any farther. It must be the wrong way."

But they were so close now that Sigrun heard, and turned round. And at sight of a strange woman trying to take the reins from the driver, a slight smile passed over her serious face.

Next moment, however, before the smile had faded, she put her hand to her heart, and hurried up to the pair.

"Oh, Lotta--is it really you?" she said, with tears in her eyes.

But at sight of her tears, Lotta thought only that they must be for her little girl that had died because she had not come to help.

She threw herself down from the cart, and would have fallen at Sigrun's feet in the road to beg her forgiveness.

But before she could do so, Sigrun had taken her in her arms, and was telling her how glad--how glad she was to see her.

And Lotta understood that Sigrun was weeping for joy that she had come.

And she herself was very happy; this was surely the greatest thing that had ever happened in her life. But at the same time she thought to herself: "Sigrun must be unhappy, indeed, if she weeps for joy at seeing one so poor as I."

THE VICARAGE

IT WAS an evening in November, when the days were short and the nights seemed as if they would never end.

All the district round about the vicarage at Algeröd was quiet and still as in the vicarage itself. The horses had come in from the fields and were stabled, the cows had been milked, and the fowls had gone to their roost.

In the brewhouse, or, rather, in the little room beside it, sat Lotta Hedman that still evening, busy with her calculations. She had the Bible before her, and pen and ink and paper, and was searching earnestly in her dear Book of Revelation.

In the kitchen, in the main building, the fire had gone out, and cook and housemaid sat at the sewing-machine trying to reshape a blouse that the seamstress had somehow mismanaged; the man was in an adjoining room, stretched on a bench, waiting for supper-time to come.

The priest was sitting in his study, but not at his writing-table. He sat in a rocking-chair in one corner of the room. A lamp was close by, and he was reading the paper. When he raised his eyes, he could see into the next room, where his wife was sitting on a low stool by the stove. She sat with her chin in her hands staring into the fire.

Close beside her sat the Bailie, who was staying at the vicarage by arrangement. He was in poor health, and the Rhånges had been glad to take him in, since the sum he paid for his keep was a welcome aid to their scanty resources now they had moved to this poor living up in the waste lands. He was a man of about fifty, who had never done anything but please himself all his life, until at last his affairs had been taken out of his hands, and he himself had been sent up to a place where he would have no opportunity of wasting the little that remained to him of money and health.

The Bailie showed traces of a stroke he had had some time before: one side of his face was drawn awry, and the left eyelid hung down and could hardly be opened, but, for all that, he was a fine-looking man, of good bearing. He was a man of the world, had travelled much, and was intelligent and interesting to talk to.

He had drawn up a chair near the fire, and was telling Sigrun about foreign lands, that she had never seen and never would see, now that she sat buried here in a little parsonage in Sweden.

Sigrun was busy with her own thoughts and her restless desires, and let his words pass idly by. She she could have listened to what he was saying; it would have perhaps dispelled her weariness and longing if she could. But it was beyond her power.

Every now and then the Pastor raised his head and looked in to them from the room where he sat. And, listening, he could hear that they were talking of great cities in the lands where now the war raged at its worst. And it seemed to him very foolish of Sigrun to sit listening to all that idle chatter.

Out in the brewhouse where Lotta Hedman sat, the milkmaid had just finished rinsing her pail with hot water, and, seeing that the work was ended and the room would not be in use any more that day, Lotta moved in there with her table, her lamp, and her Bible. She drew a pair of pink stuff curtains across, in front of the great bricked-in cauldrons, hiding all the smoky black corner and making the place look more like a living-room.

She had a comfortable wicker chair to sit in, and brought out another now from the room adjoining, placing it by the table. For it was Sigrun's custom to come out and talk to Lotta for a while during the long evenings. Now and again the Bailie would come out and sit for a long time, coaxing Lotta to talk of Sigrun, and sometimes the Pastor himself would come and tease her by asking if she had yet discovered the mystery of the seven seals and the glorious millennium.

Lotta Hedman had been asked to stay at the vicarage and help with odd work, looking after the fowls and such-like, on condition that she could be content with a room in the brewhouse. She had accepted the offer with joy. Sigrun had herself put up wall paper and curtains in the little room at the side, and given her really beautiful things to furnish it with. Lotta had had her belongings sent down from Stenbroträsk, managed her own housekeeping independently of the rest of the household, and in the evenings she had the two rooms entirely to herself. It was quite like having a real drawing-room of her own.

About the same time as Lotta moved into the scullery, the lad in the men's room went into the kitchen to find someone to talk to. The milkmaid was there as well. And now all began talking about their master and mistress, and wondering if the Pastor had not yet found out that the Bailie was in love with his wife.

"He was so jealous about her before, they say," said the milkmaid, "that he moved up here on purpose, to be somewhere where she wouldn't be likely to see anyone but him. But he doesn't seem to mind about this Bailie man."

"Thinks it's not worth worrying about, I dare say," said the lad. "An old man like that, and half dead with the stroke already."

The Bailie was sitting as before by the stove in the inner room. But he was silent now, and had drawn up his chair and sat deep in thought.

He knew that Sigrun had not been listening to what he told her. What could he find to talk about that would make her listen to him?

He had spoken of life in the great cities of the world, and of the part women played there. He had spoken of women as those whose mission it was to reconcile, one to life. Said that men became humble and good when they met with beauty, personified in the likeness of a young woman. He had told her that one possessing the gift of beauty should regard it as a duty to use it for healing, reconciling, bettering her fellow creatures.

But, to tell the truth, he hardly knew whether she had heard a single word of all he had said.

It was easier to attract her attention when her husband was there. Then, he never spoke to her at all, but only to the Pastor.

And then, he felt, he was forcing her to make comparison between the experienced man of the world and the simple Priest; between one who had seen and shared in great events and one who buried himself in a wilderness, never studying, never progressing, but in a fair way to sink to the level of a common peasant.

He knew that the Priest despised him. He was often irritated and humiliated by his host's treatment. But he bore it all very patiently, knowing that nothing was more calculated to lower the husband in the eyes of his wife than his showing himself tactless and devoid of finer feeling.

The Bailie sat silent for some minutes, and then taking a subject near at hand in these days of the Great War, he commenced to talk of the Red Cross, its originators, its organization, and the brave work of the Red Cross Sisters in the war.

He noticed at once that the beautiful woman by his side became attentive; she tore herself away from her own thoughts and listened.

Just at the moment when the Bailie had begun talking about the Red Cross, it happened that Lotta Hedman lifted her eyes from her Bible. Her thoughts were suddenly restless, and she could not keep her mind concentrated on her work.

"I wonder," she thought to herself, "if Sigrun has ceased to love her husband. She hardly ever speaks of him now. And the servants say he plagues her with his jealousy. But one thing is certain: he wrongs her in that. If she does not care for him, she certainly cares for no other man."

A sudden smile lit up her face.

"And here's this foolish old invalid trying to make himself agreeable," she thought. "But that matters little; nobody bothers about him."

"It must be a great misfortune to be so beautiful as Sigrun," she told herself. "You are better off as you are, Lotta."

She turned to her Bible again and tried not to think of Sigrun any more. "I hope it doesn't mean something is going to happen to her, since I am so anxious all of a sudden."

The Pastor sat on in his room, reading by the light of the lamp. Again and again he had glanced at the pair by the stove, noting quite carelessly and easily how they sat there, while they, on their part, found nothing to disturb them in the thought that he could see them all the time. Then suddenly he noticed a change. It was impossible to say where it lay. Perhaps the speaker's voice had grown louder and warmer; perhaps the young wife's attitude was different. The Pastor laid down his paper, rose to his feet, and, leaning forward with all his senses on the alert, he watched them.

The visitor was still talking about nursing and works of mercy during the war. After a little while, he saw that a tear rolled down the woman's cheek and dropped to her knee, glistened there a moment, and disappeared; then, very gently, tear after tear fell.

For a long time he went on talking, without appearing to notice her emotion; then, suddenly, he bent forward so that he almost touched her.

"So that is what you have been wanting--that is what you are longing for?" he said. "You want to take part in the work out there yourself?"

She folded her hands and held them out toward him.

"Oh, how can I help it?" she cried--"longing for it with all my heart. It is dreadful to live on here in comfort, doing nothing."

"But could you not get away, then?"

"There would be nothing wrong in it," said the woman, lifting her folded hands toward the speaker. "If I could only be free for just a little while. After all, I am a human being--I ought to be allowed to choose for myself for once."

The sick man took her hands in his and drew them toward him.

"True, indeed!" he said. "You have the right to live as well as the rest of us."

Just then they heard footsteps behind them, saw a fierce face in the doorway of the study, and both cried aloud in dismay. The Pastor came rushing toward them, in a violent passion, which left no possibility of any explanation.

The Bailie seemed to lose his self-possession altogether. He crouched down in his chair without moving, but Sigrun threw herself toward her husband to stop him.

"Run, quick--make haste!" she cried. And the Bailie sprang to his feet and ran toward the door, while Sigrun for a moment held her husband fast.

"Edward--what is the matter?" she asked.

He did not answer, but flung her aside. She fell to the floor, striking herself badly against a corner of the table, but the Pastor, without heeding her, rushed after the fugitive, out into the hall, down the steps, and across the courtyard.

Lotta Hedman, sitting in the scullery with her Bible, was suddenly roused by the shouting and banging of doors and hurrying feet. She rose hurriedly, opened the door, and looked out. Two men were running across the courtyard; in a moment they had disappeared in the darkness.

While Lotta stood there terrified, listening to the retreating footsteps, the lad and the maids in the kitchen had likewise heard the noise, and sprung up from their seats. And now they saw their young mistress come staggering in toward them, her hair and dress in disorder, and the blood flowing from a cut on her forehead. All four hurried to her, but she waved them off impatiently.

"Never mind about me," she cried. "Hurry after my husband and--the other one. Quick, and look after them before they kill each other."

The four stood still, too confused to act on her orders, and she cried excitedly:

"Don't sit there staring at me! After them, before they kill each other!"

At this the lad hurried out, and the milkmaid, a big strong girl, followed after him, but the two others stayed in the kitchen to look to their mistress.

They brought forward a chair and begged her to sit down, for she was trembling as if the floor were swaying under her.

Her strength was at an end now, and she fell to crying like a child.

"Help me over to Lotta Hedman," she cried. "Help me over to Lotta."

The two servants took her under the arms and led her across the courtyard to Lotta's room.

And Lotta, standing in the doorway, saw them coming, and hurried forward to meet Sigrun. She led her to the wicker chair that had been waiting for her all the evening.

"And I have done nothing," said Sigrun. "Lotta, I have done nothing wrong. We were just talking, that was all. And he was sitting in the next room, watching."

Suddenly she turned deathly pale, and would have fainted, but Lotta dashed water in her face, and she came to herself.

Lotta made haste to wash the cut on her head, and saw it was neither deep nor serious; but what troubled her most was that Sigrun seemed hardly to be quite clear in her mind. She talked all the time, repeating the same thing over and over again.

"And I have done nothing," she said. "I have done nothing wrong. We were just talking. And he was sitting in the next room, watching."

"Oh, I know, Sigrun--I know you have done no wrong," said Lotta, addressing her now familiarly, as in the old days.

"You understand, Lotta, I know," said Sigrun again. "I have done nothing...."

Lotta tried to interrupt her.

"Sigrun, I'm so afraid you will be ill," she said. "We must ask Malin to get your bed ready, and you can lie down."

But at this, the flow of words suddenly stopped.

"No, not there! I will never go back to him," said the sick woman quite briefly and dearly.'

"But, dear angel," said Lotta. "You can never mean that!"

"I will lie down here," said Sigrun. "I will sleep in your bed, Lotta. I can feel I am going to be ill. And I must be in a place where I feel safe."

A moment later she began again as before:

"I have done nothing wrong. We were just talking. And he was sitting in the next room, and came rushing in...."

She looked at them with her eyes all wild, as if wondering why they did not follow what she was saying.

Lotta talked over with the two servants what was best to be done. They could find nothing better than to let the sick woman have her way. The housemaid hurried into the house and came back with sheets and pillows and blankets. Sigrun began hurriedly undressing; they had scarcely got the bed done before she was ready.

And as she was getting into bed, she cried again, so that it could be heard all through the place: "I have done nothing wrong. We were just talking. And he was in the next room, and came running in...."

As soon as Sigrun was well in bed, she called gently to Lotta:

"Don't go to bed yet, Lotta. Sit there by the table and read your Bible. And mind, you must not let anyone in the world come and take me away from here."

And so it was. Lotta sat down with her Bible and the two servants went into the house to see how matters were going there.

A moment later one of them came back with the news that nothing very terrible had happened. The Bailie had made his escape; the Pastor himself had fallen into a ditch in his pursuit, and they feared he had broken his leg. Bad enough, certainly, yet not by any means the worst that might have happened.

Sigrun was still crying aloud her explanation, but when Lotta had told her several times that there had been no fight between the men, she seemed to grow calmer, and went off to sleep.

PREPARATIONS

THOSE who heard, in this way or that, of the regrettable event which took place some weeks later in the vicarage of Algeröd were inclined to throw all the blame on Lotta Hedman.

"If the young mistress there hadn't had that half-mad creature about the place, turning her head completely with her visions and warnings, it would never have happened," they said.

But this was not fair to Lotta Hedman. Never in all her life had she been so quiet and sensible as during that time. Her friends in the other world left her in ignorance, and she had not the slightest inkling of what was to happen.

It is easy to understand that she must have been terribly anxious the first night, sitting watching by Sigrun's bedside. "How is this to end?" she asked herself again and again. "How are these two ever to begin life again together? Sigrun is altogether terrified, and he must have lost his senses altogether, and behaved like a wild beast.

"Anyhow," she thought, trying to comfort herself, "it can only have been his jealousy. And though Sigrun is just as much afraid of him as ever, it is easy to see she is still fond of him. If only love is there, then, surely, it will bring them together again."

About one o'clock that night, Sigrun opened her eyes and sat up in bed, looking round her in bewilderment. She seemed a little confused at first, but soon came to herself, and said to Lotta in a perfectly calm voice:

"Go and lie down now, Lotta. But do not put out the lamp, and do not undress. You must be ready to help me."

Then she sank back on the pillows and went to sleep again. "She is still frightened," thought Lotta, "but she is in her senses again now. Thank Heaven for that. To-morrow she will be well again."

She did as Sigrun had said--lay down on a small folding sofa and slept till seven o'clock, when she rose and was going out to look to the fowls. But just as she reached the door, Sigrun called her back.

Sigrun was crying and trembling at the thought of being left alone. She was terribly nervous again now, and when Lotta told her that her husband was hurt and unable to move, she did not seem to understand.

Lotta had to content herself with standing at the window looking out into the grey autumn dark, until the milkmaid came across. She called her in, told her that her mistress was very ill and could not be left alone, and asked her to attend to her work for the morning.

The milkmaid, too, had something to tell. The Bailie had not come back at all. He had taken refuge with the verger, who lived not far from the vicarage. He had stayed the night there, and next morning a boy from the house came over to fetch his belongings.

No one regretted his going; it was a relief to have him out of the way. The Pastor himself was in a bad way. He thought his leg was broken; a doctor had been telephoned for, and had promised to come over during the day.

"That's what comes of getting mad beyond reason," said the dairymaid. "We all knew that the Bailie was taken with Mistress, but none but a fool would ever believe she could care for a broken-down old creature like him."

Lotta Hedman, for her part, was not altogether sorry about the Pastor's accident. It would force him to keep to his bed, and Sigrun would have time to get over her fright. Lotta was almost inclined to regard it as a special intervention of Providence.

"Thank Heaven," she sighed. "It will be all right now. And perhaps when it's all over they may be happier than before."

A little later in the day, the boy from the verger's came over stealthily with a letter, but Lotta sent it back unopened.

Otherwise, the day passed quietly. Sigrun did not get up, but slept for hours together. And she was not the only one. The whole of the household seemed to have fallen into the same slumber as its mistress.

"It's all so quiet about the house to-day, it's almost uncanny," said the cook and the housemaid, when they came out to the brewhouse to ask how Mistress was getting on. "Like as if someone was on a death-bed."

The Pastor sent for Lotta, to ask after his wife. And Lotta went in and told him, with perfect truth, that Sigrun was asleep, had no fever, and that the slight cut on her forehead was nothing to speak of.

But when he suggested that Sigrun should be moved back into the house, Lotta firmly refused. Much better leave her where she was. She was all of a tremble still, and nervous.

"Afraid of me, I suppose," said her husband.

His face was marked with suffering. It was not only the broken leg that caused him pain.

"She will come back of her own accord, once she is strong again," said Lotta hastily.

The sick man sighed. "She will never come back to me," he said. "Never to me. She will never have the courage to come back."

Lotta Hedman had not thought she could ever feel any pity for the man who had destroyed her beautiful dreams as a girl. But now she tried, at any rate, to comfort him.

"Oh, surely, happiness will come to the house again," she said.

And she had really no thought of separating man and wife. She did, indeed, all that lay in her power to reconcile and reunite them.

When the doctor came, late in the afternoon, he said much the same about Sigrun as Lotta had done: she was not suffering from any actual disease, but would get well if only she were left in peace. Her nerves had been upset, and a sort of crisis had occurred.

They would have to be careful with her. She must not be contradicted, nor allowed to exert herself. She must not be persuaded to do anything but what she wished.

"I can't quite make out this case," said the doctor. "Possibly, it may be something quite different. Fru Rhånge might, for instance, have contracted some sort of infection, and have the germ of some disease in her now, to break out suddenly and seriously later on. But I cannot say for certain just at present."

These words of the doctor's were of great service to Lotta afterward; several of those at the vicarage had been present at the time, and heard what he said. And she herself was surprised when she thought of it, and believed he must have been directed from above to speak as he did.

A whole week passed without any change. Every day a messenger came stealing over from the verger's and was sent back without having gained his end. Each day Lotta was sent for by the vicar to report. And each day Sigrun lay dozing from morning till evening.

Afterward, when Lotta thought of this continuous sleep, she told herself that there must have been something within that knew what was to come. "It was not because she was tired and worn out that Sigrun slept so; no, she was just gathering strength for what she had to do."

Even when she was awake, Sigrun lay quiet and still.

She would draw her eyebrows together, and nod her head now and again, as if agreeing to something she herself proposed. Lotta was convinced that she lay there making plans for the future, but as yet she had no knowledge of them.

One day Sigrun asked her to go across to the house and fetch some money--six hundred kronor--from a drawer in her bureau. "It is all my own," she said. "I have saved up all the money father and mother gave me on my birthdays. You can understand I am anxious about it now, with no one about in the house all day."

Then one day Sigrun wanted something to read, and Lotta brought her a newspaper. She lay for a long time reading the advertisements of steamer routes and railway connections. Then she laid the paper aside. Lotta paid no heed to that at the time, but afterward she remembered.

In the course of that one quiet week, the winter had come in earnest. It was not particularly cold, but a good deal of snow had fallen, and the ground was white all round. The snow was deep enough, indeed, for sledges.

This whiteness outside her window reminded Sigrun of her home and the long winters there--and the thought seemed to cheer her. On the day when the first snow came, she got up and dressed.

"That's right, my angel," said Lotta Hedman. "You'll get strong all the sooner, if you sit up a little. I'm sure now we shall have you well by Christmas."

Sigrun stopped suddenly in her dressing.

"Will it be Christmas soon?" she asked. "I had forgotten all about Christmas." She was plainly distressed at being reminded of the coming feast. The impossibility of spending Christmas anywhere but in her home seemed to strike her. "If anything's to be done, it must be done before then," she murmured. "I must have it all over before Christmas."

Lotta Hedman heard what she said, but thought it referred to some ordinary preparations for Christmas which must be completed in time.

One evening, Lotta Hedman told Sigrun about the man she had met in the train. She described his appearance, his gentle, pleasant voice, his humility. "He was so kind to me," she said. "But just as one of my visions was coming, he ran away."

"What sort of a vision?" asked Sigrun.

"Something from the far north," said Lotta. "I saw a field of ice, and a black tent, and a long sledge."

Sigrun lay without speaking, searching her memory.

"Lotta," she said, after a while, "this is a strange thing. It must be Sven Elversson, and no other, that you met. He is just as you said to look at, and it would be just like him to run away as soon as you began to see visions that would remind him of ice-fields and the Arctic."

"Who is Sven Elversson?" asked Lotta.

Sigrun roused herself a little from her dreamy state and told Lotta something of Sven Elversson's story.

"I wish I knew where he is now," she said at last. "He was a very good man, and very unhappy. I believe he felt himself so despised, so trodden underfoot, that he looked on it as his business to attend to things which others counted themselves too good for. Once he let himself be shut up in a cell with a murderer, to get him to confess. He married a woman from a children's school, one of the ugliest creatures I have ever seen. That was out of sheer humility, too, I suppose. When we lived at Applum, everybody spoke of him. But he moved away from there before we did."

Lotta Hedman remembered her travelling companion's gentle voice and the feeling of confidence with which he had inspired her.

"Be sure God has some purpose in view with that man," she said. "If only I had known of this when I met him."

"I wish I knew where he is to be found," said Sigrun. "All who are miserable and in trouble turn to him. There has been so little news of him since he left Applum. He must have hidden himself away in some place where no one knows his story."

That evening, when they spoke of Sven Elversson, Sigrun was up and dressed again. She had even been through into the next room. Lotta had moved out chairs and a table, and the great cauldron was hidden by the pink curtains. The housemaid had laid a tray with tea for Sigrun and Lotta, and they were comfortable as could be.

But when the maid asked if Mistress was not well enough now to move over into the house again, Sigrun answered quickly:

"I don't know what is the matter with me, Malin. But I think I am going to be really ill. I've a pain in my head and throat this evening. And I'm red all over my body. It must be something breaking out."

"Now, what does she mean by saying that?" thought Lotta. "She's perfectly well. And not a bit of red all over or breaking out."

She came to the conclusion that her friend was trying to make it appear impossible that she should spend Christmas in her own home. "What will come of it all?" thought Lotta anxiously. "Will she never get over this fear of her husband? Oh, but it was always like that with her. Once she is frightened of anyone, it is hopeless to try and calm her.

"And to think that she, who always wanted to be a nurse, doesn't go in now and look after him herself. She doesn't even ask how he is. It's a bad sign, that."

Lotta sat watching her friend. Sigrun looked weak and languid, as sick persons do after some days in bed.

"What unhappy fate is pursuing her?" thought Lotta. "Why should she, pure and innocent as she is, the finest, loveliest creature, sit here in a room little better than an outhouse?"

And indeed the contrast was striking enough--the delicate beauty of the young mistress and the bare wooden walls of the brewhouse, the rough plank floor and smoky ceiling.

"It's a sad pity about them both," thought Lotta. "It must be miserable for him, too, lying on a bed of pain and longing for her."

There was sadness in the air. After a while, Lotta saw how her friend covered her face with her hands and sat rocking to and fro.

"Oh, I wish I were dead!" she moaned. "It would be best. If only I could die."

"It is too dull and melancholy for you, Sigrun, to go on staying here," said Lotta. "I think you had better move over to the house to-morrow."

Sigrun started up; her face turned greyish pale.

"What do you mean?--what's that you say? Has he been bribing you?"

"Sigrun--you must be mad. How could you think of such a thing?"

"Mad--yes, Lotta. I am mad, maddened with fear. Oh, you don't know what I have suffered."

And she began to tell. Not much, but just enough to make Lotta understand. "And how can I go back to it all?" she said.

"But, Sigrun, it only shows how fond of you he is."

"I do not care for him," said Sigrun. "I have never, never been unfaithful to him, Lotta, mark my words; never in so much as a single thought. But he has never trusted me, and that hurts me. It hurts me more than anything else."

Lotta Hedman said something about jealousy being something that belonged to youth. It disappeared naturally as one grew older.

"No," said Sigrun. "Not with him. It is hereditary; all his family have been the same. He has promised me again and again to give it up. But what difference has it made? We moved up here into this wilderness, that he might be in peace. And you can see what we have gained by that.

"You think, perhaps, I have no pity for him? No one knows better than I do how he suffers. And he is going downhill, Lotta; his sermons are poor, and he is losing all interest. It is dreadful for him.

"But it is dreadful for me, too. I have been terrified. He has frightened me now so many times that I have no courage left. You would have to put me in chains to drag me in there now. But you can't understand."

"But--if you can't go back to him," said Lotta, "what are you going to do?"

The young mistress rose to her feet.

"Let us go to bed, Lotta," she said, with a bitter little laugh. "It is past ten o'clock, and you must be up early to-morrow to your work."

THE FLIGHT

NEXT day Sigrun lay in bed. She had a pain in her throat, she said. No one but Lotta was allowed to go in. And Lotta was charged to tell the Pastor that her mistress was likely to be ill for some time.

She lay in bed all that day. Not until after supper, when the servants had gone to bed, did she get up. Then she dressed, and came out to Lotta in the scullery.

"Do you feel better now?"

Sigrun smiled. "Yes, Lotta, much better."

It had been a hard day for Lotta. She was beginning to realize that Sigrun was preparing to leave her home. And she wondered what she could do to prevent such a disaster.

"I have been thinking," said Lotta. "It seems to me you ought to go home to Stenbroträsk for Christmas. It would be much better for you, and far more proper than staying over Christmas out here like this."

Sigrun did not seem altogether unwilling. She said no, at first, but when Lotta began to talk of the splendid Christmas they always had there, she appeared to think it worth considering.

They stayed up late again that night. Sigrun sat in silence, pondering over something she could not quite make out, and Lotta did not venture to disturb her.

A little after eleven, the door opened suddenly, and a woman stumbled into the room, took a step or two, and sank to her knees on the floor, holding out her hands.

"If there's any human soul here, help me!" she cried. "I'm so ill, so ill. I'm burning all over."

Sigrun's weakness and weariness were gone in a moment. She sprang to the stranger and helped her up, put one arm round her, and supported her.

"Come with me," she said gently. "Come over to the light and let me see what is the matter first."

The woman stood there shaking and trembling with fever. She could not lift her feet, but shuffled helplessly, and would have fallen but for Sigrun's aid.

Helping her over to the light, she saw that the woman's face was terribly swollen and disfigured. Dark breaking blisters close, close together all over. And the same with her hands.

"Lotta!" said Sigrun in a low, trembling voice. "What is it?"

But there was no need for Lotta to answer. Sigrun knew as well as she did what the sickness was.

She knew, too, that it was risking death to touch the poor vagrant, yet she began resolutely stripping off her clothes, and while Lotta Hedman made the bed ready, spreading clean sheets, cool and smooth for the hot and tender skin. Sigrun gave her clean linen underclothes, and soon they had the groaning, shivering woman stretched on the bed.

And there they sat, full of pity for her, while she moaned and writhed in pain. Sigrun tried to give her water, but she seemed unable to swallow. Then the mistress turned again to Lotta, and the two sat hand in hand, silent and horrified at the power of the dreadful disease.

Soon they breathed more easily; the sick woman seemed to be quieter now, and suffering less.

And a little later, a short hour since she had first entered, she was perfectly calm and motionless. The uneven breathing stopped.

The two friends rose, laid the dead woman out where she lay, and crouched together as before, close to each other, as if petrified by the terrible dead face.

"A few days, and I shall look like that"--the same thought was in the minds of both. "Look like she does now. No one would recognize me. No one could say who it was."

"Who can she be?" asked Lotta in a whisper. And Sigrun answered in the same low voice that it must be some poor vagrant with no home to go to.

"Her clothes were not so very bad," she went on. "But sadly worn. Her boots are wet and trodden through; she has tramped a long way through the snow. The sickness must have come upon her on the road, and she has wandered about over the country in delirium. It must have been the light from our lamp that made her come here."

Again they sat in silence, watching the dead. And now it was that a dreadful thought came to Sigrun.

"If I lay there in her place," she said to herself. "Why not? Why should I not manage it so that it is Sigrun Rhånge who lies there?"

It seemed as if Lotta Hedman had read her thought; she turned to Sigrun and stared at her in breathless fear.

"No one knows her," said Sigrun. Her voice was no longer low and whispering, but firm and decided. "No one knows where she comes from. No one can have seen her come in here. A poor vagrant without a home."

Lotta said nothing. She would not betray her suspicions. If Sigrun were not thinking of that after all, then it would be best to say nothing.

Sigrun went on as before:

"You know what it is, Lotta--the smallpox. And she lies dead in my bed, and the bed and the whole place will have to be disinfected; we shall not be able to stay here. We should have to move over into the house. And perhaps I may have caught it myself already, and die--if I did, all would be well. But I might get better, and then I should be back in all the old misery again."

"But it will be better now, after all you have gone through," said Lotta eagerly. "Your husband knows he has wronged you now. He will be more careful."

Sigrun rose, and moved the lamp into the other room.

"We must not disturb her," she said.

"You have so many happy years before you," said Lotta. "When you are both a little older, it will be calm and quiet for you again. And he is such a splendid man, clever and understanding."

Sigrun stood full in the light from the lamp, and Lotta was astonished at the change in her. In a moment she seemed to have regained all her former beauty, more. There was a splendour of majesty and power about her now. Lotta could not help feeling that Sigrun was something higher than others; that she must be loved and protected more than all others.

"Lotta," said Sigrun, "you see now that it was for this you were sent here from Stenbroträsk--to help me with this?"

This was speaking in a language Lotta understood. But she would not be won over so easily.

"Dear angel, it might be I was sent to hinder you," she said.

Sigrun made Lotta sit down in one of the wicker chairs, and then, kneeling at her feet, took her hands and said in a voice of earnest conviction:

"I promised Edward once that nothing but death should make me leave him. And that is why I have not gone away before. And all this week I have prayed to God that I might die rather than be forced to break my promise. Now, though I am in fear of him, and cannot stay, it has held me back. Lotta, you understand?"

Lotta nodded reluctantly.

"And now, Lotta, God has heard my prayers. He has sent Death to me. And so I can go without breaking my word. Lotta, surely should understand that this is God's will?"

"No more of this, Sigrun," said Lotta, trying to rise. But her mistress held her back.

"It is God Himself helping me, Lotta," she said. "Now I can go away without making Edward unhappy. Oh, I don't mean he would not mourn for me a year or two, perhaps, but it would be without bitterness. But if I ran away from him--do you think he would ever allow it? He would go out to search for me everywhere, and when he found me, he might kill me. Or if I got a divorce? It would be the death of him. But to go this way--out of life altogether...."

"It would only be a quiet sorrow. He could not be jealous of Death. Don't you see, Lotta, how much better it would be for him than anything else?"

"For him, perhaps," said Lotta. "But for you?"

"For me," said the young wife, with a smile that was like a light from heaven--"for me, all is good that is best for him."

"The best thing for him would be to keep you," said Lotta decidedly.

"But I cannot!" cried Sigrun despairingly. "You don't know what it means to be watched every hour, never to be free. You don't know what it is, with all these terrible scenes and quarrels and promises to be better, when it never is better, and ill-humour and misery. You don't know what it is to go in constant fear of something dreadful happening. To be always forced to lie and hide things, though you have done nothing but what was good and right. Oh, you don't know what it is like, or you would not ask me to go back."

"No," said Lotta--"no, angel dear, I did not know you had suffered like that. You have never spoken of it until yesterday and to-day. But is there no other way?"

Sigrun rose to her feet. "There is one way. And God has sent it. But Lotta Hedman will not let me take that way."

Nothing could describe the torturing power of Sigrun's beauty as she spoke such words as these. A witchery seemed to emanate from her being, and she knew it, and never, perhaps, had she used it so mercilessly, so victoriously as to-night.

"I am doing no wrong, Lotta," she said. "I am going to the war, to help the wounded. That is my one desire. I am ashamed to stay at home doing nothing. You know it is what I have longed for all my life. And God is helping me, Lotta. Why will you not help me?"

What could poor Lotta Hedman say? She had never loved Sigrun as she did this night. She resisted still, knowing that Rhånge came of a family of suicides. Perhaps he would kill himself if he lost his wife. But she dared not say anything of this to Sigrun; it might only increase her fear of him.

"But you have your father and mother at home," was all she could find to say.

"You forget the infection. I cannot go home to them now."

She went over to Lotta and made her sit down again in the chair.

"Lotta, I am so unhappy," she said. "Every day is an agony. Am I to suffer like this all my life?"

"But, Sigrun, how can you bring this sorrow on us all?"

"Sorrow?" said Sigrun--"sorrow? What is it, after all, to sorrow for the dead? What is it compared with sorrowing for the living? I must do it, Lotta, for Edward's sake. Think what a man he was when I first met him. Calm, happy, eager to make his way. A good preacher, and loved by his congregation. Now--can you not see how he has changed? He is going to ruin here in poverty and loneliness. I must leave him, Lotta. If I were dead, he would find another place, another living, where he could rise to all that he meant to do when he had the ill-fortune to meet me."

"You cannot make me see that you need do anything so dreadful."

Sigrun shrugged her shoulders.

"I am not trying to make you believe that it is only for his sake. I do it because I am miserable, and must free myself from my misery. Oh, Lotta, if only I could really die! I know that would be the best. But, next to that, the best thing is for me to disappear. I am going to pieces; it is driving me mad. Perhaps I am mad already."

"But do you ask me to help you go away so that I shall never see you again?" said Lotta despairingly. She had not thought to speak of herself, but she felt driven to use every argument she could find.

"Why should you not see me again, after a few years?" said Sigrun. "Listen, and I will tell you all my plan. I will go on foot the first few miles, till I come to a parish where no one knows me. There I can get a cart to take me to the nearest station. Then by train to Göteborg, and from there to America. There I can enter a training school for nurses, and then go to the war. You see, there is nothing impossible about it. And when a few years have passed, I can write for you."

"Do not try to persuade me," said Lotta. "I should have to tell all sorts of lies, and I could never do it."

With indescribable bitterness Sigrun answered:

"I have had to lie every day since I was married."

Lotta Hedman was overwhelmed; her heart was wrung with pity. "Let her have her will," she said to herself. And at the same time, she was so full of anxiety at what Sigrun was about to do that she began to weep.

"God was willing to help me," said Sigrun, "but Lotta Hedman would not."

"But, Sigrun," cried Lotta, dashing away a tear with the back of her hand, "will you force me to help you ruin yourself? You ask me to help you in something so dreadful that I tremble at the very thought. You will no longer have a name among the living. You will go out into the world without friends, or parents, without even being able to say where you come from. It will be misery if you succeed, and shameful and terrible if you are found out."

But her words were of no avail. The young mistress was as firmly resolved as before. But she ceased begging and persuading now; she began to threaten.

"Lotta, mark my words; if you will not help me as I ask, then to-morrow I go to the verger's to him who is waiting for me there."

"You would never do that," said Lotta.

"I would do anything. Anything but go back to the old life."

Before Lotta could reply to this, something happened. There was a sound of footsteps approaching from outside--a cautious tread, but heavy and distinct. The sound did not stop at the entrance, but continued round the house. Once or twice again it was heard; then it died away.

Sigrun made a sign to Lotta, who hurried to a window, drew aside the curtain, and looked out into the snowy-clear night.

"It was the farm lad," she said.

The beautiful woman drew herself up. Her eyebrows contracted, her head was raised, her eyes shot a furious glance at someone who was not there.

"He has done that every night," she said, "since I moved over here. It is by his master's orders. He is watching. Listening to hear if I have a lover with me."

Lotta said nothing. She was beginning to give up all further resistance.

"And you, Lotta; you think Edward will change? Well, there you can see. Does he trust me now any more than before? Sending a boy to spy on me?"

She raised her voice as she spoke; the insult of her husband's suspicion wounded every fibre of her being.

"It can never come right between them after this," thought Lotta. "He has killed all the love that was in her. Perhaps it is best that she should go."

And so it was that Lotta Hedman gave way before the sudden conviction that Sigrun's love for her husband was dead or dying, though she would not admit it herself--was not even, perhaps, aware of it.

Lotta protested no more. She did not assent in words, but she ceased to oppose.

Some time passed in hasty preparations. Sigrun took off her rings and borrowed a change of clothing from Lotta. A little underclothing and the six hundred kronor she packed away in a leather bag, likewise belonging to Lotta, who further had to provide a cloak and kerchief. It was essential that nothing of Sigrun's own clothing should be missing.

When Sigrun was nearly ready, she turned suddenly to Lotta and stood still.

"Lotta, you understand that all this has been brought about by the hand of God? Do not fear either for me or for yourself."

Her courage and presence of mind were admirable in their way. She showed not the least hesitation or fear.

But when all was ready, there came a hard moment at the last.

"I am leaving so much that is dear to me," she said. The tears flowed down her cheeks; she seemed to realize at once the full seriousness of the irrevocable step she was about to take.

"Now I shall never look at the little picture of Stenbroträsk again, that comforted me so many times. And the locket with the portrait of my little girl--I dare not take that either."

"That, at least, you might take, I think," said Lotta. "But you need not go at all," she added.

"And, Lotta, you know there is one of the cows I was so fond of. Look after her a little when you can."

She moved toward the door.

"Don't forget, Lotta, when my Christmas rose comes out, to put it on Edward's writing-table."

Then she kissed Lotta Hedman for the first time, and went away.

Sigrun had not been gone more than a quarter of an hour when Lotta again heard footsteps outside--a light, careful tread, not the heavy tramp of the farm lad. The moment she heard it, she thought to herself: "What a mercy! It is Sigrun come back again after all."

But no sooner had she drawn the bolt and opened the door than she found herself face to face with a strange man. No wonder the poor girl was terrified. Never in her life had she felt so sinful and conscience-stricken as now.

"Eh, Lotta, Lotta," she thought to herself. "It is beginning already."

The fellow was poorly dressed, with a big slouch hat. Evidently, some sort of a vagabond. "For Heaven's sake, don't come in here," said Lotta, placing herself in his way. "We've smallpox in the house, and there's one lying dead inside there."

The man did not make off at once, as Lotta had expected. He stood in the doorway, looking round the room.

And before she could guess his intention, he had thrust her aside, and strode across to the entrance of the little room beyond, looking in at the bed where the dead woman lay.

But Lotta gave him no time for close observation. She rushed after him and threw her arms about him, pulled him away, and closed the bedroom door.

The man made no resistance. He seemed to think she was anxious to keep him away from infection.

"It won't hurt me," he said. "I've got it already if I'm to have it. The woman in there is my wife. She was taken bad a couple of days ago, and this morning she was delirious and ran off."

It was evident that he was speaking the truth--and the whole of Sigrun's plan was thus of no avail. Lotta felt as if the place were falling about her ears.

"But--who are you, then?" she asked.

"I'm not exactly a stranger here," said the man in a calm, quiet voice. "I'm a knife-grinder, and they know me here at the vicarage. I was here only a week ago, doing the scissors and knives. I go about with my horse and cart and grindstone from place to place, and I've not what you could call a proper house of my own for nursing sick folk. When Ruth was taken bad, I was going to get her down to a hospital, but then she ran away, poor creature. I've been wandering about looking for her all day. I wonder how she managed to get here."

Worse and worse. Lotta felt as if the ground beneath her feet were giving way. But, in her confusion, she yet made one more endeavour to save her friend.

"But it's not your wife lying there," she said. "It's my dear mistress."

"Eh?" said the knife-grinder. "The pretty mistress--is she dead? Did they let her lie out here in an outhouse and die?"

"She wished it so herself," said Lotta Hedman.

"Why, then, I beg pardon for tramping in like I did," said the man. "I'll have to be seeking Ruth somewhere else."

He was a little, withered man, with a dark skin and one shoulder constantly thrust up, which gave him a look of sullenness and discontent. Lotta remembered well that the last time he had been at the vicarage he had been rude and troublesome. But now, in the presence of sickness and death, he was quiet and humble.

To Lotta's great relief, he moved toward the door. But then he stopped. There before him lay a pair of wet, downtrodden boots.

"But--these are Ruth's," he said. "What does this mean?"

Lotta's resourcefulness was at an end. She could find nothing for it now but to tell him the truth.

Sigrun had reached beyond the church and cemetery of Algeröd, and was just crossing the bridge over the little stream when she heard Lotta Hedman's voice calling to her.

A moment later a sledge drew up beside her, and Lotta came forward and told her what had happened, telling her, at the same time, that the knife-grinder had promised to say nothing.

The man himself was sitting on the sledge, looking sullen and angry, but he spoke as calmly and peaceably as before.

"It's this way," he said. "I don't like the fashion of it, having Ruth put away and buried under another name. But I'll stick by what I've said for the rest. Young mistress can get up in the sledge here, and I'll drive her back to the vicarage, and nobody the wiser. I'll be as silent as a stone wall."

Sigrun walked over to the man. She had tied a black kerchief round her head, but now she thrust it back.

"And all for that, I'm to go back to my misery?" she asked.

The man seemed uneasy. He cast a hasty glance at her and looked away.

"She is dead. What does it matter in whose name she is buried?" said Sigrun, in a voice trembling with desperation.

"I don't see it's acting fairly by Ruth," said the man stubbornly.

"No," said Sigrun. "It is not, I know. But do not think that I am going back home after this. That I shall not do."

She pointed toward the river, gleaming darkly between the snow-covered banks.

"I will go that way, if need be," she said.

She stood before him, firm and resolute. And the stem earnestness of her face told him clearly enough that she would do as she said.

He turned his face away, as if fearing to look at her.

"I know she'd have a better sort of burial and all that," he said. "And it's no great matter to me, after all, seeing she wasn't my lawful wife, so to speak, though she'd been going about with me these two months. But it seems to me ..."

Lotta gave a cry. Sigrun had hurried away, and stood now crouching by the rail at the side of the bridge, trying to get under.

"For the Lord's sake!" cried the man, rushing toward her. "Don't go and harm yourself! I'll do as you say."

"Remember, I will never go back to it all again," said Sigrun.

"No; you'll have no need. I'll keep silent all right."

"Sigrun is wonderful to-night," thought Lotta. "No one can resist her; she does as she pleases with us all."

And indeed it seemed so. The little ill-humoured fellow could not do enough for her.

"I haven't my proper cart with me to-night," he said. "I borrowed a sledge this morning to go out looking for Ruth. But that'll make it the easier, perhaps, for me to drive you on a bit of the way. It's not so easy to go tramping in the snow for them that's used to sitting warm and comfortable at home."

THE LONG DAY

THE day that had begun with Sigrun's flight from her home was, for many, a sad and weary day--a day so long that it seemed as if it would never reach an end.

So it was for Lotta Hedman. Coming back to the outhouse at three in the morning, she found all as she had left it, and began as well as she could to make preparations for what was to come. She gathered the dead woman's clothes together, thrust them into the stove, with an armful of wood, and burned all to ashes. Then she washed out the stove and drew her curtains across, leaving all looking as it had done the evening before.

Trembling and terrified, she went into the adjoining room where the dead woman lay. She was not afraid of the dead, as a rule, but she felt it here. Sigrun and she had sorely wronged the dead, and she could not approach the bedside without a shudder. Nevertheless, she carried out her plan--took out a sheet and laid it over the body, hiding it completely, and with deep feeling read a prayer or two.

This gave her comfort. She felt now with certainty that the dead woman was no longer an enemy to herself and her mistress, but their faithful helper and ally, of whom she need have no fear.

Lotta endeavoured also to prepare herself for what she must say to those in the house. She called to mind that no one had seen Sigrun all the previous day; she could therefore say that her new illness had begun the night before that. Sigrun had not wished a doctor to be sent for on her account; she thought it was only a little rash breaking out, and nothing dangerous. Then ... what was she to say next?

Lotta walked up and down the room, thinking it over. But after a while she felt too weary and discouraged to move about, and sat down in a chair instead. Soon this too seemed uncomfortable; she rose, and stood leaning against a wall. At last she sank to the floor, close by the bed where the dead woman lay, and stayed there so.

"I ought to go in to the Pastor," she thought. "I ought to wake the servants." But she did neither, only sat still, repeating her explanations to herself and turning them over every way.

"It will all be found out some way or other," she told herself. "And we shall be miserable and shamed, both Sigrun and I. It is terrible to sit and wait like this."

An unexpected comfort relieved her for a little while from her fears and anxiety.

As she sat there on the floor, bowed down by dread of what was to come, her soul took flight from her body, and, rising, hovered away into space between the worlds.

Soon it had risen so far that Lotta Hedman could see earthly things in their proportion; she saw now, not fragments of things, but things themselves in their whole extent. Not merely a stretch of river and stream, but the whole course of the waters from source to mouth. Not a little corner of the forest only, but the mighty expanse of trees in its whole extent. She could follow the line of a mountain chain from end to end. Plains spread out beneath her, and the contours of the land showed clearly marked against the glittering surface of the seas.

It was a beautiful and exalting sight, thought Lotta, but her soul did not stop to watch; it rose still higher.

And soon it had reached a point in space from where it could see the fates of mankind in their relation. Lotta could follow the wanderings of men through the valley of life. And it passed in what seemed to her less than seconds. She saw them enter life, go their brief way, and pass again, out into the unknown. She saw her friend Sigrun on her journey, and the way marked out for her, and the roads that crossed it.

She saw, too, the road which the woman lying dead beside her now had had to traverse. A dark and poor and difficult way, and already it was growing smoother, not smoothed, however, by a covering of darkness, but vanishing in a gleam of light.

At the end of the road stood the dead woman herself, still looking back over her course, that was now transformed into a ribbon of light, and Lotta saw that the woman's spirit rejoiced.

The dead woman pointed to Sigrun's road, and to one of those that crossed it.

"Look," she said, "the thing I longed for most of all in life is now fulfilled by my death!"

And with these words, she vanished in a great splendour, so great that Lotta's soul could not follow there, but must wait without.

And at once it returned to her body, and Lotta Hedman felt now relieved from all her fear a while, believing that what had happened was something that rightly should and must have happened so.

She retained this calm of mind until the door opened and someone asked her if she knew it was half-past seven already.

At this Lotta tried to rise, but now her confidence was gone. She thought of all the troubles that awaited her, and had not the strength to get on her feet, but remained sitting.

The door closed again, no one entered, and for a few minutes she was left in peace.

"It will all be found out very soon now," thought Lotta. "It must be."

And the shame that would come upon Sigrun and herself weighed her down.

A little later, the housemaid entered, with early breakfast for her mistress.

She saw the lamp still alight, the wick smoking and nearly spent, the room full of smoke and almost in darkness. She called out, but no one answered. Then she realized that something must be wrong. She set down the tray, struck a match, and discovered Lotta sitting in a heap beside the bed; she saw, too, that the figure lying on it had a sheet spread over, as over a corpse. She came closer, lifted the sheet a little, and saw a pair of swollen hands.

At this Lotta came to life.

"For Heaven's sake, be careful. It is smallpox."

The girl dropped the sheet and started back.

And she it was who spread the news, telling the Pastor and the rest of the household.

Lotta herself, protected as she was by the dread of infection, was scarcely questioned at all.

A messenger was sent to fetch the verger, a man of strength and authority, and he arranged everything as well as could be done.

He gave orders that Lotta Hedman should stay where she was on account of the infection, and no one was to go near her. Even if the Pastor himself were to send for her, she was not to go.

He and Lotta together laid the body in the coffin, which was afterward carried away to a hastily dug grave.

No investigation was made, hardly a question asked. The vicarage was for a time cut off from all the rest of the district. That the vicar's wife should give out that she was dead while in fact still alive was a thing too unheard of for any to suspect.

"It is that knife-grinder that has been going about the district these last few weeks--he must have brought the infection over from Norway," was the general view. "His wife was ill, too, and ran away from him in her delirium."

The doctor's words were also called to mind; the disease must have been there before any knew of it.

And the longest and most agonizing day Lotta Hedman had ever known came to an end without any discovery of what had been done.

Sigrun glanced now and again at the driver sitting on the edge of the sledge. It was still dark night, and she could only vaguely distinguish the outline of the figure--the broad-brimmed hat, the upraised shoulder, the short nose, and the sullen mouth.

"It is not a man sitting there," she told herself, "but Death. I did not know him when he came first, but I know him now. And who else could it be? I have given myself up into his power. And he has come to fetch me and carry me away to his own land."

They drove on over wide and desolate mountain tracts, covered with snow. A few scattered, stunted trees and bushes here and there rendered the barrenness of the country still more marked.

"It is the kingdom of Death," she said to herself.

And she, who had a while ago been so eager, active, and commanding, felt herself now sinking into a quiet calm. The effort of will was at an end, hopes and desires were gone.

It is dangerous, perhaps, for a mortal to make an ally of Death. For Death may take it in earnest.

And Sigrun seemed really to feel a change taking place in herself. All the links that bound her to her former life were being loosened one by one.

Love of her husband, the sorrow and misery of her married life, had filled all her thoughts before. But now, all this faded and disappeared. A great void was where it had been, but no regrets, no bitterness.

"The dead must feel like this," she thought. "Thus it must be to be freed from all earthly things. Love and sorrow disappear."

Little foolish things she had said as a child, and had been ashamed of ever since, little offences that had troubled her long, little humiliations she had never forgotten--all these vanished now in a moment. Hereafter, she would think of these as things that no longer concerned her.

She thought of her parents, and the help they had always given her--now she would never have to trouble them again for aid. All was new about her now; she was in another world. "They cannot reach me here," she thought. "They have stood by me up to now, as far as they could. Now I am gone from them for ever. I am driving into the kingdom of Death."

She was like a climbing plant, fastened with many threads to a trellis. Now, one after another was loosed, and soon the whole growth would fall to the ground.

"It must be like this to die," said Sigrun to herself. "It is not hard or painful at all, only a deep rest."

Gradually it grew light. The man on the side of the sledge became once more an ordinary vagabond, with a sullen, unkindly face. The landscape was a stony, barren, poor, but altogether earthly tract, and Sigrun herself awoke to life with its insistent demands for courage and strength of mind....

The horse had had no rest all night, and they were going very slowly. They had to halt for some hours at a peasant's hut to give the animal food and rest. At last, however, they came in sight of a village where there was an inn.

As they were thus approaching the end of their journey, the knife-grinder turned to Sigrun.

"A man like me," he said, "going about the country all ways, sees many strange things in his time. But I will say, this business to-night's the strangest I've ever had a hand in."

"You think so?" Sigrun turned to the little dark man with a friendly smile.

"I'll take my oath I've never seen nor heard the like. And I can't for the life of me see what it was made me soft enough to help with it at all. I can't make it out."

"Neither can I," said Sigrun. "But be sure you will never regret it."

"Why, as to that, you never know," said the man. "But, anyhow, I don't like to let you go on now without knowing how you're going to manage, and where you're making for."

"I am going to America," said Sigrun.

"It costs a heap of money to get to America," said the man.

"You surely do not think I should start on such a journey without money," she returned.

At this the man pulled up, went to the horse, and began lifting and fingering the harness.

"Well," he said, after a pause, "I've nothing much to do this way or that myself. Might be best, perhaps, to drive past the inn here, and I could take you on a few miles farther. There might be someone here that knew you."

For the last half-hour Sigrun had been troubled by that very thought. And the offer was welcome indeed.

"When I do a thing, I believe in doing it thoroughly," said the man, taking his place on the sledge once more.

The next few miles, however, were toilsome. Again they had to stop and rest and feed the horse. And soon they found that the snowfall in these parts had been lighter than where they had come from; the going became so bad after a time that they were forced to walk long stretches of the way.

And time went on. It was nearly noon before they came within sight of the second inn.

Just as they were near enough to distinguish the buildings, a man came driving up with a milk-cart.

"You'd better be careful, Gustavsson," he called to the knife-grinder. "They've telephoned up to the inn to be on the look-out for you. Say you're carrying infection. Vicar's wife at Algeröd died last night of the smallpox, and they say it's you and your woman brought it with you from Norway."

Again they halted, and considered what was best to be done. At last they decided to turn back. Neither cared to drive on to the inn; it was too dangerous.

The knife-grinder suggested making to the eastward, up toward Dalsland. "There's the railway runs from there to Göteborg, too, and nobody 'll know you there."

They turned off accordingly, along a road running east, leading up again through a wild and barren mountain tract.

The going was better here, but the poor beast was nearly spent. And after a third halt for rest and food, it had come to the bottom of its fodder bag.

The knife-grinder brought out some bread and butter and fell to. Sigrun had nothing to eat with her, but she was not hungry.

Afterward, when she looked back on that day, she wondered at herself.

"It was strange. I was altogether calm, and felt nothing at all. No uneasiness, no weariness, not even hunger. I knew all the time all would turn out as it should. I was numbed, as it were, in a way, but I was strong and able to hold out all the time. There must have been something at hand, too, that helped me."

While on the long road up to the plateau she asked a question.

"Did you not say this morning that the woman who died was not your wife?"

"I said so, yes. And it's the truth. She has a good husband and a decent home, but she liked better to go off with me."

And Sigrun questioned him further; not that the matter interested her at all--nothing in the world interested her that day. But talking made the time pass more easily.

"She liked you more than her husband, then?"

"Well, I don't know rightly about that. She was married to a man named Sven Elversson. Mayhap you've heard of him?"

Sigrun nodded.

"I thought at first she'd wearied of him because of--that old business, you know," the man went on. "But after, I found out it was because she thought he didn't care about her himself."

"She wasn't nice at all," said Sigrun. "And he only married her out of pity."

"She was no beauty, that's true," said the man, "but she was a good soul for all that. She was that sort that'd do anything for one they cared about."

Despite her indifference, Sigrun could not help feeling uneasy at these words. She asked no more about the woman.

"Do you know where Sven Elversson is now?"

"He lives at a place in Dalsland, called Hånger. A big place it was once, but there's so many ugly things happened there that no one would live in it, and it was let go to ruin. Sven Elversson bought it for next to nothing. And he lives there now with only his old folks, now that his wife's gone, but he's always taking in someone to help and look after, children and poor folk, as many as he can have there."

Surely there must have been some strange influence at work to-day--something affecting the vagabond knife-grinder as it had done Sigrun. This man, whose habit it was to roam about the country growling and cursing, a terror to all, was quiet and gentle now, and spoke well of everyone.

They started off again, Sigrun sitting in the sledge, and the man on the side as before, with his legs hanging down. Then suddenly he slipped, and fell down in the road.

The horse stopped at once. The man picked himself up and climbed to his seat once more. But a little after, he slipped off again.

"Queer," he said. "I don't know what's the matter with me. My head seems going round."

Sigrun suggested he should sit in the sledge beside her. He did so, and they drove on again. A little later, the reins fell from his hands.

"I must be ill," he said confusedly. "Going the same way as Ruth, by the look of it."

But Sigrun hastened to reassure him.

"You have not slept all night," she said. "Sit there in the corner, and let me drive while you sleep a little."

Again something seemed to give her courage. "He is not ill," it whispered to her, "only tired out. There, he is asleep already."

When she had driven a little way, the horse stopped and refused to go farther.

Sigrun shook her companion by the arm.

"Do you know if there is any place near where we can put up? The horse is quite exhausted now, and it is getting dark already."

The man looked up, dull and heavy with sleep.

"Do you think it's the smallpox?" he asked.

"No, you are only sleepy," said Sigrun.

"It's the smallpox, I doubt, all the same," said the man.

But a moment after he pulled himself together.

"There's no help for it," he said resolutely. "There's a place a couple of miles farther on--a 'vagabonds' hostel,' as they call it. We must try to get on to there."

"We must find shelter somewhere," said Sigrun.

"It's the only thing we can do," said the man. "Though I'd rather have kept from showing myself there again. We're across the boundary now," he went on. "We're in Dalsland, and once we're over the next rise, it's downhill the rest of the way. Turn off to the left at the cross-roads, and drive on to the first house you see."

When at last Sigrun had got the horse up over the rise, she saw in the fading daylight a broad landscape spread out before them, gently sloping, and pleasant to see, with many lakes and long wooded ridges, showing up clearly against the heavy, snow-laden air. The beauty of the sight cheered her, and she drove on with renewed vigour, reached the cross-roads, and turned off to the left.

Several times she had a view of the landscape first seen, but the country seemed as uninhabited as before. At last, however, she sighted a farmhouse just below. The house itself was fairly large, as if belonging to a rich estate, but all the outbuildings were small and mean, little better than any peasant's dwelling might possess.

She roused the sick man anew.

"Are we there now?"

"Yes," he answered, shaking off his drowsiness. "We're at Hånger now. I never thought to come seeking shelter here again."

Sigrun gave a cry. "Hånger!" For a moment she felt like a shipwrecked soul, with the waves already closing over her. "Hånger--that was where you said Sven Elversson ..."

"Ay," said the man. "And I'd never have come here by choice, but there's no help for it now."

"But--if he asked about his wife?"

"Why, I'll have to find something or other to say."

"That he should live here, of all places in the world," said Sigrun despairingly.

"He took the place because it's lonely like, and far away from folk. Ordinary people never come this way, but all sorts of tramps and vagabonds and poor folk, they go to him."

Sigrun drove down a hill toward the house. And her despair passed from her almost at once. Again the same numbness came over her, and something whispered that there was no need to fear; all would go well.

Just at the entrance to the drive stood a little red-painted hut.

"Here it is. Just go in there," said the knife-grinder.

He roused himself.

"I'll drive up to the house and get the horse in," he said. "You can go in meantime. There's nobody in the traveller's hut, it seems. You'll find a key just down under the step."

Sigrun did as he said, and found herself in a little cottage divided midway by a passage running through, with a room on either side. Both rooms were arranged and furnished in the same manner. Bare walls, fixed bedsteads with straw mattresses, a stove, a big, heavy table, and a few heavy chairs. A bucket of water and a bundle of firewood were there, but there were no pillows, no sheets, cooking-pots or plates, no towels or washing basins--nothing that could be taken away. A great cupboard stood in one of the rooms, but the key was not in the lock.

It was not altogether cold in the rooms; there had evidently been a fire there during the day. And they were clean and well aired.

"I must try to light; a fire," thought Sigrun.

While she was busy with this, the knife-grinder entered. He could hardly stand upright. Without a word, he threw himself on a bed, and in a moment was fast asleep.

"I do not think he is ill," said Sigrun to herself. "He will be all right when he has had a night's rest. No need to call for help."

She lit a fire in the other room also, and sat down before it, thinking over her plans. Suddenly she realized that she was tired--she was indeed nearly falling from her seat. Also, she was hungry. "I ought to have brought some food with me," she murmured. And then, suddenly, she remembered her bag. Where was it? It was not in the room. She must have left it in the sledge.

She hurried out. The sledge was standing outside, and the bag was there. She picked it up, and was just going back into the house when a voice hailed her.

"Is that you, Ruth?"

Darkness had fallen quickly. She could vaguely distinguish the figure of an old, bowed man, slowly approaching.

"Do not come near us," she cried; "we are infected."

"I know," answered the man. "We had a telephone message to-day, but I never thought you would come back here again. Well, well, needs must, they say, when the devil drives."

"This must be Joel Elversson," thought Sigrun--"Sven Elversson's father. He is grown old and weak; he takes me for his son's wife."

"Sven is not at home to-day," said Joel in his solemn way. "But we will receive you, Ruth, I and Thala, as he would have done if he had known you came here in need and in peril of death. Here is the key of the cupboard. You know where to find all you need there. And we will bring down food for you and set it outside the door."

He handed her a small key, which she took without a word. He did not seem to expect any answer.

"There's none here bears any grudge against you, Ruth," he said. "We know what it was that made you go. Make yourself as easy as you can, and sleep in peace."

He walked away, and Sigrun hurried into the house. In the cupboard she found pillows and sheets--all that was needed for the night. And, shortly afterward, food was brought.

Sigrun took a part of it and set it in the next room for her companion, then, barring her door carefully, she ate something herself, and went to bed.

"I must have a few hours' sleep now," she thought. "And then I can go on again. I must get away from here before anyone learns who I am."

Almost before she had framed the thought she was fast asleep.

MORNING

THEN Sigrun awoke, a little ray of red winter sun was shining into the poor chamber where she lay. She had slept, not for a few hours only, but the whole night through. She made haste to get up and set the room in order before going on her way.

The rest had strengthened her; she felt well and resolute now, and without regret for the step she had taken. The only thing that troubled her now was her fear lest she might be discovered. If only she could get away from Hånger without any one learning who she was, she felt sure the danger would be past.

Again she found a tray of food outside her door, and with it a paper, on which was written:

"We understand that you are remaining here, since the man has gone away alone. Do not doubt but that you will be welcome."

She went into the room opposite, and saw that her companion had indeed gone. It was one more source of anxiety removed. She was rested now, and would far rather go on foot than drive in his sledge. All she need do was to ask her way to a town where she could get a proper conveyance. It could not be far to the nearest railway station; she could be in Göteborg that evening.

She fastened the black kerchief round her head, put on Lotta Hedman's cloak, and, taking up her bag, prepared to start.

Before leaving the room, however, she opened her bag to see if the money and other things were safe. Then she gave a cry of dismay. The six hundred kronor were gone.

She felt in the pocket of her cloak, and in her dress. The money was not there.

She understood at once that they had been stolen. The knife-grinder had taken them out of the bag while it was in the sledge.

She staggered to a seat. This was a terrible blow. She could not go to America now. All roads were barred. Oh, Heaven!

She bowed her head on the table and tried to think. Yes, she had told the man yesterday that she had money. And he perhaps had been thinking all along how he could get hold of what she had. Tired and exhausted as he was, he had yet been able to carry out his plan.

And in so doing he had rendered life impossible for her.

"It is a hard world to go out in for one that is poor and alone," she thought. "A hard world."

She felt not exactly penitent; but she realized now the utter impossibility of accomplishing her purpose.

"I might go out as a beggar on the high road," she thought. "But what would be the good of that? I did not leave my home to be an adventuress."

To return home seemed equally impossible. How could she tell her husband that she had given herself out as dead in order to escape from him? It was impossible--not to be thought of.

She knew that for the time being she was among good people. Should she ask them to help her? Again the same difficulty arose. She would have to confess her deceit, her shame. And these honest souls would feel compelled to inform her husband at once that she was alive.

"It was no fancy, after all, that of yesterday," she told herself. "It was Death that sat beside me on the sledge. And Death will not release one who has once given herself into his hands."

"But he is not a hard master," her restless thought went on. "He loosed the bonds that held me to earthly things, and in a gentle way. Why should I not trust him now?"

And so she remained sitting at the table for about an hour, trying to familiarize herself with the thought of death.

"God will be merciful," she said. "He knows all. He knows I did not mean harm to any one. And He knows that this is the one way open to me now."

Just then someone entered the room. But Sigrun did not move. It was utterly indifferent to her now, whoever saw her. Her decision was taken, and she knew what she had to do.

She lay still bowed over the table with her face in her hands, and could not see who had come in. The step, however, told her that it was a man, and not an old, but a young man.

"It is Sven Elversson himself," she thought.

She heard him approaching her at first; then he drew back. He went to the stove, lit a fire there, and returned to the table where she sat.

"Is it so hard for you, Ruth?" he said. "Let me send some of the children to you. Is there nothing here that you might be glad to see again?"

At these words she raised her head, and turned toward him, with a look of fixed despair.

"I am not the one you thought to see," she said. "I am Sigrun Rhånge, wife of the vicar of Algeröd."

Sven Elversson drew back a step or two. But he had so trained himself to preserve the same calm, whatever news might be brought him, that he did not even utter a cry. Only his face turned pale. But his confusion was evident from the fact that he began thinking aloud.

"Sigrun Rhånge is dead," he said. "She died the night before last. When I heard she was dead, I went to Algeröd myself, to see her once more for the last time, but it was too late. She was already laid in her coffin and buried in her grave."

Sigrun sat gazing at him. There was a solemnity of grief in his words that almost touched her. She was convinced that he was unaware of having spoken aloud.

"Would it were so," she said in answer to his thought. "Would that Sigrun Rhånge were truly dead and in her grave."

"Sigrun Rhånge is dead," he repeated in a low, monotonous voice, still unable to collect himself. "I shall never see her again on earth."

"Yes," she agreed. "We may surely say that Sigrun Rhånge is dead. But I, unhappy creature that I am, I am living yet."

Something within him seemed to grasp the inner meaning of all this quicker than thought, and set his heart in fierce commotion. His cheeks flushed, and his eyes glittered.

He came toward her, took her hand and held it in one of his, while the other stroked her cheek with a swift, momentary touch. He seemed trying to convince himself that it was indeed a living woman here before him.

"You, alive!" he said, and his voice rose to a cry of joy, only to sink next moment to a low, gentle tone. "You here, in my house! What does it mean?"

There was much in his manner that astonished her. But at the same time, it gave her a little courage. Here at least was one who did not look on her misfortune with cold indifference.

"You wrote so kindly to your wife this morning," she said. "And I have always heard so much good of you. Will you help me now? I am in the greatest need that ever any could be."

The tears flowed from her eyes. And in her extremity, her desperate need of help, she threw herself on her knees before him.

He did not help her to rise at once. Instead, he laid one hand on either shoulder, and bent over her, his face almost touching her.

"You helped me once," he said, "when I was in my sorest need. Do you not think I should be glad to repay you that a thousand times, if it were in my power?"

Suddenly he checked himself, and, regaining calmness, moved quietly away from her and drew up a chair.

"Will you not tell me how all this came about?"

She stood up beside him, and began hesitatingly:

"There is so much to say. I hardly know how to begin." For a moment she was on the point of giving way to tears, but restrained herself. "We were not very happy in our marriage, my husband and I."

He did not seem to notice that she was standing while he was seated. But he understood that she needed help to tell her story.

"My wife was not happy either," he said.

He rested one elbow on the table and leaned forward so as to cover his eyes.

Sigrun understood that he was encouraging her to go on.

"There's been talk about us here and there, I dare say," she continued. "If you were in Algeröd yesterday, no doubt you heard about the scene with the man who was staying with us...."

"Yes," he said, "I heard that and more. But there was no ill-will in what was said. Only sorrow--nothing but sorrow."

His voice was almost a sob. He felt the old fierce pain once more. It hurt him beyond words to speak to her like this, when his one desire was to lay his head in her lap and tell her of the sorrow that had racked him the day before and the misery of this morning, when he learned that his wife had come back now--now that his heart longed only to be left to its sorrow for another.

"And no one doubted that I was dead?" asked Sigrun.

"No," he said. "No one doubted that you had died of the smallpox."

She grasped his arm hastily.

"You--you do not know who it was that died. It must have been ..."

She stopped, with open mouth, not daring to go on.

"Was it my wife?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "I think it must have been ... your wife."

Sven Elversson said nothing, but rose and walked across the room.

Now Sigrun in her turn sank down on a chair. "Death," she thought--"Death will not let me go. I had forgotten that the dead woman was Sven Elversson's wife when I asked him to help me."

She sat crying quietly, and pulling at a handkerchief. The eerie, drowsy, death-like feeling came over her again.

A few moments later, Sven Elversson came back to the table and sat down in the same position as before.

"Now tell me everything," he said.

And she obeyed. She told him all that had passed from the moment when the strange woman had come to her door, until now, when she herself sat in the vagabonds' hostel at Hånger.

He listened with all his soul, and was filled with sorrow for the desperate thing she had done, and all the misery she had brought on herself. He understood better than she did herself that, as she was, all ways in the world were closed to her now. That if she stayed in this world at all, she must be condemned by her own act to endless unrest, endless anxiety, endless penitence and shame.

But despite his sorrow and deep sympathy for her, he could not repress a feeling of rejoicing in himself, that repeated over and over again: "At least she is alive. And she has come to you. Sits here beside you, talking to you. What does all the rest matter now that she is alive?"

Sigrun had long finished her story, and Sven Elversson sat silent, thinking what to say, what must be done. And watching him as he sat, she felt clearly that such a man as he could do nothing else but send her back to her husband. "This man cannot be led to any wrongful deed," she thought.

"And so it has all been in vain," she told herself. "All to no purpose. Death will not let me go."

She looked her fate bravely in the face. And she made no attempt to influence Sven Elversson by speaking of what she had resolved.

"This is a big thing," he said, and was surprised to find himself talking to Sigrun just as he did to others whom he helped. "But the one thing clear to me at the moment is that you must not go about the country now carrying infection. You will have to stay on here at Hånger for a time."

She looked up at him. It was so simple, and she had never thought of it. A few days' respite at least. The thought of death slipped aside.

"There is no one here but my father and mother," he went on. "And I do not think they will be afraid. But I forgot, there are some children staying here too, that I took in a while ago. But we can send them down to the village. And then we can shut up the place to travellers for a while. You can move over to the house and have one of the guest rooms to yourself."

"And after?" she asked almost harshly.

He bowed his head, and tried to think. Because he loved her, he could read her thoughts, and he knew that his answer now meant life or death to her.

He could find only strength to say:

"It must be in the hand of God."

"I cannot drive her to despair," he thought to himself; "but it may be that her own mind will change. Her love for her husband may wake anew. Surely all will go well, all will come right in time."

She understood that this was only a respite, but she gave a sigh of relief.

"The way I look at it is this," he said. "It is never well to lie, and hide things. There's no denying that. But then, again, it is not well to torture a creature to death. That's no less true. But the heart may change. Or, better, may become itself again. And then it will be easy, all that seems so difficult now. May I not believe that?"

She shook her head decisively, but said nothing.

"Nay, let us believe it," he said. "Let us trust to that. And now you will not mind if I tell my father and mother all about it. They are not the sort to tell more than they should. And then we will try not to make this more hard and serious than we need. Just think that it will all come right again in time."

Sigrun felt as if he were playing with her. At any other time his manner would have annoyed her, but now it was indescribably soothing and comforting. She felt as if this man had taken all her burden, all her trouble and misfortune, on himself, to bear it in her stead.