“So your mother spoke of that.  Yes, yes, she would....”

“It was when I was a child.  I was very ill—­on the point of death, she said.  And mother and all the others were crying, and comforting themselves with the thought that little Olof would be an angel soon, and wear a crown.  And sister Maya said then I should sit by her bedside with wings outspread, warding off evil dreams.”

“Well if it had been so,” said the evening gloom.

“But the girl, my sister, burst into tears, and cried that I should not be an angel, but a big man, bigger than father—­ever so big and strong.  And she threw her arms round my neck and said no one should ever come and take away Olof—­no!”

“Ay,” nodded the gloom, “so it was—­yes.”

“And my sister tried her own way to make me well again—­fondling me and blinking her eyes and stroking me under the chin.  And I began laughing, for all that I was ill.  And she was all overjoyed at that, and more certain than ever that I was to get well again and grow a big strong man.  And I laughed again, and life began laughing too—­and after that, I gradually got well.”

“Ay, ’twas so.  And your sister, she looked after you and nursed you all by herself—­no one else was allowed to touch you; yes, that was your sister Maya!”

“Then Maya was taken ill herself.  And weak as she was, she would have me near her all the time, and made me sit by her bedside.  And I only laughed at it all—­I did not understand that my only sister was at death’s door.  Ay, sometimes I pinched her thin cheek, or pulled her hair, or flicked her ear in play....”

“So you have done since with many other girls—­ay, and laughed at them.”

“And then the others came and wanted to take me away, out of her sight, because I was so cruel.”

“Ay, just so.  If only someone had done the same thing afterwards, with the rest....”

“But Maya held my hand and would not let them.  And even when she was dying I had to stay there, and with her last words she hoped that Olof would grow up and be a fine strong fellow, and a good man.”

He relapsed into thought.

“And now ... here you are, a fine strong fellow, and....”  The voice seemed urging him to go on.

“Why did my sister die?  Oh, if only she were alive now!”

“Who can say—­perhaps it is better for her as it is.”

“If she were alive now, she would be in her best years.  And she could live with me, we two together, and never caring about anyone else.  Keep house together—­and she should be my friend and sister—­and all else!  I know just what she would look like.  Tall and slender, with fair hair, light as the flax at home, and all curling down over her shoulders.  And she would carry her head high—­not vain and proud, but noble and stately.  And her eyes all fire and mischief.  Deep eyes, with a reflection of strange worlds, and none could face them with so much as a thought of deceit.  Like mother’s eyes—­only with all, all the fire of youth—­almost like Kylli....”