But the priest knew as little how to advise as she. "The boy must be left to himself in this matter," said he. "Life cannot be altered for his sake, but it depends on himself whether he shall one day find out its meaning. Now it seems he wants to go away to do so." "But was it not just so with the old woman?" said Margit. "With the old woman?" repeated the priest. "Yes; she who went out to fetch the sunshine into her house, instead of cutting windows in the walls." The priest was astonished at her shrewdness; but it was not the first time she had surprised him when she was on this theme; for Margit, indeed, had not thought of anything else for seven or eight years. "Do you think he will leave me? What shall I do? And the money? And the letters?" All this crowded upon her at once. "Well, it was not right about the letters. You can hardly be justified in withholding from your son what belonged to him. It was still worse, however, to place a fellow Christian in a bad light when it was not deserved, and the worst of all was that it was one whom Arne loved and who was very fond of him in return. But we will pray God to forgive you, we will both pray." Margit bowed her head; she still sat with her hands folded. "How earnestly I would pray him for forgiveness, if I only knew he would stay!" She was probably confounding in her mind the Lord and Arne. The priest pretended he had not noticed this. "Do you mean to confess this to him at once?" he asked. She looked down and said in a low tone, "If I dared wait a little while I should like to do so." The priest turned aside to hide a smile, as he asked, "Do you not think your sin becomes greater the longer you delay the confession?" Both hands were busied with her handkerchief: she folded it into a very small square, and tried to get it into a still smaller one, but that was not possible. "If I confess about the letters, I am afraid he will leave me." "You dare not place your reliance on the Lord, then?" "Why, to be sure I do!" she said hurriedly; then she added softly, "But what if he should go anyway?" "So, then, you are more afraid of Arne's leaving you than of continuing in sin?" Margit had unfolded her handkerchief again; she put it now to her eyes, for she was beginning to weep. The priest watched her for a while, then he continued: "Why did you tell me all this when you did not mean it to lead to anything?" He waited a long time, but she did not answer. "You thought, perhaps, your sin would become less when you had confessed it?" "I thought that it would," said she, softly, with her head bowed still farther down on her breast. The priest smiled and got up. "Well, well, my dear Margit, you must act so that you will have joy in your old age." "If I could only keep what I have!" said she; and the priest thought she dared not imagine any greater happiness than living in her constant state of anxiety. He smiled as he lit his pipe.