'Do you know whom I am expecting to-day, Ingrid?'
The young girl nodded; she dared not depend upon her voice to answer.
'Has Miss Stafva told you that my son is peculiar?'
Ingrid shook her head.
'He is very peculiar—he—I cannot speak about it. I cannot—you must see for yourself.'
It sounded heartrending. Ingrid grew very uneasy. What was there with this house that made everything so strange? Was it something terrible that she did not know about? Was her ladyship not on good terms with her son? What was it, what was it?
The one moment in an ecstasy of joy, the next in a fever of uncertainty, she was obliged to call forth the long row of visions in order again to feel that it must be he who came. She could not at all say why she so firmly believed that he must be the son just of this house. He might, for the matter of that, be quite another person. Oh, how hard it was that she had never heard his name!
It was a long day. They sat waiting in silence until evening came.
The man came driving a cartload of Christmas logs, and the horse remained in the yard whilst the wood was unloaded.
'Ingrid,' said her ladyship in a commanding and hasty tone, 'run down to Anders and tell him that he must be quick and get the horse into the stable. Quick—quick!'