“Answer me,” he said insistently.

“Surely each must know that for himself,” she answered at last, speaking with difficulty.

“Kyllikki, Kyllikki, if you only knew!” he cried sorrowfully, and took her hands in his.  Then a sudden coldness came over him once more.

“And if I were to dare,” he said, “there is one other besides you and me.”

“Are you afraid of him?” she asked sharply.

“No.  But if he turned me from his door in scorn....”

“If the thought of that counts for so much,” she said, with emphasis, “then it were better not to ask.  For, after—­whom would you love more, do you think; yourself, or the one you think you love?”

He winced under her glance.

“If it were for your sake I feared?” he asked, with some feeling.

“No need of that—­as long as I know you are sure in your own mind.  And if you were sure—­you need have no fear for me.”

He looked at her in surprise and admiration.

“You are a strange girl, Kyllikki,” he said at last.  “I am only just beginning to understand you.  You are not as I hoped you would be—­but you are something more.  I know what it must have cost you to say so much.  I shall not forget.”

Again the trouble rose within him.  “You, I understand,” he said wearily.  “Yes.  But myself—­”

“You will find that out as well, some day,” she said tenderly.

“If only there was time now....”  He sat for a moment in thought.

“We are leaving to-morrow afternoon.  If I have got things clear in my own mind by then, I will come and see you before we go.  But it will be at the last minute.  For if it comes to what I think it will, then I must not stay a moment longer.”

The girl nodded.  Both rose to their feet.

“Kyllikki,” he said, with emotion, taking her hands, “it may be this is the last time I see you alone.  Do not think hardly of me because I am what I am.”

“You could not be otherwise,” she answered warmly.  “I understand.”

“I shall be grateful to you for that always.  And perhaps....”  His voice broke.  “Good-bye, Kyllikki!”

* * * * *

It was Sunday afternoon.  The lumbermen were getting ready to leave.  The young folk of the village, and some of the elders, had come down to the creek at Kohiseva to see them start.

The water was almost clear of timber already, the boom was being dragged slowly down the dead water by a few of the men.  Some went ahead, getting odd logs out of the way, others strolled idly about on the shore, exchanging greetings with the villagers.

A little way down the bank a log is stranded with one end thrust far inshore.  Close by it lies a pole.

“That’s Olof’s,” says one of the men.  “He’s not come down yet—­busy up at the village, it seems.”

A girl in the group of lookers-on felt her heart beat suddenly.