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But as she was not only a fine lady, but a kind
little woman who could not endure the thought
that she had been the cause of any one’s trouble—as
she was one of the fairies who always had enough
roses in her basket to strew upon the very dreariest
of paths—she repented directly and followed him,
catching hold of his hand.
“I came,” she said, stammering, “I came to—Oh,
Herr Berling, you have not done it, say you
have not done it! I was so afraid when you ran
toward me, but I wanted to see you so much. I
wanted to say that you must forget what I said that
day, and come to see us as usual.”
“How did you get here?”
She laughed nervously. “I knew, of course, I
should come too late, but I did not wish any one to
know I was going, and besides, you know, there is
no possibility of driving over the ice.”
“And you have walked over the ice?”
“Yes, certainly; but please. Herr Berling, let me
know the truth. Are you already betrothed? You
know that I hope you are not. It is so wrong, you
see, and it seems as if I were to blame for it all. I
am a stranger, and do not know the customs of the
country. It has been so lonely at Borg since you
came no more.”
To Gösta Berling, standing there among the wet
bushes on the swampy ground, it seemed as if some
one had thrown a shower of roses over him—as
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