But how anxiously he had waited to see whether Einar would send to him; for after the manner in which they had parted, he did not feel able to see him until he yielded. But would he yield? Should he get his boy back?
What were his thoughts now when the moment came at last? He went slowly up the stairs, but had to hold tight to the banisters. When he entered the room, he saw at once how emaciated the boy was. The thin beard that had been allowed to grow while he was ill made him unrecognisable. Einar’s eyes were still wet, and he smiled anxiously as he held out his hand.
Ingeborg had come up again with him, but slipped quietly out when she saw her father’s emotion; and the two were left alone. The old man’s lips were compressed as he seated himself and took his son’s outstretched hand. It was so damp and nerveless and thin that he was quite afraid to take hold of it. Einar saw his father’s emotion, and worn and excited as he was already, he burst into tears.
“Forgive me, father!”
The old man rose and arranged the coverlet better about his son.
“Don’t talk about it!” he managed to say. “And you musn’t take this to heart now; it’s bad for you.”
When, a little later, the old man once more stood alone in his office, he was sniffing as if he had a cold.
“Heaven be praised!” he said, with his eyes raised to the ceiling. “Thank God that I have got my boy back again!”