Kristin was afraid, and she was sore of heart as she went to the parlour to meet her father. What first struck her, when she saw him standing there speaking to Sister Potentia, was that he did not look as she remembered him. Maybe he was but little changed since they parted a year ago—but she had seen him all her years at home as the young lusty, comely man she had been so proud to have for father when she was little. Each winter and each summer that passed over their heads up there at home, had doubtless marked him with the marks of growing age, as they had unfolded her into a full-grown young woman—but she had not seen it. She had not seen that his hair was fading here and there and had taken on a tinge of rusty red near the temples—as yellow hair does when ’tis turning grey. His cheeks had shrunken and grown longer so that the muscles ran in harder lines down to the mouth; his youthful white and red had faded to one weather-beaten shade. His back was not bowed—but yet his shoulder-blades had an unaccustomed curve beneath his cloak. His step was light and firm, as he came toward her with outstretched hand, but yet ’twas not the old brisk and supple motion. Doubtless all these things had been there last year, only she had not seen them. Perhaps there had been added a little touch—of sadness—which made her see them now. She burst into weeping. Lavrans put his arm about her shoulder and laid his hand against her cheek. “Come, come, be still now, child,” he said gently. “Are you angry with me, father?” she asked low. “Surely you must know that I am,” he answered—but he went on stroking her cheek. “Yet so much, too, you sure must know, that you have no need to be afraid of me,” said he sadly. “Nay, now you must be still, Kristin: are you not ashamed to bear you in such childish wise.”—For she was weeping so that she had to seat herself upon the bench. “We will not speak of these things here, where folk go out and in,” said he, and he sat himself down by her side and took her hand. “Will you not ask after your mother then—and your sisters—?” “What does my mother say of this?” asked his daughter. “Oh, that you can have no need to ask—but we will not talk of it now,” he said again. “Else she is well—” and he set to telling this and that of the happenings at home on the farm, till Kristin grew quieter little by little. But it seemed to her that the strain did but grow worse because her father said naught of her breach of troth. He gave her money to deal out among the poor of the convent and to make gifts to her fellow-pupils, he himself gave rich gifts to the cloister and the Sisters; and no one in Nonneseter knew aught else than that Kristin was now to go home for her betrothal and her wedding. They both ate the last meal at Lady Groa’s board in the Abbess’s room, and the Lady spoke of Kristin with high praise.