THE SONG OF THE BLOOD-RED FLOWER
"Why are you so sad this evening, Olof?" asked the girl.
"Sad?" he repeated, almost to himself, staring absently before him.
"Yes—I wish I knew."
"But how—when it is yourself—don't you know?"
"No—that's the strange thing about it. I don't know."
There was a pause.
"I won't ask you if you don't like it," she said, after a while. "But if I were sad, and had a friend, I should want to."
"And make your friend sad too—by telling things no friend could understand?"
"Perhaps a friend might try."
But Olof seemed not to have heard. He leaned back, and his glance wandered vaguely.