Olof flushed slightly. "I never thought to take a wife but in my own name," he answered—"for myself, and what I might be worth by myself."
"Yes, that's your way," said the old man, scanning him critically. "I see it now."
He glanced out of the window and seemed to catch sight of something. "Don't mind what's past," he said kindly. "There's the horses coming from the smith's. I must look to them a minute. I'll be back again…." And he strode out.
The two that remained felt as if the calm of a bright Sunday morning filled the room after a stormy night. Blushingly the girl hurried across to her lover, who came towards her; she flung her arms round his neck, and whispered:
"Olof, I have never really known you until now!"
"And I," he answered, "have never known you till to-day."
THE BROKEN STRING
The dark of an autumn evening was abroad. It marched along the roads, stole over the meadows, and sat brooding in the forest; the shimmering waterways marked its track.
But at Moisio all the homestead was ablaze with light; every window shed its bright stream into the night, as if from a single fire within.
And from within came a constant sound of many voices, as of men sitting round the hearth relating manifold adventures. Outside, all round the house, were voices too, loud and low, soft and harsh, with an undertone of whispering in corners, and footsteps moving here and there. All that there was of life and light and sound in Kohiseva seemed gathered this night at Moisio.