Josephine's state of health became alarming. The want of fresh air and regular sleep week after week, the loss of appetite and the constant anxiety, all began to tell upon this strong and healthy nature. Tuft spoke to Kent about it secretly; but there was nothing to be done as long as she would do nothing herself.
Whilst he was carefully watching her every movement, he was obliged one day, against his will, to tell her that Ragni was not to be buried there, but at the nearest country church. Thereupon his brother-in-law made known his indignation and loathing in the strongest possible way. Undoubtedly it was aimed at the community at large, but mostly at them.
Tuft never knew what Josephine felt about it; it hurt him deeply. Once only she showed how impatient she had become. He had bent down over the boy, but came rather too near; Edward began to whimper and push him away with his hand.
"Why can't you give up smoking?" she said, bitterly.
He turned to her and answered, meekly: "I will give it up." When he got up afterwards he added, sorrowfully: "He is not well to-day."
"No," she answered, quietly; his way of taking it made her feel ashamed.
The doctor was sent for; he was used to these sudden messages, so he took it quietly, and possessed that most excellent faculty of communicating his calm to others. The parents thought at first that the child ate with a better appetite, and took more notice of his grandmother. She came four times a day, and the way in which she was received was always their barometer.
The old grandmother had been up to the hospital and had seen Kallem and Karl Meek drive away from there with Ragni's body. The coffin was white, and was on a sledge draped with black; Sigrid sat in front, beside the coachman; Kallem and Karl Meek followed after in a sledge with a seat for two. That was the whole procession.
This account of Ragni's last journey came unawares on them. And that Karl Meek was there, and alone! Did that mean that Kallem did not suspect him? Or, which was more likely, that he had forgiven him? Wishing perhaps to gloss it over and thus do her a last service? Ah, if one could be as good as that!
The following night Josephine went down-stairs to her husband who was asleep. Her hair was let down; she looked like one bewitched, or walking in her sleep, with her great hollow-eyed face surrounded by the long black hair, with eyes staring fixedly over the lamp she held in her hand. He sat up and would have got out of bed. She stayed him with her hand, and said, in a monotonous voice: