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“Oh, no, he must be dead now. It is all so long
ago.”
There was something within Anna Stjärnhök
that trembled at what she was doing. She began to
think she would never tell the Countess who the
man was, that she would let her believe him dead.
“At that time he was still young,” she continued
her story; “the joy of life awoke again within him.
He had the gift of speech and a fiery, inflammable
heart. There came an evening when he spoke to
her of love. She did not answer him, but told him
of what her grandmother had described to her in
the winter evenings and of the land of her dreams.
Afterwards she made him promise, made him swear,
that he would be one of God’s preachers, one of
those who would prepare the way for him, that his
coming might be hastened.
“What could he do? He was a discharged clergyman,
and no path was so impossible for him as the
one she had wished him to tread. But he dared not
tell her the truth: he had not the heart to distress
the sweet child he loved. He promised all she asked.
“Not many words between them were required
after that. It was clear that she would one day be his
wife. It was not a love of kisses and caresses. He
hardly dared approach her closely; she was as
sensitive as a fragile flower; but her brown eyes were
raised from the ground sometimes in search of his.
On moonlight nights, when they sat upon the
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