Summer went, and autumn; Christmas was drawing near.
'Miss Ingrid,' said the old housekeeper one day, in a rather mysterious manner, 'I think I ought to tell you that the young master who owns Munkhyttan is coming home for Christmas. In any case, he generally comes,' she added, with a sigh.
'And her ladyship, who has never even mentioned that she has a son,' said Ingrid.
But she was not really surprised. She might just as well have answered that she had known it all along.
'No one has spoken to you about him, Miss Ingrid,' said the housekeeper, 'for her ladyship has forbidden us to speak about him.'
And then Miss Stafva would not say any more.
Neither did Ingrid want to ask any more. Now she was afraid of hearing something definite. She had raised her expectations so high that she was herself afraid they would fail. The truth might be well worth hearing, but it might also be bitter, and destroy all her beautiful dreams. But from that day he was with her night and day. She had hardly time to speak to others. She must always be with him.
One day she saw that they had cleared the snow away from the avenue. She grew almost frightened. Was he coming now?
The next day her ladyship sat from early morning in the window looking down the avenue. Ingrid had gone further into the room. She was so restless that she could not remain at the window.