After a while Arne came to the smithy door to cool himself. He made as though to seat himself beside Kristin, but she moved a little away and bade him have a care not to dirty the sewing she had upon her knee. “Is it come to this between us,” said Arne, “that you dare not let me sit by you for fear the peasant boy should soil you?” Kristin looked at him in wonder, and answered: “You know well enough what I meant. But take your apron off, wash the charcoal from your hands and sit down a little and rest you here by me—” and she made room for him. But Arne laid himself in the grass in front of her; then she said again: “Nay, be not angry, my Arne. Can you think I could be unthankful for the brave gift you are making me, or ever forget you have been my best friend at home here all my days?” “Have I been that?” he asked. “You know it well,” said Kristin. “And never will I forget you. But you, who are to go out into the world—maybe you will gain wealth and honor or ever you think—you will like enough forget me, long before I forget you—” “You will never forget me?” said Arne, smiling. “And I will forget you ere you forget me?—you are naught but a child, Kristin.” “_You_ are not so old either,” she replied. “I am as old as Simon Darre,” said he again. “And we bear helm and shield as well as the Dyfrin folk, but my folks have not had fortune with them—” He had dried his hands on the grass tufts; and now he took Kristin’s ankle and pressed his cheek to the foot which showed from under her dress. She would have drawn away her foot, but Arne said: “Your mother is at Laugarbru, and Lavrans has ridden forth—from the houses none can see us where we sit. Surely you can let me speak this once of what is in my heart.” Kristin answered: “We have known all our days, both you and I, that ’twas bootless for us to set our hearts on each other.” “May I lay my head in your lap,” said Arne, and as she did not answer, he laid his head down and twined an arm about her waist. With his other hand he pulled at the plaits of her hair. “How will you like it,” he asked in a little, “when Simon lies in your lap thus, and plays with your hair?” Kristin did not answer. It seemed as though a heaviness fell upon her of a sudden—Arne’s words and Arne’s head on her knee—it seemed to her as though a door opened into a room, where many dark passages led into a greater darkness; sad, and heavy at heart, she faltered and would not look inside. “Wedded folk do not use to do so,” said she of a sudden, quickly, as if eased of a weight. She tried to see Simon’s fat round face looking up into hers as Arne was looking now; she heard his voice—and she could not keep from laughing: “I trow Simon will never lie on the ground to play with my shoes—not he!” “No, for he can play with you in his bed,” said Arne. His voice made her feel sick and powerless all at once. She tried to push his head from off her lap, but he pressed it against her knee and said softly: