When at last Fru Wangen came in again, he was walking up and down the room.
“Karen,” he said, “can you blame me for expecting that you will devote yourself a little at any rate to me just now?”
“But what is it you want me to do, Henry? I’m toiling from morning to night.”
“Yes, you’re toiling; but you might toil a little less. Couldn’t you let my aunt have the children for a time? You know she would like to, and you could be sure——”
“Do you really want to send all three of them away, Henry?”
He stopped. “Would that be such a dreadful thing?”
“No, perhaps not for you,” she said, and went into the kitchen again.
It was near the middle of April, and the spring had begun to appear. One day the sun was shining warm upon the bare fields when Fru Wangen stood on the verandah looking out. The river was rushing by, yellow and foaming, often hidden by alder bushes that were beginning to show green buds. To the right lay the shining lake, reflecting soft, bright clouds.
“Let me see, mamma!” cried the two little girls, as they hung on to her skirts, both trying to climb up and see.
At that moment she heard a well-known cough down by the garden gate. It was her father. It was always painful now when he came, and when he came on to the verandah breathing hard, she was sitting in the drawing-room with her sewing. He pretended not to see that she rose and held out her hand. The two little girls, who had run up to their grandfather, were also perplexed at his pushing them away as he made his way to a comfortable chair and sank into it. He was breathing hard, and placed his stick between his knees, resting his trembling hands upon the handle.