“Mother!” said Maria anxiously, putting her hands on her mother’s shaking head. “Recollect yourself, mother!”
The old woman stopped and looked at her wonderingly. “Ah, yes!” she said. “Memories came upon me so fast! I almost think I could sleep a little now.”
Lasse rose and went up to the bed. “Good-bye, grandmother!” he said, “and a pleasant journey, in case we shouldn’t meet again!” Pelle followed him and repeated the words. The old woman looked at them inquiringly, but did not move. Then Lasse gently took her hand, and then Pelle, and they stole out into the other room.
“Her flame’s burning clear to the end!” said Lasse, when the door was shut. Pelle noticed how freely their voices rang again.
“Yes, she’ll be herself to the very end; there’s been extra good timber in her. The people about here don’t like our not having the doctor to her. What do you think? Shall we go to the expense?”
“I don’t suppose there’s anything more the matter with her than that she can’t live any longer,” said Lasse thoughtfully.
“No, and she herself won’t hear of it. If he could only keep life in her a little while longer!”
“Yes, times are hard!” said Lasse, and went round to look at the children. They were all asleep, and their room seemed heavy with their breathing. “The flock’s getting much smaller.”
“Yes; one or two fly away from the nest pretty well every year,” answered Kalle, “and now I suppose we shan’t have any more. It’s an unfortunate figure we’ve stopped at—a horrid figure; but Maria’s become deaf in that ear, and I can’t do anything alone.” Kalle had got back his roguish look.
“I’m sure we can do very well with what we’ve got,” said Maria. “When we take Anna’s too, it makes fourteen.”