"That, at least, you might take, I think," said Lotta. "But you need not go at all," she added.
"And, Lotta, you know there is one of the cows I was so fond of. Look after her a little when you can."
She moved toward the door.
"Don't forget, Lotta, when my Christmas rose comes out, to put it on Edward's writing-table."
Then she kissed Lotta Hedman for the first time, and went away.
Sigrun had not been gone more than a quarter of an hour when Lotta again heard footsteps outside—a light, careful tread, not the heavy tramp of the farm lad. The moment she heard it, she thought to herself: "What a mercy! It is Sigrun come back again after all."
But no sooner had she drawn the bolt and opened the door than she found herself face to face with a strange man. No wonder the poor girl was terrified. Never in her life had she felt so sinful and conscience-stricken as now.
"Eh, Lotta, Lotta," she thought to herself. "It is beginning already."
The fellow was poorly dressed, with a big slouch hat. Evidently, some sort of a vagabond. "For Heaven's sake, don't come in here," said Lotta, placing herself in his way. "We've smallpox in the house, and there's one lying dead inside there."
The man did not make off at once, as Lotta had expected. He stood in the doorway, looking round the room.