We walked on a little. And then Nils said a thing that showed his sound and right instinct.
“Poor lady!” he said. “She's not got over that slip of hers this summer; it's troubling her still. From all I can see, there's some people pick up again all right after a fall, and go on through life with no more than the mark of a bruise. But there's some that never get over it.”
“Fruen seems to be taking it easy enough,” said I, still trying him.
“How can we tell? She's been unlike herself, to my mind, ever since she's been back,” he answered. “She's got to live, of course, but she's lost all harmony, perhaps. I don't know much about it, but harmony, that's what I mean. Oh yes, she can eat and laugh and sleep, no doubt, but ... I followed one such to the grave, but now....”
And at that I was no longer cold and wise, but foolish and ashamed, and only said:
“So it was that? She died, then?”
“Yes. She wished it so,” said Nils. And then suddenly: “Well, you and Lars get on with the ploughing. We ought soon to be through with things now.”
And we went each our separate way.
I thought to myself: a sister of his, perhaps, that had gone wrong, and he'd been home and followed her to the grave. Herregud! there are some that never get over it; it shakes them to their foundations; a revolution. All depends on whether they're coarse enough. Only the mark of a bruise, said Nils. A sudden thought came to me, and I stopped: perhaps it was not his sister, but his sweetheart.
Some association of ideas led me to think of my washing. I decided to send the lad up for it.