His
red peaked cap hung on the back of his head
and, although it was summer, his thick wadmal
vest was buttoned close up to his throat; over
his right arm he had flung his jacket, and in his
hand he held a bridle.
"Good evening," said Brita, "and thanks for
last meeting;" although she was not sure that
she had ever seen him before.
"It was that bay mare, you know," stammered
the man in a half apologetic tone, and
shook the bridle, as if in further explanation.
"Ah, you have lost your mare," said the girl,
and she could not help smiling at his helplessness
and his awkward manner.
"Yes, it was the bay mare," answered he, in
the same diffident tone; then, encouraged by her
smile, he straightened himself a little and
continued rather more fluently: "She never was
quite right since the time the wolves were after
her. And then since they took the colt away
from her the milk has been troubling her, and
she hasn't been quite like herself."
"I haven't seen her anywhere hereabouts,"
said Brita; "you may have to wander far, before
you get on the track of her."
"Yes, that is very likely. And I am tired already."
"Won't you sit down and rest yourself?"
He deliberately seated himself in the grass,
and gradually gained courage to look her
straight in the face; and his dull eye remained
steadfastly fixed on her in a way which bespoke
unfeigned surprise and admiration. Slowly his
mouth broadened into a smile; but his smile had
more of sadness than of joy in it.
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