"But with the one I loved—to be mine—all mine, for ever!" she answered, looking straight into his eyes.
Olof started. It was as if something had come between them, something restless and ill-boding that broke the soft swell of the waves on which they drifted happily—something, he knew not what, that made its presence felt.
"Or—not that perhaps—but to have something of his—something he had given me—to lie beside me in a bed of rags and smile," said the girl. And laying her head in his lap she clung to him as if her body had been one with his.
* * * * *
The lamp was lit, and a little fire was burning on the hearth. The girl sat on the floor, as was her way, holding her lover's feet in her lap—wrapped in her apron, as if they were her own.
"Go on working—I won't disturb you," she said, "only sit here and warm your feet and look at you."
Olof gave her a quick, warm glance, and turned to his work again.
"Olof," said the girl, after a pause, "what shall I have to hold in my lap when you are gone?"
She looked up at him helplessly, as if he alone could aid her.
Olof made a movement of impatience, as if he had made an error in his reckoning that was hard to put right.