“Sigrid,” he said quietly, “why will you not let me be something more to you than a friend? All that I have is yours. You are not happy in Herr Grönvold’s house. Let me take care of you. Come and make my house happy, and bring Swanhild with you to be my little sister.”
“Oh, Torvald!” she cried, “I wish you had not asked me that. You are so good and kind, but—but—”
“Do not answer me just yet, then; take time to think it over,” he pleaded; “indeed I would do my best to make you very happy.”
“I know you would,” she replied, her eyes filling with tears. “But yet it could never be. I could never love you as a wife should love her husband, and I am much too fond of you, Torvald, to let you be married just for your comfortable house.”
“Your aunt led me to expect that, perhaps, in time, after your first grief had passed—”
“Then it was very wrong of her,” said Sigrid hotly. “You have always been my friend—a sort of second brother to me—and oh, do let it be so still. Don’t leave off being my friend because of this, for indeed I can not help it.”
“My only wish is to help you,” he said sadly; “it shall be as you would have it.”
And then they walked on together in an uncomfortable silence until they overtook the others at Herr Grönvold’s gate, where Torvald grasped her hand for a moment, then, looking at his watch, hurried Madale away, saying that he should be late for some appointment.
Fru Grönvold had unluckily been looking out of the window and had seen the little group outside. She opened the front door as the two girls climbed the steps.
“Why did not the Lundgrens come in?” she asked, a look of annoyance passing over her thin, worn face.