“Sometimes,” Olga continued shamefacedly, “she looked so lonely standing there. Just as if she were turned to a statue of grief. I wanted to run up and comfort her. But I never dared. Besides, Sven would not permit me. And there is no road, only this path, leading down to the river.” “A good thing for you that you didn’t go,” said the gnarled old man, trying to speak lightly. “Silent Sven would have been left a widower.” The men laughed relievedly, and the shy young giant standing beside the counter flushed to the roots of his yellow hair. “Oh, I don’t know,” finished Olga, weakly. “I--I am sorry for her, poor old soul!” “Some say she was seen the day Black Eric left,” Kaisa’s shrill voice broke in. “She stepped in front of him on the road, and the horses stopped dead. She cursed him as usual. ‘So you are going away,’ she screamed; ‘but I will follow you--I will follow you!’ He struck at her with his whip, but she avoided him. ‘I hope you die!’ he shouted at her, and she screamed back, ‘Ay, though I were dead a thousand years, my hate for you would bring me back!’” “_Ja, käre Gud!_” sighed a wrinkled old crone. “Let us stop talking of this and finish our buying.” She turned to cross the store; nobody heeded her, and, as though reluctant to miss anything, she stayed. “Perhaps Black Eric took her with him”--the man who spoke laughed hollowly--“for not once since, as near as I can figure, has she been seen.” “That’s likely!” retorted Wise Olaf. “She’s the only thing he was ever afraid of.” “I didn’t think he’d stay away this long,” said the old man, “He loved his power over us too much. And now he’s gone since last November.” “Oh, he’ll be back soon enough,” answered Wise Olaf. “I saw Young Eric the other day. He’s expecting him any time.” “I was having a good time,” grumbled the old crone, puffing away at her pipe, “and you’ve made me ill with your talk!” “Always in the winters before,” continued Kaisa, “I have seen her coming down the path on her skis. At night, thinking no one would see her. There she’d come, swiftly, her skirts flying behind her, and straight down she would go, over the bank, and out to the spot where her daughter was drowned. You should have heard her moaning, and wringing her hands! And she would cry something terrible. Many times I’ve asked Olaf to build us a house elsewhere, and not live here in the store like heathen folk, where we had to see such a sight and listen to such things. ’Tis not good for the children.” “I’ve heard,” said Olga, her voice soft and pitying, “that she was just like other people before she lost the girl. That they were very happy, even though they were so poor, with their little garden and their hut. Perhaps she is like others still, only we are afraid of her, and that makes her queer. Perhaps we should go up and see if anything has happened to her?” She looked around questioningly, her blue eyes pleading.