" The memory was sweet
but it was bitter too; and the bitterness rose
and filled her heart. She threw her head back
proudly, and laughed a strange, hollow laugh.
"A bastard's bride, ha, ha! A fine tale were
that for the parish gossips." A yellow butterfly
lighted on her arm, and with a fierce frown on
her face she caught it between her fingers.
Then she looked pityingly on the dead wings,
as they lay in her hand, and murmured between
her teeth: "Poor thing! Why did you come
in my way, unbidden?"
The harvest was rich, and the harvest party
was to keep pace with the harvest. The broad
Skogli mansion was festively lighted (for it was
already late in September); the tall, straight
tallow candles, stuck in many-armed candlesticks,
shone dimly through a sort of misty halo,
and only suffused the dusk with a faint glimmering
of light. And every time a guest entered,
the flames of the candles flickered and
twisted themselves with the wind, struggling
to keep erect. And Borghild's courage, too,
rose and fell with the flickering motion of a
flame which wrestles with the wind. Whenever
the latch clicked she lifted her eyes and looked
for Truls, and one moment she wished that she
might never see his face again, and in the next
she sent an eager glance toward the door. Presently
he came, threw his fiddle on a bench, and
with a reckless air walked up to her and held
out his hand. She hesitated to return his greeting,
but when she saw the deep lines of suffering
in his face, her heart went forward with a
great tenderness toward him, a tenderness such
as one feels for a child who is sick, and suffers
without hope of healing.
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