Then turning to Rönnaug the priest's wife said,—
"This woman, you may well believe, made Magnhild happy this morning."
"How so?"
"Why, she stopped here with her work on her way to the dealer, who makes purchases for a merchant in town. Just as she stepped inside Magnhild came down into the kitchen. When the woman caught sight of her, she eagerly addressed her—she is a great talker—and she began to cry and to talk, to talk and to cry, telling how poor she had been and how well off both she and her children now were. Magnhild, you know, for many years taught an Industrial School up in these mountains, and this woman was one of her aptest pupils. This hand-work, I can assure you, has spread rapidly here; there are scarcely any poor people to be found in our parish now."
"But Magnhild—was she glad?"
"She certainly must have been glad, for soon afterward we heard her singing. And the last time she was here—about four or five years ago—we could not persuade her to go near the piano."
Rönnaug now greeted Miss Roland, who was coming toward her with the child. A little later, as she was going through the passage to the sitting-room, the sounds of music once more floated out toward her. The priest's daughters were at the piano, singing a duet with feeble voices, one of which was more quavering than the other. They were drawling out,—
"All rests in God's paternal hand."
The door stood open. One of the girls sat at the piano, the other stood at its side. Magnhild sat facing them, leaning against the piano.
Peace radiated from the little hymn, because they who sang it were at peace. The small, yellow-haired heads above the stiff collars did not make a single movement, the piano almost whispered. But the sunshine, playing on the embroidered furniture and the embroidered covers, blended with the music a harmony from afar.