Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - Part one - VIII
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at it. She was very anxious to go to a dancing class, but it
never came to anything.
She laughed at the recollection of her school friends. She
had met two of them at the exhibition at home, the first time
she had got one of her pictures hung and a few lines of praise in
the papers. She was with some other artists — Heggen was
one of them — when they came up to congratulate her:
“Didn’t we always say you’d be an artist? We were all sure
that some day we should hear more of you.”
She had smiled: “Yes, Ella; so was I.”
Lonely! She had been lonely ever since her mother met
Mr. Berner, who worked with her in the same office. She was
about ten at that time, but she understood at once that her
dead father had departed from their home. His picture was
still hanging there, but he was gone, and it dawned upon her
what death really meant. The dead existed only in the
memory of others, who had the power conditionally to end their
poor shadow life — and they were gone for ever.
She understood why her mother became young and pretty
and happy again; she noticed the expression on her face when
Berner rang the bell. She was allowed to stay in the room and
listen to their talk; it was never about things the child could not
hear, and they did not send her out of the room when they
were together in her home. In spite of the jealousy in her
little heart, she understood that there were many things a
grown-up mother could not speak about with a little girl, and a
strong feeling of justice developed in her. She did not wish
to be angry with her mother, but it hurt very much all the
same.
She was too proud to show it, and when her mother in
moments of self-reproach suddenly overwhelmed her child with
tenderness and care, she remained cold and passive. She said
not a word when her mother wanted her to call Berner father
and said how fond he was of her. In the night she tried to
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