The old woman lay resting in her bed; her face wore the same look of sorrowful gentleness that it had done for years, despite the ravages of sickness.
But to-day, signs of uneasiness were apparent; shadows of fear seemed flitting ever and anon over her features.
Olof wiped his mother's forehead gently. "You are not so well to-day?" he asked.
"'Tis not that—no. I called you, there was something I wanted to say.
But I'm not sure—perhaps it would be better not…."
He took her withered hand tenderly in his.
"Why do you think that, mother? You have never said anything but what was good."
"'Twas meant to be so—ay, that's true. But there's times when it's hard to say what's best to do, and it's so with me now. For years I've been thinking to tell you before I closed my eyes the last time. And it's been a comfort to me in many trials. But now I come to say it…."
The sick woman's breast heaved, and drops of sweat stood out on her forehead.
"Best not to think too much if it worries you," said Olof, wiping her brow once more. "'Twill be all right in time."
"'Tis right enough—I know that really. 'Twould be a wrong to myself and you, and to all I've hoped and believed, if I didn't speak—yet it's hard to begin. Come closer, you too, Heikki—I can't speak so loud…."