Ingmar raised his head.  “Then why didn’t you write?” he asked.

“But I did write.”

“Asking me to forgive you, as if that were anything to write about!”

“What should I have written?”

“About the other thing.”

“How would I have dared—­I?”

“I came mighty near not coming at all.”

“But Ingmar! do you suppose I could have written love letters to you after all I had done!  My last day in prison I wrote to you because the chaplain said I must.  When I gave him the letter, he promised not to send it until I was well on my way.”

Ingmar took her hand and flattened it against the earth, then slapped it.

“I could beat you!” he said.

“You may do with me what you will, Ingmar.”

He looked up into her face, upon which suffering had wrought a new kind of beauty.  “And I came so near letting you go!” he sighed.

“You just had to come, I suppose.”

“Let me tell you that I didn’t care for you.”

“I don’t wonder at that.”

“I felt relieved when I heard that you were to be sent to America.”

“Yes, father wrote me that you were pleased.”

“Whenever I looked at mother, I felt somehow that I couldn’t ask her to accept a daughter-in-law like you.”

“No, it would never do, Ingmar.”

“I’ve had to put up with a lot on your account; no one would notice me because of my treatment of you.”

“Now you are doing what you threatened to do,” said Brita.  “You’re striking me.”

“I can’t begin to tell you how mad I am at you.”

She kept still.

“When I think of all I’ve had to stand these last few weeks—­” he went on.

“But Ingmar—­”

“Oh, I’m not angry about that, but at the thought of how near I came to letting you go!”

“Didn’t you love me, Ingmar?”

“No, indeed.”

“Not during the whole journey home?”

“No, not for a second!  I was just put out with you.”

“When did you change?”

“When I got your letter.”

“I saw that your love was over; that was why I did not want you to know that mine was but just beginning.”

Ingmar chuckled.

“What amuses you, Ingmar?”

“I’m thinking of how we sneaked out of church, and of the kind of welcome we got at the Ingmar Farm.”

“And you can laugh at that?”

“Why not as well laugh?  I suppose we’ll have to take to the road, like tramps.  Wonder what father would say to that?”

“You may laugh, Ingmar, but this can’t be; it can’t be.”

“I think it can, for now I don’t care a damn about anything or anybody but you!”

Brita was ready to cry, but he just made her tell him again and again how often she had thought of him, and how much she had longed for him.  Little by little he became as quiet as a child listening to a lullaby.  It was all so different from what Brita had expected.  She had thought of talking to him about her crime, if he came for her, and the weight of it.  She would have liked to tell either him or her mother, or whoever had come for her, how unworthy she was of them.  But not a word of this had she been allowed to speak.