Sigrid glanced round, blushing vividly as she met the eager eyes of Torvald Lundgren, one of Frithiof’s school friends. The greetings were frank and friendly on both sides, and Madale, a tall, pretty girl of sixteen, with her hair braided into one long, thick plait, took little Swanhild’s arm and walked on with her.
“Let us leave those two to settle the gate between them,” she said, smiling. “It is far too cold to wait for them.”
Now Torvald Lundgren was a year or two older than Frithiof, and having long been in a position of authority he was unusually old for his age. As a friend Sigrid liked him, but of late she had half-feared that he wished to be more than a friend, and consequently she was not well pleased to see that, by the time the gate was actually shut, Madale and Swanhild were far in advance of them.
“Have you heard from Frithiof yet?” she asked, walking on briskly.
“No,” said Torvald. “Pray scold him well for me when you next write. How does he seem? In better spirits again?”
“I don’t know,” said Sigrid; “even to me he writes very seldom. It is wretched having him so far away and not knowing what is happening to him.”
“I wish there was anything I could do for him,” said Torvald; “but there seems no chance of any opening out here for him.”
“That is what my uncle says. Yet it was no fault of Frithiof’s: it seems hard that he should have to suffer. I think the world is very cruel. You and Madale were almost the only friends who stood by us; you were almost the only ones who scattered fir branches in the road on the morning of my father’s funeral.”
“You noticed that?” he said, coloring.
“Yes; when I saw how little had been strewn, I felt hurt and sore to think that the others had shown so little respect for him, and grateful to you and Madale.”