“Then shame upon you! But, oh, you could not know what she is—and he—Do you hear,” said Simon harshly, “if so be it _can_ be hidden, you must hide from Lavrans what you have thrown away. And if you cannot hide it, then you must strive to spare him the worst of the shame.” “You are ever so marvellous careful for my father,” said Kristin, trembling. She strove to speak defiantly, but her voice was ready to break with sobs. Simon walked on a little. Then he stopped—she caught a glimpse of his face, as they stood there alone together in the midst of the fog. He had never looked like this before. “I have seen it well, each time I was at your home,” said he, “how little you understood, you his women-folk, what a man Lavrans is. Knows not how to rule you, says yonder Trond Gjesling—and ’twere like he should trouble himself with such work—he who was born to rule over _men_. He was made for a leader, aye, and one whom men would have followed—gladly. These are no times for such men as he—my father knew him at Baagahus—But, as things are, he has lived his life up there in the Dale, as he were little else but a farmer—He was married off all too young—and your mother, with her heavy mood, was not the one to make it lighter for him to live that life. So it is that he has many friends—but think you there is _one_ who is his fellow—His sons were taken from him—’twas you, his daughters, who were to build up his race after him—must he live now to see the day when one is without health and the other without honour—” Kristin pressed her hands tightly over her heart—she felt she must hold it in to make herself as hard as she had need to be. “Why say you this?” she whispered after a time. “It cannot be that you would ever wish to wed me now—” “That—would I—not,” said Simon unsteadily. “God help me, Kristin—I think of you that evening in the loft-room at Finsbrekken.—But may the foul fiend fly away with me living the day I trust a maiden’s eyes again! “—Promise me, that you will not see Erlend before your father comes,” said he when they stood at the gate. “That will I not promise,” answered Kristin. “Then _he_ shall promise,” said Simon. “I will not see him,” said Kristin quickly. “The little dog I sent you once,” said Simon before they parted, “him you can let your sisters have—they are grown so fond of him—if you mislike not too much to see him in the house. “—I ride north to-morrow early,” said he, and then he took her hand in farewell, while the sister who kept the door looked on. * * * * *