The young man moved towards her slowly, as if questioning. She turned towards him, and their eyes met—then they passed out of the room together.
The old man remained seated, a sharp pain at his breast. A flush of anger rose to his cheeks, and his lips trembled, but he could not speak, and sat still, staring at the floor.
In the next room, the mother turned anxiously to her son, and grasped his hand. "Olof!"
"Mother!" The boy was trembling. And fearing to lose control of his feelings, he went on hastily: "Mother, I know, I know. Don't say any more."
But she took both his hands in hers, and looked earnestly into his eyes.
"I must say it—I couldn't before. Olof—you are your father's son, and 'tis not your way, either of you, to care much what you do—if it's building or breaking." And with intense earnestness, as if concentrating all her being in her eyes and voice, she went on: "Never deceive, Olof; stand by your promise and word to all—whatever their station."
The boy pressed her hands with emotion, almost in fear, unable to speak a word.
"God keep you safe from harm, my son." The mother's voice broke.
"Don't forget this is your home. Come back when, when…."
The boy pressed her hands once more, and turned hastily away. He must go now, if he would have the strength to go at all.