The affectionate warmth of these words touched Mary. The woman mentioned one instance after the other of her father's considerateness and generosity; she was still talking of it when they arrived. At first Mary felt as if nothing so pleasant as this had happened to her for a long time. Then she felt afraid. She had actually forgotten how dearly she herself loved her father, and had left off giving expression to her affection. Why? Why did she give her time and thoughts to so much else and not to him, the best and dearest of all?
She hurried up to the house. Although her father was very much of an invalid now, she had latterly spent hardly any of her time with him.
As she approached she saw Jörgen's bicycle propped against the steps; she heard him playing. But she hurried past the drawing-room, and went straight to her father, who was sitting in the office at his desk, writing. She put her arms round him and kissed him, looked into his kind eyes and kissed him again. His bewilderment was so comic that she could not help laughing.
"Yes, you may well look at me, for it is certainly not often I do this. But all the same you are dearer to me than I can tell." And she kissed him again.
"My dear child!" he said, and smiled at her assault. He was happy, that she saw. Into his eyes there gradually crept that curious brightness which none ever forgot. She thought to herself: I'll do this every day now, every day!
Jörgen and she had planned a cycling excursion back into the country. They set off next day. The relation at whose house they stopped that evening, a military man, was delighted to have a visit from them. They were persuaded to stay for several days. The young people of the neighbourhood were summoned; an excursion to a sæter was arranged—again something quite new to Mary. "I know every country except my own," said she. She was determined to travel the next year in Norway; there not much chaperonage would be necessary. With this prospect in view Jörgen and she rode home, enjoying themselves royally.
As they were propping their bicycles against the house, little Nanna came rushing out at the door and down the steps. She was crying and did not see them, as she was looking in the other direction. When Mary called: "What is the matter?" she stopped and burst out: "Oh, come, come! I was to go and call people." Up she rushed again to tell that they were coming, Jörgen after her, Mary behind him—across the hall, up the stairs, along the passage to the last door on the right. Within, on the floor, lay Anders Krog, Mrs. Dawes on her knees beside him, weeping loudly. He was in an apoplectic fit. Jörgen lifted him up, carried him to his bed, and laid him carefully down. Mary had rushed to telephone for the doctor.
The doctor was not at home; she tried place after place to find him, a voice within her all the time crying despairingly: Why had she not been beside her father when this happened? Immediately after vowing to herself that she would show him every day how much she loved him, she had left him! And this very day she had looked forward with pleasure to being able to travel without him! How had she come to be like this? What was the matter with her?
As soon as she had found the doctor, she hurried back to her father. He was now undressed and Jörgen had gone. But Mrs. Dawes sat on a chair beside the pillow, with a letter in her hand, in the deepest distress. The moment she saw Mary, she handed her the letter without taking her eyes from the sick man's face.
It was from a correspondent in America of whom Mary had never heard. It told that her uncle Hans had lost their money and his own. His mind was deranged, and probably had been so for a long time. Mary knew that on the male side of the Krog family it was not uncommon for the old people to become weak-minded. But she was horrified that her father should not have exercised any control over affairs. This, too, was a suspicious sign.