Wangel.
I know it well, dear Ellida. [Lays his hand upon her head.] And therefore the poor sick child must go to its own home again.
Ellida.
How do you mean?
Wangel.
Quite literally. We will move.
Ellida.
Move!
Wangel.
Yes. Out somewhere by the open sea,—to some place where you may find a real home, after your own heart.