No one spoke for a while.
"And was it just for sorrow, like?" asked one at last.
"Ay, sorrow enough. But 'twas neither father nor mother she was sorrowing for."
"Ah!… 'Twas a lover, then? Maybe she'd got into trouble."
"Nay, 'twas none of that sort. Just set on him—the young lad she'd been sitting there with at first—and he'd left her, that was all."
The men sat in silence. Olof's heart was beating so that he almost feared the rest must hear it. His eyelids quivered, and his brow was furrowed deep as he sat staring into the fire.
"'Tis that way sometimes with fine folk when they're in love," murmured one.
"'Tis a woman's way altogether," put in another, with an attempt at gaiety, as if to dispel the feeling of gloom. "Their heart's like a flimsy fairing—little watch looks all right, but just shake it a bit, and 'tis all to pieces."
"Maybe 'tis so with fine folk and ladies and such, but peasant girls are not so foolish. More like a grandfather's clock, say. Anything goes wrong, you've only to give it a shake, let it stop for an hour or so, and shake it again, and scold it a bit—and it's as right as ever. Go any way you like."
The men laughed—it was a relief to turn to something lighter.