"Now again the wound opened, and the money burned me so that I was obliged to go out of the room. I had sinned, and yet my sin had answered no end. Since then, I have hardly dared to look into his eyes, blessed as they are. "The mother who has sinned against her own child is the most miserable of all mothers; ... and yet I did it only out of love.... And so, I dare say, I shall be punished accordingly by the loss of what I love most. For since the middle of the winter, he has again taken to singing the tune that he used to sing when he was longing to go away; he has sung it ever since he was a lad, and whenever I hear it I grow pale. Then I feel I could give up all for him; and only see this." She took from her bosom a piece of paper, unfolded it and gave it to the Clergyman. "He now and then writes something here; I think it's some words to that tune.... I brought it with me; for I can't myself read such small writing ... will you look and see if there isn't something written about his going away...." There was only one whole verse on the paper. For the second verse, there were only a few half-finished lines, as if the song was one he had forgotten, and was now coming into his memory again, line by line. The first verse ran thus,-- "What shall I see if I ever go Over the mountains high? Now I can see but the peaks of snow, Crowning the cliffs where the pine trees grow, Waiting and longing to rise Nearer the beckoning skies." "Is there anything about his going away?" asked Margit. "Yes, it is about that," replied the Clergyman, putting the paper down. "Wasn't I sure of it! Ah me! I knew the tune!" She sat with folded hands, looking intently and anxiously into the Clergyman's face, while tear after tear fell down her cheeks. The Clergyman knew no more what to do in the matter than she did. "Well, I think the lad must be left alone in this case," he said. "Life can't be made different for his sake; but what he will find in it must depend upon himself; now, it seems, he wishes to go away in search of life's good." "But isn't that just what the old crone did?" "The old crone?" "Yes; she who went away to fetch the sunshine, instead of making windows in the wall to let it in." The Clergyman was much astonished at Margit's words, and so he had been before, when she came speak to him on this subject; but, indeed, she had thought of hardly anything else for eight years. "Do you think he'll go away? what am I to do? and the money? and the letters?" All these questions crowded upon her at once. "Well, as to the letters, that wasn't quite right. Keeping back what belonged to your son, can't be justified. But it was still worse to make a fellow Christian appear in a bad light when he didn't deserve it; and especially as he was one whom Arne was so fond of, and who loved him so dearly in return. But we will pray God to forgive you; we will both pray."