Olof was petrified. It was all unreal as a dream, and yet—he knew that step—would know it among a thousand.
"I must go!" He pressed the girl's hand fiercely, and reached hurriedly for his hat. He groped his way toward the door, found the handle, but had not strength to open it.
He strove to pull himself together. He must go—for the sake of the girl who lay trembling there in bed, and more for the sake of her who stood in the room beyond. The door opened and closed again.
An old woman stood there waiting. Motionless as a statue, her wrinkled features set, her eyes full of a pain and bitterness that crushed him like a burden.
For a while neither moved. The woman's face seemed to fade away into the gloom, but the look in her eyes was there still. A sudden tremor, and Olof saw no more, but felt a warm flood welling from beneath his eyelids.
Without a word she turned, and went down the steps. Olof followed her.
With bowed head, and arms hanging loosely at her side, she walked on.
The last brief hour seemed to have aged her beyond all knowing.
He felt a violent impulse to run forward and throw himself on his knees in the dust before her. But he dared not, and his feet refused their service.
They came to Kankaala.
The porch seemed glowering at them like a questioning eye as they came up. Olof started, and the blood rushed to his head.