“I thought they couldn’t come out in the evenings any more,” said Pelle, obediently allowing her to lead him. She made no reply, but looked about her as though she wanted to treat him to something as in the old days. In her need she stripped a handful of leaves off the currant-boughs, and stuffed them into his mouth. “There, take that and hold your mouth!” She was quite the old Manna once more, and Pelle laughed.
They had come to the summer-house. Manna cooled his swollen cheeks with wet earth while they waited.
“Did it hurt you much?” she asked sympathetically, putting her arm about his shoulder.
“It’s nothing. What’s a box on the ear?” he said manfully.
“I didn’t mean it—you know that. Did that hurt you very much?”
Pelle gazed at her sadly. She looked at him inquisitively. “Was it here?” she said, letting her hand slide down his back. He rose silently, in order to go, but she seized him by the wrist. “Forgive me,” she whispered.
“Aren’t the others coming soon?” asked Pelle harshly. He proposed to be angry with her, as in the old days.
“No! They aren’t coming at all! I’ve deceived you. I wanted to talk to you!” Manna was gasping for breath.
“I thought you didn’t want to have anything more to do with me?”
“Well, I don’t! I only want—” She could not find words, and stamped angrily on the ground. Then she said slowly and solemnly, with the earnestness of a child: “Do you know what I believe? I believe—I love you!”