"Is it about his going away?" asked Margit, her eyes fixed eagerly on the priest's face.
"Yes, it is," answered he, and let the paper drop.
"Was I not sure of it! Ah, me! I know that tune so well!" She looked at the priest, her hands folded, anxious, intent, while tear after tear trickled down her cheek.
But the priest knew as little how to advise as she. "The boy must be left to himself in this matter," said he. "Life cannot be altered for his sake, but it depends on himself whether he shall one day find out its meaning. Now it seems he wants to go away to do so."
"But was it not just so with the old woman?" said Margit.
"With the old woman?" repeated the priest.
"Yes; she who went out to fetch the sunshine into her house, instead of cutting windows in the walls."
The priest was astonished at her shrewdness; but it was not the first time she had surprised him when she was on this theme; for Margit, indeed, had not thought of anything else for seven or eight years.
"Do you think he will leave me? What shall I do? And the money? And the letters?" All this crowded upon her at once.
"Well, it was not right about the letters. You can hardly be justified in withholding from your son what belonged to him. It was still worse, however, to place a fellow Christian in a bad light when it was not deserved, and the worst of all was that it was one whom Arne loved and who was very fond of him in return. But we will pray God to forgive you, we will both pray."