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When he reached the door, he felt compelled to
turn and glance back—and he met her look as she
sat motionless by the fire and gazed at him.
He had never seen such a look on any face, and
he stood and stared at her. She, who recently had
been hot and angry and scornful, was transfigured;
her eyes shone with sad and sympathizing love.
There was something within him—within his own
desponding heart, which broke at that look. He
leaned his forehead against the door-post, stretched
his arms over his head, and wept as if his heart were
breaking.
Margarita Samzelius flung her pipe into the fire,
and came to him with a movement as tender as a
mother’s.
“Hush—hush—my boy.”
And she drew him down beside her on the bench
near the door, so that he wept with his head
pillowed on her knees.
"Are you still determined to die?”
He tried to rise, but she held him down by gentle
force.
“I tell you, and it is for the last time, you can
do as you like; but if you will live, I promise you
to take the parson’s daughter and make a good
woman of her, so she will thank her God one day
that you stole her flour.”
He lifted his head and looked into her eyes.
“Do you mean it?”
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