"I don't know what is the matter with me, Malin. But I think I am going to be really ill. I've a pain in my head and throat this evening. And I'm red all over my body. It must be something breaking out."
"Now, what does she mean by saying that?" thought Lotta. "She's perfectly well. And not a bit of red all over or breaking out."
She came to the conclusion that her friend was trying to make it appear impossible that she should spend Christmas in her own home. "What will come of it all?" thought Lotta anxiously. "Will she never get over this fear of her husband? Oh, but it was always like that with her. Once she is frightened of anyone, it is hopeless to try and calm her.
"And to think that she, who always wanted to be a nurse, doesn't go in now and look after him herself. She doesn't even ask how he is. It's a bad sign, that."
Lotta sat watching her friend. Sigrun looked weak and languid, as sick persons do after some days in bed.
"What unhappy fate is pursuing her?" thought Lotta. "Why should she, pure and innocent as she is, the finest, loveliest creature, sit here in a room little better than an outhouse?"
And indeed the contrast was striking enough—the delicate beauty of the young mistress and the bare wooden walls of the brewhouse, the rough plank floor and smoky ceiling.
"It's a sad pity about them both," thought Lotta. "It must be miserable for him, too, lying on a bed of pain and longing for her."
There was sadness in the air. After a while, Lotta saw how her friend covered her face with her hands and sat rocking to and fro.
"Oh, I wish I were dead!" she moaned. "It would be best. If only I could die."