GERTRUDE

Something strange had come over Gertrude that she could neither

stay nor control--something that grew and grew until it finally

threatened to take complete possession of her.

It began at the moment when she learned that Ingmar had failed her.

It was really a boundless fear of seeing Ingmar again--of suddenly

meeting him on the road, or at church, or elsewhere. Why that would

be such a terrible thing she hardly knew, but she felt that she

could never endure it.

Gertrude would have preferred shutting herself in, day and night,

so as to be sure of not meeting Ingmar; but that was not possible

for a poor girl like her. She had to go out and work in the garden,

and every morning and evening she was obliged to tramp the long

distance from the house to the pasture to milk the cows, and she

was often sent to the village store to buy sugar and meal and

whatever else was needed in the house.

When Gertrude went out on the road she would always draw her

kerchief far down over her face, keep her eyes lowered, and rush on

as if fiends were pursuing her. As soon as she could, she would

turn from the highroad, and take the narrow bypaths alongside the

ditches and drains, where she felt there was less likelihood of her

meeting Ingmar.

Never for a moment did she feel free from fear; for there was not a

single place in all the parish where she could feel certain of not

running across him. If she went rowing on the river, he might be

there floating his timber, or if she ventured into the depths of

the forest, he might cross her path on his way to work.

When weeding in the garden, she would often glance down the road,

so that she might see if he were approaching, and make her escape.

Ingmar was so well known about the place that her dog would not

have barked at sight of him, and her pigeons, that strutted about

the gravel walk, would not have flown up and warned her of his

approach with the rustle of their flapping wings.

Gertrude's haunting dread did not diminish, but rather increased

from day to day. All her grief had turned to fear, and her strength

to combat it grew less and less. "Soon I shall not dare venture

outside the door," she thought. "I may get to be a bit queer and

morose, even if I don't become quite insane. God, God, take this

awful fear away from me!" she prayed. "I can see that my mother

and father think I'm not right in my head; and every one else must

think the same. Oh, dear Lord God, help me!" she cried.

When this fear condition was at its worst, it happened one night

that Gertrude had an extraordinary dream. She dreamed that she had

gone out, with her milk pail on her arm, to do the milking. The

cows were grazing in an enclosed meadow near the skirt of the

forest, a long way from home. She went by the narrow paths,

alongside the ditches and field drains. She had great difficulty in

walking, for she felt so weak and weary that she could hardly lift

her feet. "What can be the matter with me?" she asked herself, in

the dream. "Why is it so hard for me to walk?" And she also

answered herself. "You are tired because you carry about with you

this heavy burden of sorrow."

When she finally got to the pasturage, there were no cows in sight.

She became uneasy, and began to look for them in their usual

haunts--behind the brushwood, over by the brook, and under the

birches--but there was not a sign of them. While searching for the

cows she discovered a gap in the hedge, on the side fronting the

forest. She grew terribly alarmed, and stood wringing her hands. It

suddenly occurred to her that the cows must have cleared this

opening. "Tired as I am, must I now tramp the whole forest to find

them!" she whimpered, in her dream.

But she went straight on into the woods, slowly pushing her way

through fir brush and prickly juniper bushes. Presently she found

herself walking on a smooth and even road without knowing how she

had got there. The road was soft and rather slippery from the brown

fir needles that covered it. On either side stood great towering

pines, and on the yellow moss under the trees sunbeams were

playing. Here it was so lovely and so peaceful that she almost

forgot her fears.

Of a sudden, she caught sight of an old woman moving about in

among the trees. It was Finne-Marit, she who was famed as a witch.

"How dreadful that that wicked old woman is still alive," thought

Gertrude, "and that I should come upon her here in the forest!" She

tried to slip along very cautiously, so as not to be seen by the

witch. But before Gertrude could get past, the old woman looked up.

"Hi, there!" the old woman shouted. "Wait a bit, and you'll see

something!" In a twinkling, Finne-Marit was in the road and on her

knees almost in front of Gertrude. Then, with her forefinger, she

drew a circle in the carpet of fir needles, at the centre of which

she placed a shallow brass bowl.

"Now she's going to do some conjuring," thought Gertrude. "Why,

then it must be true that she is a witch!"

"Look down into the bowl!" said Finne-Marit, "and maybe you'll

see something." When Gertrude glanced down, she gave a start.

Mirrored in the bowl, she saw plainly the face of Ingmar.

Immediately the old woman handed her a long needle. "See here," she

said; "take this and pierce his eyes. Do this to him because he has

played you false." Gertrude hesitated a little, but felt strongly

tempted. "Why should he fare well, and be rich and happy, while you

suffer?" said the old dame. With that Gertrude was seized by an

uncontrollable desire to do the ogre's bidding, and lowered the

needle. "Mind you stick him right in the eye!" said the witch.

Whereupon Gertrude quickly drove the needle, first into one and

then into the other of Ingmar's eyes. In so doing, she noticed that

the needle went far down-not as though it had come into contact

with metal, but rather as if it had penetrated some soft substance.

When she drew it out, there was blood on it.

Gertrude, seeing blood on the needle, thought she had really put

out Ingmar's eyes. Then she was so overcome by remorse for what she

had done, and so frightened, that she woke up.

She lay for a long while, trembling and weeping, before she was

able to convince herself that it was only a dream. "May God

preserve me from any thought of vengeance!" she moaned.

She had barely quieted down and dropped off to sleep again, when

the dream recurred.

Once more she wandered along the narrow paths toward the grazing

ground. This time, too, the cows had strayed, and she went into the

forest to look for them. Again she came to the beautiful road, and

saw the sunbeams playing on the moss. Then she suddenly recalled

all that had just happened to her in a dream, and grew terribly

frightened lest she should meet the old witch again. Seeing nothing

of her, she felt greatly relieved.

All at once she seemed to see the earth between a couple of moss

tufts open. Suddenly a head appeared. Then she saw the body of a

tiny little man work its way up out of the earth, and all the while

the little man was making a buzzing and humming noise. By that she

knew whom she had encountered. It was Humming Pete, of course, who

was said to be a bit queer in his head. Sometimes he used to stay

down in the village, but during the summer he always lived in a mud

cave in the forest.

Then Gertrude recalled to memory what she had heard folks say of

Pete: "Any one wanting to injure an enemy without risking discovery

could avail himself of his services." He was suspected of having

started a number of incendiary fires at the instigation of others.

Gertrude then went up to the man and asked him, half in fun, if he

wouldn't like to set fire to the Ingmar Farm. She wished it done,

she said, because Ingmar Ingmarsson thought more of the farm than

of her.

To her horror, the half-witted dwarf was ready to act on her

suggestion. Nodding gleefully, he started on a run toward the

settlement. She hurried after, but could not seem to overtake him.

Her dress caught in the brushwood, her feet sank in the marsh, and

she stumbled over stony ground. When she was almost out of the

forest, what should she see through the trees but the glow from a

fire. "He has done it, he has set fire to the farm!" she shrieked,

again awakening from the horror of the dream.

Now Gertrude sat up in bed; tears ran down her cheeks. She dared

not sink back on her pillow again for fear of dreaming further.

"Oh, Lord help me, Lord help me!" she cried. "I don't know how much

evil there may be hidden in my heart, but God knows that never once

during all this time have I thought of revenging myself on Ingmar.

O God, let me not fall into this sin!" she prayed. Wringing her

hands in an agony of despair, she cried out:

"Grief is a menace, grief is a menace, grief is a menace!"

It was not very clear to her just what she meant by that; but she

felt somehow that her poor heart was like a ravaged garden, in

which all the flowers had been uprooted, and now Grief, as a

gardener, moved about in there, planting thistles and poisonous

herbs.

The whole forenoon of the following day, Gertrude thought that she

was still dreaming. Her dream had seemed so real that she could not

get it out of her mind. Remembering with what satisfaction she had

plunged the needle into Ingmar's eyes, she shuddered. "How dreadful

that I should have become so cruel and resentful! What shall I do

to rid myself of this? I'm really getting to be a very wicked

person!"

After dinner Gertrude went out to milk the cows. She drew her

kerchief down over her face, as usual, and kept her eyes on the

ground. Walking along the narrow paths where she had wandered in

the dream, even the flowers by the wayside looked the same as in

the dream. In her strange state of semi-wakefulness, she could

hardly distinguish between what she actually saw and what she only

seemed to see in fancy.

When she reached the pasturage, there were no cows to be seen. And

she began to search for them, as she had done in the dream--looking

down by the brook, under the birches, and behind the brushwood. She

could not find them, yet she felt quite certain that they must be

thereabout, and that she would probably see them were she only wide

awake. Presently she came upon an opening in the hedge, and knew at

once that the cows had made their escape through this.

Gertrude straightway started in search of the strayed cattle,

following the track which their hoofs had made in the soft earth

of the forest. It was plain that they had turned in on a road

leading to a remote Säter. "Ah!" she said, "now I know where they

are. I remember that the folks down at Luck Farm were going to

drive their cattle to the Säter this morning. Our cows, on hearing

the tinkle of their cowbells, must have broken loose and followed

the others."

Gertrude's anxiety had for the moment made her wide awake. So she

determined to go up to the Säter, and fetch the cows herself;

otherwise there was no telling when they would come back. Now she

walked briskly along the steep and rocky road.

After going uphill for a time there was an abrupt turn in the road,

and she suddenly came upon smooth and even ground that was thick

with pine needles. She recognized it as the road of her dream.

There stood the selfsame towering pines, and on the moss were the

selfsame yellow sun spots.

At sight of the road Gertrude lapsed into the dreamy state in which

she had been most of the day. She moved along, half expecting that

something wonderful would happen to her. She looked under the fir

trees to see if any of the mysterious beings who wander about in

the depths of the forest would suddenly appear to her. However,

none appeared. But in her mind new thoughts were awakened. "What if

I should really take revenge on Ingmar, would that still my fears?

Would I then escape the horrors of insanity? If he were to suffer

what I am suffering, would that be any relief to me?"

The beautiful road seemed interminably long. She walked there a

whole hour, astonished that nothing unusual had happened. The road

finally ended in a forest meadow. It was a lovely spot, covered

with fresh green grass and many wild flowers. On one side rose a

steep mountain; the other sides were covered with high trees--mostly

mountain ash, with thick clusters of white blossoms, and here and

there was a group of birches and alders. A rather broad stream

gushed down the mountainside and wound its way through the meadow,

then went hurling down into a gap that was covered with dwarfed

trees and bushes.

Gertrude stood stock still; she knew the place at once. That stream

was Blackwater Brook, and strange tales were told of it. Sometimes,

when crossing this stream, people had clear visions of events that

were taking place elsewhere. A little lad, in crossing, once saw a

bridal procession which happened just then to be moving toward the

church far down in the village, and a charcoal burner once saw a

king, with crown and sceptre, ride to his coronation.

Gertrude's heart was in her mouth "God have mercy on me for what I

may see here!" she gasped, half tempted to turn back. "Poor little

me!" she wailed, feeling sorry for herself. "But I must--I must

cross here to fetch my cows."

"Dear Lord, don't let me see anything dreadful or bad!" she prayed,

her hands tightly clasped, and shaking from fright. "And don't let

me fall into temptation."

There was no doubt in her mind that she would see something; she

was so sure of it, in fact, that she hardly dared venture out upon

the stones that led across the brook. Yet something made her do it.

When halfway over, all at once she saw something moving in among

the trees on the other side of the brook. It was no bridal

procession, however, but a solitary man, who was slowly coming

toward the meadow.

The man was tall and young, and was dressed in a long black garment

that came to his feet. His head was uncovered, and his hair hung in

long black locks over his shoulders. He had a slender and very

beautiful face. He was coming straight toward Gertrude. In his

eyes, which were clear and radiant, there was a wonderful light;

and when his gaze fell upon Gertrude, she felt that he could read

all her sorrowful thoughts, and she saw that he pitied her whose

mind was haunted by fears of the paltry things of earth, whose soul

had become darkened by thoughts of revenge, and whose heart had

been sown with the thistles and poison flowers of Grief.

As he drew nigh, there came over Gertrude such a blissful sense of

ever growing peace and serenity! And when he had passed by, there

was no longer any fear or resentment in her thought. All that was

not good had vanished like a sickness of which one has been healed.

Gertrude stood rapt for a long while. The vision faded away, but

she was still held by the beauty of it, and the impression of what

she had seen stayed with her. Clasping her hands she raised them in

ecstasy.

"I have seen the Christ!" she cried out with joy. "I have seen the

Christ! He has freed me from my sorrow, and I love Him. Now I can

never again love anyone else in the world."

The trials of life had suddenly dwindled into mere nothings, and

life's long years appeared as but a moment in the Glass of Time,

while earthly joys seemed trivial and shallow and meaningless. All

at once it became clear to Gertrude how she was to order her life;

so that she might never again sink down into the darkness of fear,

nor be tempted into doing anything mean or hateful, she would go

with the Hellgumists to Jerusalem. This thought had come to her

when the Christ passed by. She felt that it had come from Him; she

had read it in His eyes.

***

On the beautiful June day when the daughter of Berger Sven Persson

was given in marriage to Ingmar Ingmarsson, a tall, slender young

woman stopped at the Ingmar Farm early in the morning, and asked if

she might speak to the bridegroom. She wore her kerchief so far

down over her face that nothing could be seen of it save a creamy

cheek and a pair of rosy lips. On her arm was a basket that held

little bundles of handmade trimmings, a few hair chains, and hair

bracelets.

She gave her message to an old maidservant, whom she met in the

yard, and who went in and told the housewife. The housewife

answered sharply:

"Go straight back and tell her that Ingmar Ingmarsson is just going

to drive to church; he has no time to talk with her."

As soon as the young woman received this curt dismissal, she went

her way. When the bridal party had returned from the church, she

came back, and again asked if she might speak to Ingmar Ingmarsson.

This time she approached one of the menservants who was hanging

round the stable door; he went in and told the master.

"Tell her that Ingmar Ingmarsson is about to sit down to the

wedding feast," said the master. "He has no time to talk to her."

On receiving this answer, she sighed and went her way. When she

came again it was late in the evening, as the sun was setting. This

time she gave her message to a child that was swinging on the gate.

The child ran straight to the house and told the bride.

"Tell her that Ingmar Ingmarsson is dancing with his wife," said

the bride. "He has no time to talk to anyone else."

When the child came back and repeated what had been told her, the

young woman smiled indulgently, and said: "Now you are telling

something that isn't true. Ingmar Ingmarsson is not dancing with

his bride."

This time she did not go away, but remained standing at the gate.

The bride, meanwhile, thought to herself: "I have told a lie on my

wedding day!" Sorry for what she had done, she went up to Ingmar,

and told him that there was a stranger outside who wished to speak

with him. Ingmar went out, and found Gertrude standing at the gate,

waiting.

When Gertrude saw him coming, she started down the road, Ingmar

following. They walked along in silence till they were some

distance away from the house.

As to Ingmar, it could be truthfully said of him that he had aged

in the short time of a few weeks. At any rate, there was something

about his face that showed added shrewdness and caution. He also

stooped more, and looked more subdued, now that he had acquired

riches, than was the case when he had nothing.

Indeed, he was anything but glad to see Gertrude! Every day since

the auction he had been trying to persuade himself into the belief

that he was satisfied with his bargain. "In fact, we Ingmarssons

care for little else than to plow and to sow the fields on the

Ingmar Farm," was what he had said to himself.

But there was something that troubled him even more than the loss

of Gertrude--the thought that now there was one human being who

could say of him that he had not lived up to his word. Keeping a

little behind Gertrude all the while, he went over in his mind all

the scornful things which she had a right to say to him.

Presently Gertrude sat down on a stone at the roadside, and put her

basket on the ground; then she drew her kerchief still farther over

her face.

"Sit down," she said to Ingmar, pointing to another stone. "I have

many things to talk over with you."

Ingmar sat down, and was glad that he felt quite calm. "This will

be easier than I had expected," he said to himself. "I thought it

was going to be much harder on me to see Gertrude again, and to

hear her speak. I was afraid that my love for her would get the

better of me."

"I should never have come like this, and disturbed you on your

wedding day, had I not been compelled to do so," said Gertrude. "I

shall soon be leaving this part of the world, never to return. I

was ready to start a week ago, when something came up that made it

necessary for me to put off going, that I might speak with you to-day."

Ingmar sat all huddled up, with his shoulders hunched and his head

drawn in, as if he were expecting a tempest, saying to himself,

meanwhile: "Whatever Gertrude may think about it, I'm sure I did

the right thing in choosing the farm. I should have been lost

without it."

"Ingmar," said Gertrude, blushing so that the little corner of her

cheek that could be seen behind the kerchief showed crimson. "You

remember, of course, that five years ago I was ready to join the

Hellgumists. At that time I had given my heart to Christ. But I

took it back, to give it to you. In so doing, I acted wrongly, and

that's why I've had to suffer all this. As I once forsook Christ,

even so have I been forsaken by the one I loved."

When Ingmar perceived that Gertrude was about to tell him that

she was going with the Hellgumists, he at once showed signs of

disapproval. "I can't bear to have her join these Jerusalem people,

and go away to a strange land," he thought. And he opposed her plan

as vehemently as he would have done had he still been engaged to

her. "You mustn't think like that, Gertrude," he protested. "God

never meant this as a punishment to you."

"No, no, Ingmar, not as a punishment, indeed not! but only to show

me how badly I had chosen the second time. Ah, this is no

punishment! I feel so happy, and lack for nothing. All my sorrow

has been turned into joy. You will understand this, Ingmar, when I

tell you that the Lord Himself has chosen me, and called me."

Ingmar was silent; a look of weariness came into his eyes. "Don't

be a fool!" he said to himself. "Let Gertrude go. To put sea and

land between you and her would be the best thing that could happen--

sea and land, yes, sea and land!"

And yet that something within him which did not want to let

Gertrude go was, nevertheless, stronger than himself. So he said:

"I can't conceive of your parents allowing you to leave them."

"That they'll never do!" Gertrude replied. "And I know it so well

that I wouldn't even dare ask them. Father would never give his

consent. He would use force, if necessary, to prevent my going. The

hard part of it is that I shall have to sneak away. They think now

that I'm going about the country selling my handiwork; so they

won't know about it until I have joined the Jerusalem pilgrims at

Gothenburg and am well out of Sweden."

Ingmar was very much distressed to think that Gertrude would be

willing to cause her parents such heavy sorrow. "Can it be that she

realizes how badly she is behaving?" he wondered. He was about to

remonstrate with her, then checked himself. "You're hardly the

proper person to reproach Gertrude for anything that she may do,"

he remarked to himself.

"Indeed, I know it will be hard on father and mother," said

Gertrude, "but I must follow Jesus." And she smiled as she named

the name of the Saviour. "He has saved me from destruction. He has

healed my sick soul!" she said feelingly.

And as if she had only now found courage to do so, she pushed back

her kerchief, and looked Ingmar straight in the eyes. It struck

Ingmar that she was drawing comparisons between him and some one

whose image she carried in her heart, and he felt that she found

him small and insignificant.

"It will be very hard for father and mother," she reiterated.

"Father is an old man now, and must soon give up his school; so

they will have even less to live upon than before. When he has no

work to take up his mind, he will become restless and irritable.

Mother won't have an easy time with him. They'll be very unhappy,

both of them. Of course it would have been quite different could I

have stayed at home to cheer them."

Gertrude paused, as if afraid to come out with what she wanted to

say. Ingmar's throat tightened, and his eyes began to fill. He

divined that Gertrude wanted to ask him to look after her old

parents.

"And I fancied that she had come here to-day only to abuse and

threaten me! And instead she opens her heart to me."

"You won't have to ask me, Gertrude," he said. "This is a great

honour for you to confer upon one who has behaved so badly to you.

Be assured that I shall treat your old parents better than I have

treated you."

When Ingmar said this, his voice trembled, and the wary look was

gone from his face. "How kind Gertrude is to me!" he thought. "She

does not ask this of me only out of consideration for her parents,

but she wants to show me that she has forgiven me."

"I knew, Ingmar, that you wouldn't say no to this. And I have

something more to tell you." She spoke now in a brighter and more

confident tone. "I've got a great surprise for you!"

"How charmingly Gertrude speaks!" Ingmar was thinking. "She has the

sweetest, the cheeriest, and most tuneful voice I have ever heard!"

"About a week ago," Gertrude continued, "I left home intending to

go straight on to Gothenburg, so as to be there when the Hellgumists

arrive. The first night I stopped over at Bergsåna with a poor

widow whose name it Marie Boving. That name I want you to remember

Ingmar--_Marie Boving_. If she should ever come to want, you must

help her."

"How pretty Gertrude is!" he thought, as he nodded and promised to

remember Marie Boving's name. "How pretty she is! What will become

of me when she goes? God forgive me if I did wrong in giving her up

for an old farm! Fields and meadows can never be the same to you as

a human being; they can't laugh with you when you're happy, nor

comfort you when you're sad! Nothing on earth can make up for the

loss of one who has loved you."

"Marie Boving," Gertrude went on, "has a little room off her

kitchen, which she let me have for the night. 'You'll surely sleep

well to-night,' she said to me, 'as you are to lie on the bedding

which I bought at the sale on the Ingmar Farm.' But as soon as I

laid down, I felt a hard lump in the pillow under my head. After

all, it wasn't such extra good bedding Marie had bought for herself,

I thought; but I was so tired out from tramping around all day,

that I finally dropped off to sleep. In the middle of the night I

awoke and turned the pillow, so I shouldn't feel that hard lump.

While smoothing out the pillow, I discovered that the ticking had

been cut and clumsily basted together. Inside there was something

hard that crackled like paper. 'I don't have to lie on rocks,' I

said to myself; then I ripped open a corner of the pillow, and

pulled out a small parcel, which was done up in wrapping paper and

tied with string."

Gertrude paused and glanced at Ingmar, to see whether his curiosity

was aroused; but apparently he had not listened very closely to

what she was telling.

"How prettily Gertrude uses her hands when she talks!" he thought.

"I don't think I've ever seen any one as graceful as she is.

There's an old saying that man loves mankind above everything.

However, I believe that I did the right thing, for it wasn't only

the farm that needed me, but the whole parish." Just the same, he

felt to his discomfort that now it was not so easy to persuade

himself that he loved his old home more than he loved Gertrude.

"I put the parcel down beside the bed, thinking that in the morning

I would give it to Marie. But at daybreak I saw that your name was

written on the wrapper. On closer examination I decided to take it

along, and turn it over to you without saying anything about it,

either to Marie or to any one else." Then taking a little parcel

from the bottom of her basket, she said: "Here it is, Ingmar. Take

it; it's your property." She supposed, of course, that he would be

happily surprised.

Ingmar took the parcel, without much thought as to what he was

receiving. He was struggling to ward off the bitter regrets that

were stealing in on him.

"If Gertrude only knew how bewitching she is when she's so sweet

and gentle! It would have been better for me had she come to

upbraid me. I suppose I ought to be glad that she is as she is,"

he thought, "but I'm not. It seems as if she were grateful to me

for having failed her."

"Ingmar," said Gertrude, in a tone that finally made him understand

that she had something very important to tell him. "When Elof lay

sick at the Ingmar Farm, he must have used that very pillow."

She took the parcel from Ingmar and opened it. Then she counted out

twenty crisp, new bank notes, each of which was a thousand-krona

bill. Holding the money in front of his eyes, she said:

"Look, Ingmar! here's every krona of your inheritance money. It was

Elof, of course, who hid it in the pillow!"

Ingmar heard what she said, and he saw the bank notes--but he saw

and heard as in a daze. Gertrude placed the money in his hand, but

his fingers would not close over it, and it fell to the ground.

Then Gertrude picked it up and stuffed it into his pocket. Ingmar

stood there, reeling like a drunken man. Suddenly he raised his

arm, clenched his fist tight, and shook it, just as a drunken man

might have done. "My God! My God!" he groaned.

Indeed, he wished that he could have had a word with our Lord,

could have asked Him why this money had not been found sooner, and

why it should have turned up now when it was not needed, and when

Gertrude was already lost to him. The next moment his hand dropped

heavily on Gertrude's shoulder.

"You certainly know how to take your revenge!"

"Do you call this revenge, Ingmar?" asked Gertrude, in dismay.

"What else should I call it? Why didn't you bring me this money at

once?"

"I wanted to wait until the day of your wedding."

"If you had only come before, I'm sure I could have bought back the

farm from Berger Sven Persson, and then I would have married you."

"Yes, I knew that."

"And yet you come on my wedding day, when it's too late!"

"It would have been too late in any case, Ingmar. It was too late a

week ago, it is too late now, and it will be too late forever."

Ingmar had again sunk down on the stone. He covered his face with

his hands and wailed:

"And I thought there was no help for it! I believed that no power

on earth could have altered this; but now I find that there was a

way out, that we might all have been happy."

"Understand one thing, Ingmar: when I found the money, I knew at

once that it would be the kind of help to us that you say. But it

was no temptation to me--no, not for a second; for I belong to

another."

"You should have kept it yourself!" cried Ingmar. "I feel as if a

wolf were gnawing at my heart. So long as I believed there was no

other course open to me, it wasn't so bad; but now that I know you

could have been mine, I can't--"

"Why Ingmar! I came here to bring you happiness."

Meanwhile, the folks at the house had become impatient, and had

gone out on the porch, where they were calling: "Ingmar! Ingmar!"

"Yes, and there's the bride, too, waiting for me!" he said

mournfully. "And to think that you, Gertrude, should have brought

all this about! When I had to give you up, circumstances forced me

to do so, while you have spoiled everything simply to make me

unhappy. Now I know how my father felt when my mother killed the

child!"

Then he broke into violent sobs. "Never have I felt toward you

as I do now!" he cried passionately. "I've never loved you half so

much as I do now. Little did I think that love could be so cruelly

bitter!"

Gertrude gently placed her hand on his head. "Ingmar," she said

very quietly, "it was never, never my meaning to take revenge on

you. But so long as your heart is wedded to the things of this

earth, it is wedded to sorrow."

For a long while Ingmar sat motionless, his head bowed. When

he at last looked up, Gertrude was gone. People now came running

from the farm to find him. He struck his clenched fist against the

stone upon which he sat, and a look of determination came into his

face.

"Gertrude and I will surely meet again," he said. "Then maybe it

will be altogether different. We Ingmarssons are known to win what

we yearn for."