They reached the steps.

“What’s this, what’s this?” buzzed the vane on its pole by the fence.  Olof had made it himself one day, as a boy.  It said no more, only muttered again, “What’s this?”

The old woman mounted the steps.  She said no word, nor ever looked behind her, but Olof followed her step by step.  His own room was at the side of the house, by the kitchen, but he went on after her without a thought of escape.

She passed through the front room into the next, crossed to the window, and sank down in a chair.  Olof followed close behind her, and stood, hat in hand.

There was a long silence.

“I never thought to go on such an errand as this to-night,” said the woman heavily.  She did not look at him; her eyes seemed fixed on something far away.

The boy’s knees trembled, he could hardly stand.

“Shame—­ay, ’twas shame I felt for you when you were born, old as I was, and never thinking to have more.  Mayhap ’twas a sign you’d bring but shame to me after and all....”  The words fell heavy as lead, and brought him to his knees.

“Mother!” He could say no more, but hid his face in her lap, and cried like a child.

A great warmth rose in the mother’s breast and throbbed in her veins.

“Mother, I promise—­you shall never go that way again for me.  And ... and....”

He broke off.

The warmth rose to her eyes, seeking an outlet there.

“And...?” she asked gently.  “What then, my son?”

The young man’s brow was deeply lined, as he strove to speak.  Then resolutely he looked up and said, “I will marry her.”

“Marry her?” An icy wave came over her, and she gasped for breath.

“Olof,” she went on in a trembling voice, “look at me.  Have you—­has anything happened already?” Breathlessly she waited for his answer.

“No,” said the boy, and looked her frankly in the eyes.  “But I love her.”

The mother’s hands trembled, and she sighed.  But for a long while she said no word, only sat looking as before out into vague distance, as if seeking what to say.

“Ay,” she said at last, “’tis right to marry where you love, and no other.  But a servant-girl—­there’s none of our race ever married that way before.  And as for love—­you’re over young to know.”

Olof flushed angrily, and he would have spoken, but the noble dignity of his mother’s glance checked the thought ere it was uttered.

“Go now,” she said gently.  “We will talk of this another time.”

FATHER AND SON

The early meal was over, and the farm hands pressed out through the door.

“You, Olof, stay behind,” said the master of Koskela from his seat at the head of the table.  “I’ve a word to say to you.”

Olof felt his cheeks tingling.  He knew what his father had to say—­he had been waiting for this.