Another mistake—­she should have said nothing about it.  Cook has no longer any reason for keeping silence, and now she let out the whole thing, and told all about the nights Barbro had been out.  Fru Heyerdahl mightily indignant; she cares nothing about Cook, ’tis Barbro she is after, the girl whose character she has answered for.  And even then all might have been well if Barbro had bowed her head like a reed, and been cast down with shame, and promised all manner of things for the future—­but no.  Her mistress is forced to remind her of all she has done for her, and at that, if you please, Barbro falls to answering back, ay, so foolish was she, saying impertinent things.  Or perhaps she was cleverer than might seem; trying on purpose, maybe, to bring the matter to a head, and get out of the place altogether?  Says her mistress: 

“After I’ve saved you from the clutches of the Law.”

“As for that,” answers Barbro, “I’d have just as pleased if you hadn’t.”

“And that’s all the thanks I get,” says her mistress.

“Least said the better, perhaps,” says Barbro.  “I wouldn’t have got more than a month or two, anyway, and done with it.”

Fru Heyerdahl is speechless for a moment; ay, for a little while she stands saying nothing, only opening and closing her mouth.  The first thing she says is to tell the girl to go; she will have no more of her.

“Just as you please,” says Barbro.

For some days after that Barbro had been at home with her parents.  But she could not go on staying there.  True, her mother sold coffee, and there came a deal of folk to the house, but Barbro could not live on that—­and maybe she had other reasons of her own for wanting to get into a settled position again.  And so today she had taken a sack of clothes on her back, and started up along the road over the moors.  Question now, whether Axel Stroem would take her?  But she had had the banns put up, anyway, the Sunday before.

Raining, and dirty underfoot, but Barbro tramps on.  Evening is drawing on, but not dark yet at that season of the year.  Poor Barbro—­she does not spare herself, but goes on her errand like another; she is bound for a place, to commence another struggle there.  She has never spared herself, to tell the truth, never been of a lazy sort, and that is why she has her neat figure now and pretty shape.  Barbro is quick to learn things, and often to her own undoing; what else could one expect?  She had learned to save herself at a pinch, to slip from one scrape to another, but keeping all along some better qualities; a child’s death is nothing to her, but she can still give sweets to a child alive.  Then she has a fine musical ear, can strum softly and correctly on a guitar, singing hoarsely the while; pleasant and slightly mournful to hear.  Spared herself? no; so little, indeed, that she has thrown herself away altogether, and felt no loss.  Now and again she cries, and breaks her heart over this or that in her life—­but that is only natural, it goes with the songs she sings, ’tis the poetry and friendly sweetness in her; she had fooled herself and many another with the same.  Had she been able to bring the guitar with her this evening she could have strummed a little for Axel when she came.