"No, no," she said. "Why do I think of these absurd things?"
But if she thought of them—she, an old woman with years of judgment and experience to balance her—was it surprising that the young boy, worked upon by Mrs Stanhope's words, was thinking of them?
Knutty broke down.
"My poor icebergs," she cried. "I'm a silly, unhelpful old fool, and no good to either of you. I never could tackle Marianne—never could. She was always too much for me; and although she's dead, she is just the same now—too much for me."
She shook her head in despair, and the tears streamed down her cheeks; but after a few minutes of profound misery she brightened up.
"Nå," she said, brushing her tears away, "of course, of course! Why was I forgetting that dear Katharine Frensham? I was forgetting that I saw daylight. What an old duffer I am! If I cannot help my icebergs, she can—and will. If I cannot tackle Marianne, she can."
Her thoughts turned to Katharine with hope, affection, admiration, and never a faintest touch of jealousy. She had been drawn to her from the beginning; and each new day's companionship had only served to show her more of the Englishwoman's lovable temperament. They all loved her at the Gaard. Her presence was a joy to them; and she passed amongst them as one of those privileged beings for whom barriers are broken down and bridges are built, so that she might go her way at her own pleasure into people's hearts and minds. Yes, Knutty turned to her with hope and belief. And as she was saying to herself that Katharine was the one person in the world to help that lonely man and desolate boy, to build her bridge to reach the man, and her bridge to reach the boy, and a third bridge for the man and the boy to reach each other—as she was saying all this, with never one single jealous thought, there came a soft knock at her door. She did not notice it at first; but she heard it a few seconds later, and when she opened her door, Katharine was standing there.
"My dear," Knutty exclaimed, and she led her visitor into the room.
"I have been uneasy about you," Katharine said, "and could not get to sleep. I felt I must come and see if anything were wrong with you. Why, you haven't been to bed yet. Do you know it is two o'clock?"
"It might be any time in a Norwegian summer night, and I've been busy thinking," said Knutty—"thinking of you, and longing for the morrow to come when I might tell you of some trouble which lies heavy on my heart."