First it was her son that questioned her, standing in the doorway, looking at both with his innocent eyes.
And then—a triple reckoning—to Olof, to her husband, and to God.
Until that day, her secret had been known to none but God and herself.
And now—he knew it, he, the one she had resolved should never know.
And the third stood there too, like one insistent question, waiting to know….
"Daisy….?"
She would have told him, frankly and openly, as she herself understood it. How she had longed for him and the thought of him, and never dreamed that she could ever love another! Until at last he came—her husband. How good and honest and generous he had been—willing to take her, a poor cottage girl, and make her mistress of the place. And how she herself had felt so weak, so bitterly in need of friendship and support, until at last she thought she really loved him.
No, she could not tell him that—it would have been wrong every way—as if she had a different explanation for each.
And to Olof she said only: "I loved him, it is true. But our first child—you saw yourself. It's past understanding. It must have been that I could not even then forget—that first winter. I can find no other way…."
Olof sat helplessly, as in face of an inexplicable riddle.
Then she went on, speaking now to God, while Olof was pondering still.