Time, 1885
“Big Swede wedding over there this evening,” said one passer to another by his side. “Peter Lund’s daughter.”
“Is she marrying a Swede?” inquired the second.
“Yes; fellow by the name of Arne Sandstrom.”
“I should think old Peter, well off as he is, would have looked higher for a son-in-law—you or me, for instance,” observed the second youth, with a laugh.
“The girl’s pretty as a pink, and has had every advantage. It is a pity to see her thrown away; but old Peter has a lot of younger ones coming on.”
“That makes it less an object. I thought she was his only. The Swedes are clannish.”
“Peter Lund’s is headquarters for them, too. Here’s one now, hunting up the wedding. I’ll bet she’s just arrived from the old country.”
So near the truth was this surmise that Elsa had been off the train only twenty minutes, and in that time had repeated the name of Arne Sandstrom interrogatively to every person she met. She was dazed by long riding and partial fasting, and the dumb terror of finding no one to receive her at the end of her great journey. The letter created with much brain-work to announce her coming ought to have been in his hands weeks ago. The innocent and friendless soul did not know she had omitted all dates and exactness in her general care for spelling and inky loops. So stepping off the train into the American town at dusk, she saw stretches of summer prairie to the westward, perky architecture, crossing railroad tracks, hurrying citizens, and lazy loungers—even the new electric light on its spider-work iron tower beginning to make a ghastly powerful star far above her head. She saw baggage and piles of express matter, hotel runners, and other women, starting toward their assured homes, tucked laughing and chatting under their husbands’ arms; but she saw not one face or one kind hand ready to bid her welcome, who had ventured thousands of miles alone—across ocean, across continent—to marry her betrothed lover, Arne Sandstrom.
Hearing his name spoken, she stood still upon the sidewalk, shrinking and timid, but directly in front of the young men, and inquired, using hands and eyes as well as anxious inflection of voice, “Arne Sandstrom?”