“Good-evening, Sofie,” he said, with a smile. “Have you been to say your prayers. Don’t you ever say a little one for me? I want it so badly: my soul’s as black as my apron and I can’t even read a prayer-book....”
He made all this speech in a soft, fondling little tone and then sat smirking to see what she would say. There was nothing that she longed for more than to save his soul:
“Can you say the Rosary?” she asked.
“Yes, but I haven’t one.”
“Would you like me to give you one?”
“Oh, rather ... if you’ll be so good!”
She bent close to him and whispered in his ear:
“Come and fetch it, to-morrow evening, when it’s dark.”
They walked together through the peaceful twilit churchyard and, with a cordial “Good-evening,” went home well pleased with themselves.
For her it was an endless day; all the time she stood considering what she should say to him. He was coming and would sit smoking there again behind the stove. Already she heard his pleasant, whispering talk and saw his kind, upturned glance. She moved about restlessly to set everything in order. The shutters were closed quite early and the lamp burning. Now she went and had one more look outside and it was pitch-dark, with never a moon. On the stroke of eight, the door opened: he was there, with his Sunday jacket on, his red scarf and his leather shoes. She was most friendly, but did not at first know how to begin the conversation.