The fire of her increasing passion seemed to have sent out a spark that glowed and burned in his soul.
"How can you speak so?" he asked, almost in dread. "It is madness, child."
"Madness—yes. But if you knew how I love you…. Say but one word and I will leave home—father and mother and all—and follow you like a beggar girl from place to place."
"And never care what people said?"
"Care? Why should I care for them? What do they know of love?"
"Little Hawthorn…." Olof bent her head back and looked straight into her eyes. "Was that a nice thing to say, now?"
The girl bowed her head. "No—but I wanted to do something, to make some sacrifice for your sake."
She was silent for a moment, then her eyes brightened once more. "Olof, now I know! I'll cut off one of the prettiest locks of my hair and you shall keep it for remembrance—that's what people do, isn't it? And you must keep it always—and think of me sometimes, even when you love someone else."
"Oh, my love! I don't know whether to laugh or cry when you say such things. But it is only now, in the gloom of the spring night. By daylight you will think differently."
"No, never! Not even in the grave!"