“I am so glad that you have given up your plans for revenge, Petter Nord,” she began in friendly tones.  “It was about that that I wished to talk to you.  Now I can die in peace.”

He drew along breath.  She was not unfriendly.

She did not look as if she had been mistaken in him.  She must love him very much when she could excuse such cowardice.—­For when she said that she had sent for him to ask him to give up his thoughts of revenge, it must have been from bashfulness not to have to acknowledge the real reason of the summons.  She was so right in it.  He who was the man ought to say the first word.

“How can they let you die?” he burst out.

“Halfvorson and all the others, how can they?  If I were here, I would refuse to let you die.  I would give you all my strength.  I would take all your suffering.”

“I have no pain,” she said, smiling at such bold promises.

“I am thinking that I would like to carry you away like a frozen bird, lay you under my vest like a young squirrel.  Fancy what it would be to work if something so warm and soft was waiting for one at home!  But if you were well, there would be so many—­”

She looked at him with weary surprise, prepared to put him back in his proper place.  But she must have seen again something of the magic crown about the boy’s head, for she had patience with him.  He meant nothing.  He had to talk as he did.  He was not like others.

“Ah,” she said, indifferently, “there are not so many, Petter Nord.  There has hardly been any one in earnest.”

But now there came another turn to his advantage.  In her suddenly awoke the eager hunger of a sick person for compassion.  She longed for the tenderness, the pity that the poor workman could give her.  She felt the need of being near that deep, disinterested sympathy.  The sick cannot have enough of it.  She wished to read it in his glance and his whole being.  Words meant nothing to her.

“I like to see you here,” she said.  “Sit here for a while, and tell me what you have been doing these six years!”

While he talked, she lay and drew in the indescribable something which passed between them.  She heard and yet she did not hear.  But by some strange sympathy she felt herself strengthened and vivified.

Nevertheless she did get one impression from his story.  It took her into the workman’s quarter, into a new world, full of tumultuous hopes and strength.  How they longed and trusted!  How they hated and suffered!

“How happy the oppressed are,” she said.

It occurred to her, with a longing for life, that there might be something for her there, she who always needed oppression and compulsion to make life worth living.

“If I were well,” she said, “perhaps I would have gone there with you.  I should enjoy working my way up with some one I liked.”

Petter Nord started.  Here was the confession that he had been waiting for the whole time.  “Oh, can you not live!” he prayed.  And he beamed with happiness.