It was her father who spoke last. Though the words came gently, they did not hurt the less.
"I will not desert you!" she stammered.
"You must not say that," he answered, more gravely than before, "for you have done it already."
Mildrid felt that this was true, and at the same time that it was not true, but she could not put her feeling into words.
Her mother went on: "Of what good has it all been, the love that we have shown our children, and the fear of God that we have taught them? In the first temptation—" for her daughter's sake she could say no more.
But Mildrid could bear it no longer. She threw her arms over the table, laid her head on them, her face towards her father, and sobbed.
Neither father nor mother was capable of adding by another reproachful word to the remorse she seemed to feel. So there was silence.
It might have lasted long—but Hans Haugen saw from where he sat that she was in need of help. His hunter's eye had caught every look, seen the movement of their lips, seen her silent struggle; now he saw her throw herself on the table, and he jumped up, and soon his light foot was heard in the passage. He knocked; they all looked up, but no one said, "Come in!" Mildrid half rose, blushing through her tears; the door opened, and Hans with his gun and dog stood there, pale but quite composed. He turned and shut the door, while the dog, wagging its tail, went up to Mildrid. Hans had been too preoccupied to notice that it had followed him in.
"Good morning!" said he. Mildrid fell back on her seat, drew a long breath, and looked at him with relief in her eyes; her fear, her bad conscience—all gone! She was right, yes; she was right—let come now whatever it pleased God to send!