"I can make up better stories myself. Old wives' tales are wearisomely long," answered Leif in a quick tone, which concealed the slight wound in his conscience.
"Do you believe she makes them up?" asked Helga, with an air of curiosity.
"She talks about gods, trolls, and giants as though they really existed. The other tales are lies too, I suppose."
"You are a stupid boy. How do you know that there are not trolls and giants?"
"Well, you never see them, anyhow."
Helga was already thinking of something else. "Are you not going back at once?" she asked in an expectant tone.
"I hope to stay here the rest of the winter and all summer too!"
Suddenly both were silent, and found no more to say. For a while they stood and looked at each other and were very happy. All at once Helga became aware that Ingolf lay there, and had not once lifted up his head. She cast herself on her knees beside him and peered into his face. Ingolf avoided her glance, but she could see he was depressed. Suddenly she knelt up and looked penetratingly at Leif. The smiles and brightness had vanished from her face. "Now, you have been vexing Ingolf again, Leif," she said in a tone of deep reproach. Leif avoided her look, and took his place, a little embarrassed, at the end of the cushion. He felt ashamed, but wished to laugh it off. When he did not succeed he bent his head, and whispered so low that only they two could hear: "He ought not to get angry because I say what I think. You know quite well that I do not believe in your gods."
"But you ought not to laugh at them, when you know that you hurt Ingolf by doing so," whispered Helga angrily in reply.
Ingolf lifted his head and looked at them. He spoke calmly, and his voice was quiet and sad.