Launa asked if she knew who owned the horse.
“A man named Morris, who lives down the road four miles away. He turned him out to die; he is too old to work or eat.”
The baby wailed.
“Your child is ill,” said Launa.
“Yes,” grunted the girl, who was so young and almost pretty; “my grandmother cursed him.”
“Cursed him?”
“Because of his father, he—”
“Oh,” interrupted the other, “will Paul never come? If he would only be quick.”
She could not bear these revelations. The moans of the horse and the shrill misery of the child were torturing her.
Someone suddenly threw a stone from behind the shelter of a spruce tree; it struck the horse, which gave a sharp scream. In the distance Launa heard footsteps. She ran down the road. It was Paul.