Her life with her severe father was full of hardship, and when she looked at the girdle she semed to read in its bright-coloured loops of a future full of joy and peace. In this girdle she lived, it was the same to her as the thought of her only joy—her idolized son.
Again she sang:
"I weave in beads so fine
For this dear beloved of mine,
And no king upon his throne
Shall the like of this girdle own."
Just then Bertila, her father, entered, followed by Larsson and all the rest of the working people. Old Bertila's looks were dark; he could not deny to himself that Larsson's predictions were only too likely to be true. His son a nobleman. This possibility was in his eyes a disgrace, and up to this time had not troubled his mind.
The last words of Meri's song had just died away. At her father's entrance she quickly concealed the girdle under her apron; but the suspicious eyes of the old man fathomed her secret.
"You are again sitting with your dreams, lazy thing, instead of serving out the porridge," he said in a sharp tone. "What have you underneath your apron? Out with it."
And Meri was obliged in the presence of them all to reveal the unfinished girdle—her dearest secret. Her father snatched it from her, looked at it for a moment with contempt, then tore it in two, and threw the pieces behind the oven.
"I have told you many a time," he said severely, "that an honest peasant woman has nothing to do with fancy work. Let us say grace."
The old man then clasped his hands in the usual way, and the rest followed suit. But before the prayer could be uttered, Larsson stepped to the middle of the floor, his naturally good-humoured face purple with rage.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Bertila," he said, "to insult your own daughter in front of all the people! She works like a slave night and day, more than anyone of us, yet you call her a lazy thing! I tell you this straight in the face, that although you are my master, and I eat your bread, and without you I have nothing but the beggar's staff, that such an unrighteous father does not deserve to have such a good daughter; and rather than see this misery day after day, I will beg my bread. But you will have to answer before the Almighty for your children. And may you now say your grace, and let the food taste well to you if you can. Farewell, Bertila, I cannot stand this life any longer."