Shrinking back in fear and sadness, Kristin stole out and stood in the cloister-way, with her hands about two of its small pillars. Framed in the arch between them she saw Jörundgaard lying below, and behind her home the pale-blue haze that filled the valley. Where the river lay stretched through the country-side its ice and water sent out white sparkles in the sunshine. But the alder thickets along its bed were yellow-brown with blossom, even the pine-wood up by the church was tinged with spring green, and there was a piping and twittering and whistling of little birds in the grove near by. Aye, there had been bird-song like this each evening after the sun was down. And she felt that the longing she thought must have been racked out of her long since, the longing in her body and her blood, was stirring now again, faintly and feebly, as about to waken from a winter sleep. Lavrans Björgulfsön came out and locked the church-door behind him. He came and stood by his daughter, looking out through the arch next to her. She saw how the winter gone by had harrowed her father’s face. She understood not herself how she could touch now on what was between them, but the words seemed to rush out of themselves: “Is it true, what mother told me the other day—that you said to her: had it been Arne Gyrdsön you would have given me my will?” “Aye,” said Lavrans, not looking at her. “You said not so while yet Arne lived,” said Kristin. “It never came in question. I saw well enough that the boy held you dear—but he said nothing—and he was young—and I marked not ever that you had such thoughts towards him. You could scarce think I would _proffer_ my daughter to a man of no estate?” he smiled slightly. “But I loved the boy,” he said in a low voice; “and had I seen you pining for love of him—” They stood still, gazing. Kristin felt that her father was looking at her—she strove hard to be calm of face, but she felt herself grow deadly white. Then her father came towards her, put both his arms around her and pressed her strongly to him. He bent her head backwards, looked down into his daughter’s face, and then hid it again on his shoulder. “Jesus Kristus, little Kristin, are you _so_ unhappy—?” “I think I shall die of it, father,” she said, her face pressed to him. She burst into weeping. But she wept because she had felt in his caress and seen in his eyes that now he was so worn out with pain that he could not hold out against her any more. She had overcome him. * * * * * Far on in the night she was wakened in the dark by her father’s touch on her shoulder. “Get up,” he said softly. “Do you hear—?” She heard the singing of the wind round the house-corners—the deep, full note of the south-wind, heavy with wetness. Streams were pouring from the roof; there was the whisper of rain falling on soft melting snow.