LITMIR.BIZ

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and she chanced to be there the day Schagerström drove by and Charlotte said she would take him if he proposed. She had wished ever since that Schagerström would propose to Charlotte. Now, there was nothing wrong in that, surely? In any case, it had no significance.

      If wishes had power, our world would be quite different from what it is. Only think how people have wished! Think how much good they have wished themselves! Think of the many who have wished themselves free from sin and sickness!—of all who have wished they might escape death! Aye, she could safely go on wishing, for wishes had no power.

      But one bright Sunday that very summer, whom should she see walk into the church but Schagerström! She noticed that he chose a seat from where he could see Charlotte, and wished that he would think her pretty and alluring. With all her heart she wished it. Now, what harm was she doing Charlotte in wishing her a rich husband?

      All that day she had the feeling that something was going to happen, and all night she lay tossing in a fever of expectancy. It was the same with her next morning: she could not do a stroke of work, but sat by the window with her hands crossed in her lap, waiting to see Schagerström drive by. But something far more wonderful happened. Late in the forenoon, Pastor Ekenstedt came to call.

      It need hardly be said that she was surprised and delighted, and, at the same time, quite overcome with embarrassment. How she managed to greet him she never knew. At all events, he was soon seated in the most comfortable chair in her snug little parlour, and she right opposite him, gazing into his face.

      Never had he appeared so young to her as now, when she saw him near to. She was well informed on all matters concerning his family, and knew that he was then twenty-nine years of age, though he looked a mere boy.

      He vouchsafed in his charmingly simple and earnest way that he had but recently learned, through a letter from his mother, that she was a daughter to the Malvina Spaak who had been a good friend and veritable godsend to all the Löwenskölds. He was sorry not to have known of this before, and thought she should have enlightened him.

      She was happy to know just why he had never noticed her till now; but she could not say anything, could not explain. She mumbled a few stupid, incoherent words, which he did not catch.

      He looked surprised; it seemed almost incredible that a person of her age should be so bashful as to lose the power of speech. To give her time to collect herself, he began to speak of Hedeby and Malvina Spaak. He also went into the story of the ghost and the fatal ring. He said it was rather hard for him to believe most of the details, but that underlying it all was a profound truth. The ring, to his mind, symbolized the love of the things of this world, which held the soul in thrall and made it unfit to enter the Kingdom of God.

      To think that he should be sitting there with her regarding her with his adorable smile, and talking to her as naturally and easily as to an old friend! It was happiness almost too great!

      He was perhaps accustomed to receive no verbal response when visiting the poor and disconsolate, to bring comfort and cheer; and went on talking. He had pondered long Christ’s words to the rich youth, and was convinced that the primary cause of humanity’s many ills lay in this, that they loved more the things created than they loved the Creator.

      Although she had not uttered a word, she had listened in a way that tempted him to go farther. He confessed to her that he had no wish to become either a dean or a vicar. He did not want any large parish, with spacious parsonage, extensive fields, and big church books—many responsibilities. What he desired was a small charge, where he would have time to devote to the cure of souls. His parsonage should be only a little gray cottage beautifully situated in the heart of a birch grove, by the shore of a lake. And the salary must be no more than enough for him to live upon.

      She understood that, in this way, he would show people the right road to happiness, and her whole soul went out to him in worship. Never had she seen anything so young, so pure! How the people would love him! Of a sudden it struck her that what he had just said did not accord with something she had recently heard, and she wished to be quite clear on this point.

      Had she been misinformed? The last time she was at the deanery she had heard his betrothed say that he intended to seek a position as headmaster of a gymnasium.

      He sprang to his feet and began to pace the floor of the little parlour.

      Had Charlotte said that? Was she certain that Charlotte had said it? He spoke so sharply it frightened her; but she answered in all meekness that, to the best of her recollection, Charlotte had said just that.

      The blood mounted to his face and his wrath rose. She was so distressed she could have fallen at his feet and implored his forgiveness. Never had she thought he would take so to heart what she had told him of Charlotte. What should she say to “make him good” again? What could she do to appease him?

      In the midst of her tense anxiety, she heard the tramp of horses and the rumble of wheels, and from force of habit turned toward the window. It was Schagerström who drove by. But her mind was all taken up with Karl Arthur, and she had no time to wonder whither the other was faring. Karl Arthur did not see the farer-by; he was still pacing the floor, a grim look on his face.

      Suddenly, he stepped up to her and put out his hand in farewell. It was a terrible disappointment that he should be leaving so soon. She could have bitten her tongue off for uttering the words that had put him in such bad humour. There was nothing to do but take his proffered hand. She must be silent and let him go. In sheer desperation, she bent down and kissed his hand. He quickly drew it away and looked at her in surprise.

      “I only wanted to ask your pardon,” she stammered.

      He saw tears in her eyes, and felt moved to offer her some sort of explanation.

      “Suppose, Fru Sundler, that for one reason or other you had placed a bandage before your eyes so that you saw nothing, and had put yourself into the hands of another, that she might lead you; how would you feel if the bandage were suddenly torn away and you found that your friend, your guide, whom you had trusted more than yourself, had drawn you to the edge of a precipice, and another step would have sent you over it? Would you not suffer the torments of hell?”

      After this rhetorical outburst, he dashed out the door, never waiting for an answer. But on the porch he stopped. Fru Sundler wondered what made him. Perhaps he remembered how pleased and happy he had been when he entered her house—he who was now leaving it in anger and despair. She ran out to see whether he was still there.

      He began talking the instant she appeared. The mental excitement had given new impetus to his thoughts, and he was glad to have a listener.

      “I’m standing here looking at the pretty roses that border the path to your house, my dear Fru Sundler, and am asking myself if this is not the most beautiful summer I have ever known. Here we are now at the end of July, but is it not true that so far the weather has been perfect? Have not all the days been long and light?—longer and lighter than ever before? The heat, to be sure, has been rather intense, but never oppressive. Generally, there has been a freshening breeze to liven the air. Nor has the earth suffered drought as in other fair summers. Almost nightly we have had an hour or two of rain. The growing things have flourished beyond all expectation. Have you ever seen the trees so massed with foliage, or the flower beds in the gardens so gorgeously colourful? Ah! the raspberries were never so sweet, the bird-song never so clear, the people never so merry and pleasure loving as they are this year.”

      He paused for a moment to take breath. Thea Sundler was careful not to disturb him by so much as a word. She thought of her sainted mother, and understood how she must have felt when the young baron had come to her in the kitchen or the milk room and given her his confidence.

      The young clergyman continued:

      “When at five o’clock of a morning I draw up my shade I see only clouds and mists. The rain patters against the windowpane and gushes down the water spout. Grasses and flowers bend to the shower. The clouds are so heavy with rain they almost trail along the ground. ‘To-day there’s an end to the fine weather,’ I say to myself, ‘and perhaps ’tis well.’

      “Though

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