“You are so quick to feel things,” said he, pressing her hand.  “I’ll talk to you about it all another time—­do you understand?”

“Yes—­another time.  Don’t think any more about it now.”

But the words echoed insistently in his ears, with a hollow ring—­as if he had spoken carelessly, to be rid of a child’s questioning for the time.  He took up his pen again, but could not work, only sat drawing squares and interrogations on the margin of the paper.

The girl moved closer, laid her cheek against his knee, and closed her eyes.  But her mind was working still, and the light of a sudden impulse shone in her eyes when she looked up at him.

“Olof,” she asked eagerly, “are you very busy?”

“No—­no.  What then?” From the tone of her voice he knew she had something important to say.

“There was just an old story that came into my mind—­may I tell it to you, now?”

“Yes, yes, do,” said Olof, with a sense of relief.  “You are the only girl I have ever met who could tell fairy tales—­and make them up yourself too.”

“This is not one I made up myself.  I heard it long ago,” she answered.

“Well, and how does it begin?” said Olof briskly, taking her hands.  “’Once upon a time...’?”

“Yes, those are the very words.  Once upon a time there was a boy—­and a girl.  And they loved each other—­especially the girl.  No words could ever tell how she loved him.”  She looked at Olof as if to see the effect of what she had said.

“That begins well.  Go on,” said Olof.  But a thought was slowly taking form in his mind.

“And they sat in the woods, under the tall birches, and talked of how happy they were.  But the girl could not have the boy for her own—­they had to say good-bye.  He had to go away, and she knew she would never see him again.”

Olof looked thoughtful—­the fancy was taking root.  “Go on—­what happened then?”

“Then, just as he was going away, the girl said to him, ’Set a mark on me somehow, so that I shall always feel I belong to you, and no one can tear you from my heart.’

“The boy thought for a moment.  ‘Where shall I set the mark?’ he asked.

“‘Here, above my heart,’ said the girl.

“And she bared her breast, and the boy took out his knife and with its sharp point scratched a little heart on her breast.”

The girl shivered a little.

“And then he coloured it where he had cut, like sailors do with anchors on their arms.  And when he had finished, he kissed it.  And they said good-bye, and he went away.”

Olof was touched—­now he understood....

“And what then?” he asked softly.  “What happened after, to the girl with a mark above her heart, and to him that made it?”

“The boy....”  She stopped, at a loss, and then went on:  “There’s no more about him in the story.  He went away.  Only about the girl....”