half-withered bouquet of wild flowers.  The sight of the flowers made her stop and think.  Ingmar, meanwhile, had gone back to the stable and harnessed the horse, and was now leading him out.  Then she discovered another bouquet of the same sort between the harness, and began to feel that after all he must like her.  So it seemed best not to say anything.  Otherwise he might think she was ungrateful and that she did not understand how big a thing he was offering her.

For a time they drove along without exchanging a word.  Then, in order to break the silence, she began to question him about various home matters.  With every question he was reminded of some one or other whose judgment he feared.  How so and so will wonder and how so and so will laugh at me, he thought.

He answered only in monosyllables.  Time and again she felt like begging him to turn back.  “He doesn’t want me,” she thought.  “He doesn’t care for me; he is doing this only out of charity.”

She soon stopped asking questions.  They drove on for miles in deep silence.  When they came to their first stopping place, which was an inn, there were coffee and hot biscuits in readiness for them; and on the tray were some more flowers.  She knew then that he had ordered this the day before, when passing.  Was that, too, done only out of kindness and pity?  Was he happy yesterday?  Was it only to-day that he had lost heart, after seeing her come out of prison?  To-morrow, when he had forgotten this, perhaps all would be well again.

Sorrow and remorse had softened Brita:  she did not grant to cause him any more unhappiness.  Perhaps, after all, he really—­

They stayed at the inn overnight and left early the next morning.  By ten o’clock they were already within sight of their parish church.  As they drove along the road leading to the church it was thronged with people, and the bells were ringing.

“Why, it’s Sunday!” Brita exclaimed, instinctively folding her hands.  She forgot everything else in the thought of going to church and praising God.  She wanted to begin her new life with a service in the old church.

“I should love to go to church,” she said to Ingmar, never thinking that it might be embarrassing for him be seen there with her.  She was all devotion and gratitude!  Ingmar’s first impulse was to say that she couldn’t; he felt somehow that he had not the courage to face the curious glances and gossiping tongues of these people.  “It has got to be met sooner or later,” he thought.  “Putting it off won’t make it any easier.”

He turned and drove in on the church grounds.  The service had not yet started; and many persons were sitting in the grass and on the stone hedge, watching the people arrive.  The instant they saw Ingmar and Brita they began to nudge each other, and whisper, and point.  Ingmar glanced at Brita.  She sat there with clasped hands, quite unconscious of the things about her.  She saw no persons, apparently, but Ingmar saw them only too well.  They came running after the wagon, and did not wonder at their running or their stares.  They must have thought that their eyes had deceived them.  Of course, they could not believe that he had come to the house of God with her—­the woman who had strangled his child.  “This is too much!” he said.  “I can’t stand it.