"You surely do not think I should start on such a journey without money," she returned.
At this the man pulled up, went to the horse, and began lifting and fingering the harness.
"Well," he said, after a pause, "I've nothing much to do this way or that myself. Might be best, perhaps, to drive past the inn here, and I could take you on a few miles farther. There might be someone here that knew you."
For the last half-hour Sigrun had been troubled by that very thought. And the offer was welcome indeed.
"When I do a thing, I believe in doing it thoroughly," said the man, taking his place on the sledge once more.
The next few miles, however, were toilsome. Again they had to stop and rest and feed the horse. And soon they found that the snowfall in these parts had been lighter than where they had come from; the going became so bad after a time that they were forced to walk long stretches of the way.
And time went on. It was nearly noon before they came within sight of the second inn.
Just as they were near enough to distinguish the buildings, a man came driving up with a milk-cart.
"You'd better be careful, Gustavsson," he called to the knife-grinder. "They've telephoned up to the inn to be on the look-out for you. Say you're carrying infection. Vicar's wife at Algeröd died last night of the smallpox, and they say it's you and your woman brought it with you from Norway."
Again they halted, and considered what was best to be done. At last they decided to turn back. Neither cared to drive on to the inn; it was too dangerous.