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“Oh, Gösta, she never will do that. She says it
only to madden him. She is too spoiled to marry
a poor man, and too proud, too. Go back now and
tell her that if she does not come home soon, all
her inheritance will be wasted. He will destroy it
all without getting anything for it.”
Gösta was really angry with her. There she sat
on the big kitchen table, and had no heart for
anything but her looking-glass and her porcelain.
“You ought to be ashamed, Aunt Gustafva,”
he exclaimed. “You turn your daughter out into
the snowdrifts, and then you think it simply
wickedness of her not to return home. And you think
no better of her than that she would desert one
she cares for because she will be disinherited?”
“Dear Gösta, don’t be angry—you also. I hardly
know what I’m saying. I tried to open the door
for Marienne, but he dragged me away. They
always say that I don’t understand things. I don’t
grudge you Marienne, Gösta, if you can make her
happy. It is n’t so easy to make a woman happy,
Gösta."”
Gösta looked at her. How could he have lifted
an angry voice against her? She looked so
frightened, so hunted to death; but she was kind hearted.
“Aunt has not inquired how Marienne is,” he
said, softly.
She burst into tears.
“Don’t be angry if I ask,” she cried. “I have
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