"I love you," she whispered, "as only your mother ever could!"
Olof turned cold. It was as if a stranger had surprised them in an intimate caress.
"Olof," she murmured, with an unspeakable tenderness in her eyes. And as if some great thing had suddenly come into her mind she went on: "You have never told me about your mother…. No, don't tell me now; I know it all myself. She is tall like you, and stately, and upright still as ever. And she has just the same bright eyes, and little hollows at the temples, like you have. And she wears a dark striped apron, with a little pocket at the side, where she keeps her knitting, and takes it out now and then to work at as she goes."
"How could you know!" he cried, in pleased surprise. His fear was gone now, and he felt only a wonderful depth of happiness at hearing the girl speak so tenderly of his mother.
"'Tis only guessing. But do you know—I should so like to see her, your mother, that…."
"That…?"
"Only … only, I should like to see her so. Then I'd put my arms round her neck and … Olof, did your mother often kiss you?"
"No. Not often."
"But she stroked your hair, and often talked with you all alone, I know."
"Yes … yes."