“Olof!”

“Oho, so you’re old friends, it seems?  Well, then, shake hands nicely.  Come along, man, give her a kiss....”

Olof felt the room growing dark before his eyes.

The girl turned deathly pale.  She stood a moment, trembling from head to foot, then turned and fled.  There was the sound of a key drawn from a lock, a door was slammed, and then silence.

Olof stood as if rooted to the spot, seeing nothing but a vague glimmer of light through a rent in blackness.  Then at last he pulled himself together, snatched up his hat, and rushed out of the place as if pursued by demons.

* * * * *

Morning found him seated on a chair by the window, looking out.  The night had been cold.  Before him lay a group of housetops, the dark roofs covered with a thin white coating of rime; beyond, a glimpse of a grey, cold sky.

He had been sitting thus all night, deep in thought.  His road seemed ending here in a blank wall—­or he was grown suddenly old, and could go no farther—­or was trying vainly to rise from a bed of sickness.  His eyes burned, his head was heavy as lead, and his heart seemed dead and cold, as hands and feet may do in winter when on the point of freezing.

He rose to his feet, and bathed his face again and again with cold water.  Then he straightened his hair, put on his clothes, and went out.

He took his way direct to a certain street, reached the house he was seeking, and knocked.  There were people moving in the yard, and some children about; but he felt no shame, and knocked as easily as if it had been a church door.

The panel opened, and the harsh voice of an old woman asked: 

“What d’you want here at this hour?  The girls are not up yet.”

“When will they be up?”

“In a couple of hours or so.”

He looked at his watch, and went out into the street.  For a while he wandered up and down, then took the road out from the town, and went straight on.

When he came back his face was pale; his feet were so weary he could hardly drag himself along.

He knocked again; the panel was thrust aside, and a face peeped through, then the door was opened.

“Hallo!” It was the girl of the night before.  She was half-dressed, her eyes dull, her face tired and haggard.  Olof felt as if he were breathing in the fumes of beer and wine and all unspeakable nastiness.

“Your friend—­is she up yet?  I want to see her,” he stammered.

“Up—­ay, she’s up long ago; you can see for yourself.”

She vanished down the passage, and returned in a moment with a crumpled sheet of notepaper, which she handed him.

Olof glanced at it, and read, hastily scribbled in pencil, these words: 

“When you get this I shall be far away.  I am going and not coming back.  I can’t stay here.—­ELLI.”

“There—­what’s the meaning of that, if you please?” cried the girl.