"Olof—your soul, your soul …" she moaned, like a little child.
Olof stood as hovering on the verge of sleep and waking. But at sight of her trembling figure he seemed to come to himself, and tried to break loose from the spell.
"Kyllikki…!" he said imploringly.
She sat up, sobbing, and gazed at him as at one whom she did not know.
"Kyllikki, poor child!" he said brokenly, and sat down by her side. But his own voice sounded strange in his ears, and he could say no more—he felt as if he were a ghost, not daring to speak to a living human creature.
At sight of his unspoken misery, Kyllikki felt her own dread rise up stronger than ever.
"I knew the suffering would come," she said mournfully. "So many have had their place in your heart that I could not hope to fill it all myself at first. But I love you so, and I felt so strong, I thought I could win my way into it little by little until it was all mine … and now…." She broke off, and fell to sobbing anew.
Olof would have given anything to speak to her then, but found no words.
"And it is so terrible to see it all and be helpless," she went on. "You are a wanderer still—and I cannot hold you … you leave me—for those that wait for you…."
"O Heaven!" cried Olof in agony. "Kyllikki, don't—don't speak like that. You know I do not care for any other—would not be with any other but you."