"No, no—there's no one in the world like you. None that can talk like you, or kiss like you. Do you know what I always think—always look at, when you kiss me?"
"No—tell me, tell me!" he cried eagerly.
"No—I don't think I can."
"Something you can't tell me, Daisy-flower? Come, don't you think it's your turn to tell me something now?"
"Well, then—only, you mustn't laugh. I know it's silly. I always—I always look at your neck. There's a big vein just there, and it beats so prettily all the time. And then I feel as if your soul were flowing through it—right into me. And it does, for I can feel it!"
"That's the loveliest thing you've ever said in all your life," said he solemnly. "We won't talk any more now, only be together…."
* * * * *
Spring was near; it was open war between the sun and the cold. The snowdrifts had begun to disappear.
Strange dreams were at work in Olof's mind.
"She loves me—warmly and truly," he told himself. "But is her love deep and strong enough for her to forget all else, and give herself up fully and freely to her lover?"