“Is it true, what mother told me the other day—that you said to her: had it been Arne Gyrdsön you would have given me my will?”
“Aye,” said Lavrans, not looking at her.
“You said not so while yet Arne lived,” said Kristin.
“It never came in question. I saw well enough that the boy held you dear—but he said nothing—and he was young—and I marked not ever that you had such thoughts towards him. You could scarce think I would proffer my daughter to a man of no estate?” he smiled slightly. “But I loved the boy,” he said in a low voice; “and had I seen you pining for love of him—”
They stood still, gazing. Kristin felt that her father was looking at her—she strove hard to be calm of face, but she felt herself grow deadly white. Then her father came towards her, put both his arms around her and pressed her strongly to him. He bent her head backwards, looked down into his daughter’s face, and then hid it again on his shoulder.
“Jesus Kristus, little Kristin, are you so unhappy—?”
“I think I shall die of it, father,” she said, her face pressed to him.
She burst into weeping. But she wept because she had felt in his caress and seen in his eyes that now he was so worn out with pain that he could not hold out against her any more. She had overcome him.
Far on in the night she was wakened in the dark by her father’s touch on her shoulder.