“Yes, she laughed too for joy at everything—­the children, and the rags, and the draughty hut, and all.  And I was so astounded I didn’t know where to look.  Happy—­in all that misery and wretchedness!  Were they so utterly without feeling, then, that they could not cry?  But now I understand it all.  I know what made those poor folk happy in it all:  they had found that thing we spoke of—­the great secret.  And it made the hut a palace for them, and the ragged children as dear as those of any king and queen—­yes, they were happy.”

The two sat in silence for a while.  Olof felt a slight thrill pass through the girl’s body to his own.

“I see it now,” said the girl at last.  “A little while ago I could not see what it was that made life so deep and wonderful.  And do you know, Olof—­I should like to be just such a poor woman as that—­frost on the windows and rags for a bed, but ... but....”  Bright tears shone in her eyes.

“But—­what?” he asked tenderly, taking her head in his hands.

“But with the one I loved—­to be mine—­all mine, for ever!” she answered, looking straight into his eyes.

Olof started.  It was as if something had come between them, something restless and ill-boding that broke the soft swell of the waves on which they drifted happily—­something, he knew not what, that made its presence felt.

“Or—­not that perhaps—­but to have something of his—­something he had given me—­to lie beside me in a bed of rags and smile,” said the girl.  And laying her head in his lap she clung to him as if her body had been one with his.

* * * * *

The lamp was lit, and a little fire was burning on the hearth.  The girl sat on the floor, as was her way, holding her lover’s feet in her lap—­wrapped in her apron, as if they were her own.

“Go on working—­I won’t disturb you,” she said, “only sit here and warm your feet and look at you.”

Olof gave her a quick, warm glance, and turned to his work again.

“Olof,” said the girl, after a pause, “what shall I have to hold in my lap when you are gone?”

She looked up at him helplessly, as if he alone could aid her.

Olof made a movement of impatience, as if he had made an error in his reckoning that was hard to put right.

“Nothing, I suppose,” he said at last, trying to speak lightly.  “You had nothing before, you know.”

“Ah, but that was different.  Now, I must have something.”

There was a strange ring in her voice—­the young man laid down his pen and sat staring into the fire.  It was like talking to a child—­a queer child, full of feeling, knowing and imagining more than its elders often did.  But still and for ever a child, asking simple questions now that were hard to answer without hurt.

The girl watched him anxiously.

“Don’t be angry, Olof,” she said entreatingly.  “It’s very silly of me, I know.  Go on with your work, and don’t bother about me.  Do—­or I shall be so sorry.”