But he was not sure that it was so. He thought also that the thing had stood in his own soul; that it was his own violent, reckless, savage nature, with its supports of inherited habit and ingrown prejudice and sense of rights long held, that had fallen.
For that it had fallen, he felt now with wonder and relief. He knew it, from the mighty train of gentle thoughts that flowed through his soul.
He knew it, from the power of self-sacrificing love that filled him now.
He realized it from the joy he now felt in being a priest. He thought of his life, how he was at once a husbandman tending the fruits of the earth, and a shepherd of souls, head of a household and leader of a congregation, master and ruler and the helping minister of all—and now, for the first time, he felt that he truly loved his work, as the noblest and greatest and happiest of all.
He was happy, on this lovely evening in spring, as he drove back alone over the desolate, barren, unbeautiful mountain tract, toward his own poor home.
And he looked back, marvelling, at the thing which had saved him; for it was not his love, nor his priestly office, but the thought of the sacredness and majesty of life. A thought that had grown up slowly out of Sven Elversson's ill-fate and now stood firm and clear in its maturity.
* * * * * * *
When Sigrun came out next morning into the garden, she saw that the book of poems had been left on the table, and went to fetch it in.
But, on taking it up, she found something between the leaves. And, looking to see, she found a small purse of yellow leather.
It was thrust in just at the page where stood the verses of the prisoner returned from the wars, and it contained her two plain rings, one other ring, also her husband's gift, and a few small trinkets.