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bottom of an old chest, had stiff silk shawls and straight-
backed armchairs, and besides, she had learned to
do any number of things that are useful to know
for one who must earn her own bread. But the
quilting-frame, which brought her work the year
round, and the rose-garden, which gave her joy the
whole summer long, were to her the best of all.
In Fru Moreus’s cottage was a lodger, a little
weazened spinster about forty years of age, who
occupied a gable-room in the attic. Mamselle Marie,
as she was called, held views of her own about many
things, as is apt to be the case with those who sit
much alone and let their thoughts dwell on what
their eyes have seen.
Now Mamselle Marie believed that love was
the root of all the evil in this mundane world. Every
night before going to sleep, she would fold her hands
and say her evening prayers. When she had said
“Our Father” and “Lord bless us,” she always
prayed God to preserve her from love.
“It could only end in misery,” she would say,
“for I am old and homely and poor. May I be
spared from falling in love!”
Day after day she sat in her attic chamber, knitting
curtains and table-covers in shell-stitch, which
she sold to the gentry and the peasants. She was
knitting together a little cottage of her own. A cot
on the hillside opposite Svartsjö Church was what
she wanted—a cottage on high ground from which
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