Ragna thought herself thoroughly on her guard, when writing to her sister, little dreaming how much Ingeborg read between the lines, more from what was omitted than from what was said, though she herself, to whom many things had grown "through custom stale" mentioned them casually, as though quite in the ordinary course of events, things which to the unaccustomed eyes of Ingeborg seemed unbearable to the last degree, little meannesses on the part of Valentini, his way of opening her letters, his habit of spending the evenings away from home and the like. When Aunt Gitta fell ill, Ingeborg's first impulse had been to telegraph for Ragna, sure that her presence would set all right, but the doctor said that five days would decide everything, one way or the other, and three times five days was the shortest space of time in which it would be possible for Ragna to reach her Aunt. There had been but little delirium to-day, at most a gentle wandering, the greater part of the time the old woman lay oblivious to her surroundings, lost to the world. To Ingeborg who took this state of coma for sleep it seemed of favourable augury, but the doctor shook his head. "She may drift away without waking up again," he said. Ingeborg thought it terrible that anyone should die thus, with no chance to repair the wrong done or to prepare for the future life, but there was nothing she could do, except administer the medicines to the unconscious woman at the appointed hours, and between whiles sit silent, her hands folded in her lap, her anxious eyes, eager to detect any change, fixed on her aunt's face. It was snowing outside, a fine dry snow, hard, like ice crystals, the room was in profound silence, broken only by the stinging sound of the snow, driven against the window pane, the crackling of the wood in the stove, the ticking of a small clock on the mantel, and the heavy stertorous breathing of the sick woman. At dusk a maid came in with a lighted lamp, tip-toeing noiselessly in list slippers; she set it on the table cast a glance at the bed and withdrew. Ingeborg fastened a piece of paper to the lamp shade to keep the bright light from her Aunt's face, but it seemed already to have aroused Fru Boyesen, for she turned uneasily, groaned and made as if to sit up. Ingeborg stepped lightly to her side and pressed her quietly back against her pillows. Fru Boyesen passed her hand over her eyes twice or thrice as if dazed, but the expression of her eyes as she looked up at Ingeborg was such that the light of reason shone in them. "Ingeborg," she said in a hoarse voice, "how long have I been ill?" "Four days, Aunt." "And what does Dr. Ericssen say is the matter with me?" "He said it was bronchitis, and that--" "Don't lie, girl," said the old lady, quick to perceive the hesitation in her niece's voice "tell me the truth, I can bear it." "He says now that it is pneumonia."