Ingmar jumped down at once, but Brita kept her seat.  He went over to her side and unfastened the carriage apron.

“Aren’t you going to get out?” he said.

“No,” she replied, then covering her face with her hands, she burst into tears.

“I ought never to have come back,” she sobbed.

“Oh, do get down!” he urged.

“Let me go back to the city; I’m not good enough for you.”

Ingmar thought that maybe she was right about it, but said nothing.  He stood with his hand on the apron, and waited.

“What does she say?” asked Mother Martha from the doorway.

“She says she isn’t good enough for us,” Ingmar replied, for Brita’s words could scarcely be heard for her sobs.

“What is she crying about?” asked the old woman.

“Because I am such a miserable sinner,” said Brita, pressing her hands to her heart which she thought would break.

“What’s that?” the old woman asked once more.

“She says she is such a miserable sinner,” Ingmar repeated.

When Brita heard him repeat her words in a cold and indifferent tone, the truth suddenly flashed upon her.  No, he could never have stood there and repeated those words to his mother had he been fond of her, or had there been a spark of love in his heart for her.

“Why doesn’t she get down?” the old woman then asked.

Suppressing her sobs, Brita spoke up:  “Because I don’t want to bring misfortune upon Ingmar.”

“I think she is quite right,” said the old mistress.  “Let her go, little Ingmar!  You may as well know that otherwise I’ll be the one to leave:  for I’ll not sleep one night under the same roof with the likes of her.”

“For God’s sake let me go!” Brita moaned.

Ingmar ripped out an oath, turned the horse, and sprang into the cart.  He was sick and tired of all this and could not stand any more of it.

Out on the highway they kept meeting church people.  This annoyed Ingmar.  Suddenly he turned the horse and drove in on a narrow forest road.

As he turned some one called to him.  He glanced back.  It was the postman with a letter for him.  He took the letter, thrust it into his pocket, and drove on.

As soon as he felt sure that he could not be seen from the road, he slowed down and brought out the letter.  Instantly Brita put her hand on his arm.  “Don’t read it!” she begged.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Never mind reading it; it’s nothing.”

“But how can you know?”

“It’s a letter from me.”

“Then tell me yourself what’s in it.”

“No, I can’t tell you that.”

He looked hard at her.  She turned scarlet, her eyes growing wild with alarm.  “I guess I will read that letter anyway,” said Ingmar, and began to tear open the envelope.

“O Heavenly Father!” she cried, “am I then to be spared nothing?  Ingmar,” she implored, “read it in a day or two—­when I am on my way to America.”