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He came and nearly smothered her with caresses.
Poor boy, how miserable he had been, and how he
had longed for her!
After some time she looked out of the window.
There walked Fru Gustafva and talked with the
great land proprietor about flowers and birds, and
here she sat and babbled of love.
“Life has made us two women feel its hardness,”
she thought, and smiled mournfully. “It would
console us now, we have each got a big baby to play
with.”
Still, it was comforting that she could be loved
so. It was sweet to hear him whisper of the charm
she held, and how much ashamed he was of what
he had said when he proposed to her. He had not
known her power then. Oh, none could come near
her without loving her; but she had frightened him
so, he felt so subdued.
This was not happiness nor unhappiness, but
she would try and live with this man.
She was only beginning to understand herself,
and she thought of the words of the old song about
the turtle-dove, that bird of longing. It said that the
turtle-dove drank clear water, but always muddied
it first with its foot so that it might better suit its
pensive mind. She, too, could not go to the springs
of life and drink of its clear waters—life pleased
her better when touched with melancholy.
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