Hardly were they alone when the man sat straight up in his seat, put his hat in the rack above, and began to speak.
He was kind and wise, cheerful, and, above all, gentle and humble in manner. It was this gentleness that marked him, so that people could not look at him for five minutes without longing to tell him all their troubles.
"That man would understand my weakness"—so thought all who met with him. "It would be good to speak with him. He would understand how hard it is for me."
And it was not long before Lotta Hedman broke off in the middle of a conversation about the box factory and work in Stenbroträsk.
"I should like to ask you about something," she said. "I am in trouble, and you know I live all alone and have no one to ask. Perhaps you could give me good advice."
"Do not say you want me to advise you," said the man. "I am surely but ill-fitted to advise. But tell me, at least, what it is that troubles you. You speak well, and this is a long journey. I am going all the way to Dalsland myself. It will be a couple of days before I get home."
"Well, it was this way. Once I had a friend. She was the eldest daughter of the Dean at Stenbroträsk. We were both going to be confirmed, and went to classes together."
Her voice choked a moment, and her eyes reddened.
"I never cared so much for anyone on earth as I did for her," she went on, after struggling a moment with her emotion.
The man sat quite still, making no attempt to hurry or assist her. He looked, indeed, somewhat embarrassed.