"Is it now something about Arne again?" he inquired, as though they had often talked together about him. "Heaven help me!" said Margit; "it is never anything but good I have to say of him, and yet my heart is so heavy." She looked very sad as she spoke. "Has that longing come back again?" asked the priest. "Worse than ever," said the mother. "I do not even believe he will stay with me until spring comes to us here." "And yet he has promised never to leave you." "True enough; but, dear me, he must manage for himself now; when the mind is set upon going, go one must, I suppose. But what will become of me?" "Still I will believe, as long as possible, that he will not leave you," said the priest. "Certainly not; but what if he should never be content at home? I would then have it on my conscience that I stood in his way. There are times when I think I ought to ask him myself to go away." "How do you know that he is longing now more than ever?" "Oh, from many things. Since midwinter he has not worked out in the parish a single day. On the other hand, he has made three trips to town, and has stayed away a long while each time. He scarcely ever talks now when he is working, as he often used to do. He sits for hours by the little window up-stairs, and looks out over the mountains in the direction of the Kamp gorge; he sometimes stays there a whole Sunday afternoon, and often when it is moonlight, he sits there far into the night." "Does he never read to you?" "Of course he reads and sings to me every Sunday; but he always seems in a hurry, except now and then, when he overdoes it." "Does he never come and talk with you?" "He often lets so long a time pass without saying a word, that I cannot help crying when I sit alone. Then, I suppose, he sees this, for he begins to talk with me, but it is always about trifles, never about anything serious." The priest was walking up and down; now he stopped and asked, "Why do you not speak with him about it?" It was some time before she made any reply to this; she sighed several times, she looked first downward, then on either side,--she folded the handkerchief she carried. "I came here to-day to have a talk with father about something that lies heavily on my heart." "Speak freely, it will lighten the burden." "I know that; for I have now dragged it along alone these many years, and it grows heavier each year." "What is it, my good woman?" There was a brief pause; then she said, "I have sinned greatly against my son,"--and she began to cry. The priest came close up to her. "Confess it to me," said he, "then we will together pray God that you may be forgiven."