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gladly. Not that he will love you more than I, for that
no one could, but that he will have more faith in himself
and less sense of your priceless worth, Marie.”
“Why, this is a regular fortune-teller’s tale you’re giving
me, Sti Högh. You are ever the same, your thoughts roam
far afield. You are like children with a new toy; instead of
playing with it, they must needs pull it to pieces and find out
how it was made, and so spoil it. You never have time to
hold and enjoy, because you are ever reaching and seeking.
You cut the timber of life all up into thought-shavings.”
“Farewell, Marie.”
“Farewell, Sti Högh,—as well as may be.”
“Thanks—thanks—it must be so. Yet I would ask of
you one thing.”
“Well?”
“When you depart from here, let none know the way
you go, lest I should hear it, for if I do, I cannot answer
for myself that I shall have strength to keep from
following you.”
Marie shrugged her shoulders impatiently.
“God bless you, Marie, now and forever.”
With that he left her.
In a fair November gloaming, the bronze-brown light of
the sun is slowly receding from the windows still
gleaming singly in high gables; an instant it rests on the slender
twin spires of the church, is caught up there by cross and
golden wreath, then freed in luminous air, and fades, while
the moon lifts a shining disc over the distant, long-flowing
lines of the rounded hills.
Yellow, bluish, and purple, the fading tints of the sky
are mirrored in the bright, silently running river. Leaves
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