“Olof—­dear!” she cried, taking his hand.  “What have I done?  I did not mean to reproach you.  It might be my fault as well—­it must be mine more than yours....”

But Olof sat motionless as before, save for a shiver that now and then passed through his frame.

And Kyllikki, seeing him thus, felt her own trouble fade; a wave of unspeakable tenderness and affection came over her.

“Don’t—­Olof, you must not be miserable for that,” she said earnestly.  “Oh, how could I ever say it—­how could I be so thoughtless and selfish and cruel...?”

“No,” said Olof—­“it was not that.  You could not help it.  You were my conscience, that is all—­as you must ever be, or you would not be the friend you are.”

“Don’t say that, Olof—­it was just that I forgot.  We are friends—­and the one thing that can make and keep us friends is to toil and suffer together—­Olof, together!”

Gently she drew closer to him, and threw her arms about him.

“Don’t you see?” she went on softly.  “It’s all because I love you so.  I want you for myself, all for myself.  I will not let you go—­no, you shall look at me.  I will drive them away, all of them, if they try to come between us; oh, I am strong enough, I know.  You are mine, Olof, do you hear?  All mine—­mine....  Oh, why do you sit there so?  Speak to me, Olof!”

Her passionate earnestness burned like bright flames about him, gradually warming his heart to life again.

“Kyllikki, how good you are!” he said, and his eyes glistened as he spoke.  “You are all I have in life—­without you, I should be lost.  If only—­if only I could be sure of one thing....”

“What is it—­tell me, Olof...?”

“That—­that you do not despise me, but trust me, that you believe I only care to be yours.”

“Trust you?—­indeed I do,” said Kyllikki.  “I know we are both striving toward the same end.  But there are enemies that are always on the watch.  We must beat them—­and we will!  And I am yours—­all yours—­as the night when you said good-bye to Kohiseva.  And you are mine—­all mine ... and then, Olof—­then it will come—­the one thing I must have to live for....”

OUT OF THE PAST

“KIRKKALA, 7 May 1899.”

“Dearest,—­You will not be angry because I write to you?  How could you, you who are so good!  I would not have written, but I must, for there is so much to tell you.  It is spring now, as it was then, and it has brought with it such a longing that I must turn to you, speak to you—­and then I can wait again till next spring.  You must have known that I have been with you—­surely you felt it?  And now here I am, having learned by chance where you are.

“Do you remember the story I told you?  About the girl and her lover and the mark on her breast?  And what I asked for then, and you gave me?  I have often wondered since whether, perhaps, you might have misunderstood it all—­when I was so serious and thoughtful about it—­if you thought I was not certain of myself, not sure that I should always be yours, as I wished to be.  But it was not so, dear Olof; I knew myself well enough even then, though not so deeply as I do now.  How strong and deep love is!  I read once in a poem—­surely you know it too: