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wife. Age had come over him suddenly. He could
not undertake to write a letter; his wife must do
it. He would decide nothing alone, but asked her
advice about everything,and decided as she wished.
And he was always kind and mild. He felt the
change himself, and saw how happy his wife was.
“She is happy now,” he said one day to Marienne,
pointing to Fru Gustafva.
“Oh, dear Melchior,” she cried, “you know very
well that I would rather have you well again.”
And she really wished it. It was her greatest
delight to talk of the great man as he had been in
the days of his strength. She would tell you how
he could withstand a carouse as well as any of the
Ekeby cavaliers, and how he would make a splendid
stroke of business and coin a pile of money
just when she thought he was bringing them to
beggary by his wildness. But Marienne knew she
was happy in spite of her mourning. To be all to
her husband was enough for her. They both looked
old and prematurely broken, and Marienne thought
she could see their future. He would by and by
become weaker, the strokes would come again and
again, and make him more and more helpless, and
she would guard and serve him till death divided
them. But the end might not be for many years yet.
Fru Gustafva would still keep her happiness for
some time. It must be so, thought Marienne. Life
was in debt to her.
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