“I don’t understand,” said the child wistfully.
“It is in this way,” said Sigrid, taking her hand tenderly. “I can not have money spent on the tombstone, because he would not have liked it. Oh, Swanhild!—you must know it some day, you shall hear it now—it was not only his own money that was lost, it was the money of other people. And till it is paid back how can I alter this?”
Swanhild’s eyes grew large and bright.
“It was that, then, that made him die,” she faltered. “He would be so sorry for the other people. Oh, Sigrid, I will be so good: I don’t think I shall ever be naughty again. Why didn’t you tell me before, and then I shouldn’t have been cross because you wouldn’t buy me things?”
“I wanted to shield you and keep you from knowing,” said Sigrid. “But after all, it is better that you should hear it from me than from some outsider.”
“You will treat me like a baby, Sigrid, and I’m ten years old after all—quite old enough to be told things.... And oh, you’ll let me help to earn money and pay back the people, wont you?”
“That is what Frithiof is trying to do,” said Sigrid, “but it is so difficult and so slow. And I can’t think of anything we can do to help.”
“Poor dear old Frithiof,” said Swanhild. And she gazed over the frozen lake to the snow mountains which bounded the view, as if she would like to see right through them into the big London shop where, behind a counter, there stood a fair-haired Norseman toiling bravely to pay off those debts of which she had just heard. “Why, on father’s last two birthdays Frithiof was away in Germany, but then we were looking forward so to having him home again. There’s nothing to look forward to now.”
Sigrid could not reply, for she felt choked. She stood sadly watching the child as she bent down, partly to hide her tears, partly to replace a flower which had slipped out of one of the wreaths. It was just that sense of having nothing to look forward to which had weighed so heavily on Sigrid herself all these months; she had passed very bravely through all the troubles as long as there had been anything to do; but now that all the arrangements were made, the villa in Kalvedalen sold, the furniture disposed of, the new home in her uncle’s house grown familiar, her courage almost failed her, and each day she realized more bitterly how desolate and forlorn was their position. The first sympathetic kindness of her aunt and cousins had, moreover, had time to fade a little, and she became growingly conscious that their adoption into the Grönvold family was an inconvenience. The house was comfortable but not too large, and the two sisters occupied the only spare room, so that it was no longer possible to have visitors. The income was fairly good, but times were hard, and even before their arrival Fru Grönvold had begun to practice a few little economies, which increased during the winter, and became more apparent to all the family. This was depressing enough: and then, as Swanhild had said, there was nothing to which she could look forward, for Frithiof’s prospects seemed to her altogether blighted, and she foresaw that all he was likely to earn for some time to come would only suffice to keep himself, and could by no possibility support three people. Very sadly she left the cemetery, pausing again to struggle with the stiff gate, while Swanhild held the empty flower-baskets.
“Can’t you do it?” exclaimed the child. “What a tiresome gate it is! worse to fasten than to unfasten. But see! here come the Lundgrens. They will help.”