Lady Aashild and Kristin stood and looked after the sleigh, as it rose and dipped over the snow-drifts. It went down from sight into a hollow—then came forth again farther down on a snow-slope. And then the men passed into the shadow of a fell, and were gone from sight for good. The two women sat by the fireplace, their backs to the empty bed, from which Aashild had borne away all the bedding and straw. Both could feel it standing there empty and gaping behind them. “Would you rather that we should sleep in the kitchen-house to-night,” asked Lady Aashild at length. “’Tis like it will be the same wherever we lie,” said Kristin. Lady Aashild went out to look at the weather. “Aye, should the wind get up or a thaw come on, they will not journey far before it comes out,” said Kristin. “Here at Haugen it blows ever,” answered Lady Aashild. “’Tis no sign of a change of weather.” They sat on as before. “You should not forget,” said the Lady at last, “what fate she had meant for you two.” Kristin answered low: “I was thinking, maybe in her place I had willed the same.” “Never would you have willed another should be a leper,” said Aashild, vehemently. “Mind you, Moster, you said to me once that ’tis well when we dare not do a thing we think is not good and fair; but not so well when we think a thing not good and fair because we dare not do it?” “You had not dared to do it, because ’twas sin,” said Lady Aashild. “No, I believe not so,” said Kristin. “Much have I done already that I deemed once I dared not to do because ’twas sin. But I saw not till now what sin brings with it—that we must tread others underfoot.” “Erlend would fain have made an end of his ill life long before he met you,” said Aashild eagerly. “All was over between those two.” “I know it,” said Kristin. “But I trow she had never cause to deem Erlend’s purposes so firm that she could not shake them.” “Kristin,” begged the lady fearfully, “surely you would not give up Erlend now? You cannot be saved now except you save each other.” “So would a priest scorn counsel,” said Kristin, smiling coldly. “But well I know that never can I give up Erlend now—not if I should tread my own father underfoot.” Lady Aashild rose: “We had as well put our hands to some work as sit here thus,” she said. “Like enough ’twould be vain for us to try to sleep.” She fetched the butter-churn from the closet, then bore in some pans of milk, filled the churn and made ready to begin churning. “Let me do it,” Kristin asked. “My back is younger.” They worked without speaking; Kristin stood by the closet-door churning, while Aashild carded wool by the hearth. At last, when Kristin had emptied the churn and was kneading the butter, the girl asked of a sudden: “Moster Aashild—are you never afraid of the day when you must stand before God’s judgment?” Lady Aashild rose, and came and stood before Kristin in the light: