“Yes, yes, of course,” said Olof.  “He went away.  And the girl?”

“The girl—­she looked at the mark every night when she undressed, and every morning when she dressed herself, for she felt as if he were there all the time, because of the mark.  But then the time came when her parents said she must marry.  And she didn’t want to, but she had to all the same.  But she did not love her husband, and was always looking secretly at the mark her lover had made, as if she were talking with him that way, and it made her happy.”

“And the husband,” asked Olof eagerly, “did he find out?”

“No.  Men don’t notice things like that as a rule.  But then the girl bore a child—­she was still a girl, for she had remained true to her lover.  And the child had the very same mark in the same place.

“The husband saw the mark.  ‘What’s this?’ he asked in a stern voice.

“‘Tis a birth-mark,’ said the girl. “‘Do not lie to me!’ cried the man.  ‘It is more than that.  Let me see your breast.’

“Now the girl did not want to do this, for she felt that the mark was nothing to do with him.  But her husband’s face grew dark with anger, and he tore away her clothes, and bared her breast.  And now she would not try to hide the mark at all, but stood up straight and let him see.  And before he could even ask, she told him what it was, ’That is the mark my lover made when I was a girl,’ she said.  ’For a sign that I should belong to him for ever—­and I have.’  And at that the husband’s eyes flashed, and without a word he drew his knife and struck it through the mark deep into her breast....”

She would have said more, but her voice failed—­she could feel Olof’s knees trembling against her breast.

“You are good at telling stories,” said he in a stifled voice.  “But the end was too horrible.”

“It was not horrible at all,” she replied.  “It was just as lovely as could be.  The girl herself could have wished for nothing better.  She died with a smile on her lips, as only those who are happy ever die.

“But it is not all ended yet—­there is more to come.”

“More?” cried Olof in surprise, at a loss to understand how she would go on.

“Yes,” she continued.  “For when she was dead, the girl came to the gate of heaven.  And there stood St. Peter at the gate, as he always does.

“‘You cannot enter in,’ said St. Peter, ’for you bear on your breast the mark of sinful lust.  ’But God heard it from His throne, and cried, ‘Open and let her in!’ And God looked at the girl’s breast, and she did not flinch.  ‘You should know better,’ He said to St. Peter reproachfully.  ’Here is one that was faithful to her first love....  Enter in, My child.’”

Both were silent.  A little blue flame rose from the embers on the hearth.

“Thanks, Clematis,” whispered Olof, and kissed her hands that lay hot in his own.  “I know what you meant.  And how prettily you said it!”