“Send the children over to me—all three of them, if you like,” wrote Aunt Marit from Bruseth. No, thanks; Merle knew what that meant. Aunt Marit wanted to keep them for good.
Lose her children—give away her children to others? Was the day to come when that burden, too, would be laid upon them?
But schooling they must have; they must learn enough at least to fit them to make a living when they grew up. And if their own parents could not afford them schooling, why—why then perhaps they had no right to keep them?
Merle sewed and sewed on, lifting her head now and again, so that the sunlight fell on her face.
How the snow shone—like purple under the red flood of sunlight. After all, their troubles seemed a little easier to bear to-day. It was as if something frozen in her heart were beginning to thaw.
Louise was getting on well with her violin. Perhaps one day the child might go out into the world, and win the triumphs that her mother had dreamed of in vain.
There was a sound of hurried steps in the passage, and she started and sat in suspense. Would he come in raging, or in despair, or had the pains in his head come back? The door opened.
“Merle! I have it now. By all the gods, little woman, something’s happened at last!”
Merle half rose from her seat, but sank back again, gazing at his face.
“I’ve got it this time, Merle,” he said again. “And how on earth I never hit on it before—when it’s as simple as shelling peas!”