But it was a relief to Ingrid to speak. The old people had their own way of taking things; they clapped their hands when she told them how she had got out of the grave and how she had frightened the Pastor's wife. They caressed her and praised her because she had run away from the Parsonage. For them nothing was dull or sad, but everything was bright and hopeful. They simply had no standard by which to measure reality, and therefore its hardness could not affect them. They compared everything they heard with the pieces from marionette theatres and pantomimes. Of course, one also put a little sorrow and misery into the pantomime, but that was only done to heighten the effect. And, of course, everything would end well. In the pantomimes it always ended well. There was something infectious in all this hopefulness. Ingrid knew they did not at all understand how great her trouble was, but it was cheering all the same to listen to them. But they were also of real help to Ingrid. They told her that they had had dinner a short time since at the inn at Torsäker, and just as they were getting up from the table some peasants came driving up with a man who was mad. Mrs. Blomgren could not bear to see mad people, and wanted to go away at once, and Mr. Blomgren had consented. But supposing it was Ingrid's madman! And they had hardly said the words before Ingrid said that it was very likely, and wanted to set off at once. Mr. Blomgren then asked his wife in his own ceremonious manner if they were not in the country solely on account of the spring, and if it were not just the same where they went. And old Mrs. Blomgren asked him equally ceremoniously in her turn if he thought she would leave her beloved Ingrid before she had reached the harbour of her happiness. Then the old roundabout horse was turned, and conversation grew more difficult, because they again had to play on the Jews'-harp. As soon as Mrs. Blomgren wished to say anything, she was obliged to hand the instrument to Mr. Blomgren, and when Mr. Blomgren wanted to speak, he gave it back again to his wife. And the little horse stood still every time the instrument passed from mouth to mouth. The whole time they did their best to comfort Ingrid. They related all the fairy tales they had seen represented at the dolls' theatre. They comforted her with the 'Enchanted Princess,' they comforted her with 'Cinderella,' they comforted her with all the fairy tales under the sun. Mr. and Mrs. Blomgren watched Ingrid when they saw that her eyes grew brighter. 'Artist's eyes,' they said, nodding contentedly to each other. 'What did we say? Artist's eyes!' In some incomprehensible manner they had got the idea that Ingrid had become one of them, an artist. They thought she was playing a part in a drama. It was a triumph for them in their old age.