"I sang for you when you asked me." "Yes, you did; but--no! no!" "Eli, do you think I would make sport of your little verse?" "No; I do not think so, Arne; but it is not anything I have made myself." "It is by some one else, then." "Yes, it just came floating of itself." "Then you can surely repeat it to me." "No, no; it is not altogether that either, Arne. Do not ask me any more." She must have hid her face in the bedclothes, for the last words seemed to come out of them. "You are not as kind to me now, Eli, as I was to you!" he said, and rose. "Arne, there is a difference--you do not understand me--but it was--I do not know myself--another time--do not be angry with me, Arne! Do not go away from me!" She began to weep. "Eli, what is the matter?" He listened. "Are you feeling ill?" He did not think she was. She still wept; he thought that he must either go forward or backward. "Eli!" "Yes!" They both spoke in whispers. "Give me your hand!" She did not answer; he listened intently, eagerly, felt about on the coverlid, and clasped a warm little hand that lay outside. They heard steps on the stairs, and let go of each other's hands. It was Eli's mother, who was bringing in a light. "You are sitting quite too long in the dark," said she, and put the candlestick on the table. But neither Eli nor Arne could bear the light; she turned toward the pillow, he held his hand up before his eyes. "Oh, yes; it hurts the eyes a little at first," said her mother; "but that will soon pass off." Arne searched on the floor for the cap he did not have with him, and then he left the room. The next day he heard that Eli was coming down-stairs for a little while after dinner. He gathered together his tools, and said good-by. When she came down he was gone. CHAPTER XIII. Spring comes late in the mountains. The mail that passed along the highway during the winter three times a week, in April only passes once, and the inhabitants know then that in the outside world the snow is thawed, the ice broken; that the steamers are running, and the plow put into the earth. Here, the snow still lies three ells deep; the cattle low in the stalls, and the birds come, but hide themselves, shivering with the cold. Occasionally some traveler arrives, saying he has left his cart down in the valley, and he has flowers with him, which he shows,--he has gathered them by the wayside. Then the people become restless, go about talking together, look at the sky and down in the valley, wondering how much the sun gains each day. They strew ashes on the snow, and think of those who are now gathering flowers. It was at such a time that old Margit Kampen came walking up to the parsonage and asked to speak with "father."[24] She was invited into the study, where the priest, a slender, fair-haired, gentle-looking man with large eyes and spectacles, received her kindly, knew who she was, and asked her to sit down.