He listened with all his soul, and was filled with sorrow for the desperate thing she had done, and all the misery she had brought on herself. He understood better than she did herself that, as she was, all ways in the world were closed to her now. That if she stayed in this world at all, she must be condemned by her own act to endless unrest, endless anxiety, endless penitence and shame. But despite his sorrow and deep sympathy for her, he could not repress a feeling of rejoicing in himself, that repeated over and over again: "At least she is alive. And she has come to you. Sits here beside you, talking to you. What does all the rest matter now that she is alive?" Sigrun had long finished her story, and Sven Elversson sat silent, thinking what to say, what must be done. And watching him as he sat, she felt clearly that such a man as he could do nothing else but send her back to her husband. "This man cannot be led to any wrongful deed," she thought. "And so it has all been in vain," she told herself. "All to no purpose. Death will not let me go." She looked her fate bravely in the face. And she made no attempt to influence Sven Elversson by speaking of what she had resolved. "This is a big thing," he said, and was surprised to find himself talking to Sigrun just as he did to others whom he helped. "But the one thing clear to me at the moment is that you must not go about the country now carrying infection. You will have to stay on here at Hånger for a time." She looked up at him. It was so simple, and she had never thought of it. A few days' respite at least. The thought of death slipped aside. "There is no one here but my father and mother," he went on. "And I do not think they will be afraid. But I forgot, there are some children staying here too, that I took in a while ago. But we can send them down to the village. And then we can shut up the place to travellers for a while. You can move over to the house and have one of the guest rooms to yourself." "And after?" she asked almost harshly. He bowed his head, and tried to think. Because he loved her, he could read her thoughts, and he knew that his answer now meant life or death to her. He could find only strength to say: "It must be in the hand of God." "I cannot drive her to despair," he thought to himself; "but it may be that her own mind will change. Her love for her husband may wake anew. Surely all will go well, all will come right in time." She understood that this was only a respite, but she gave a sigh of relief. "The way I look at it is this," he said. "It is never well to lie, and hide things. There's no denying that. But then, again, it is not well to torture a creature to death. That's no less true. But the heart may change. Or, better, may become itself again. And then it will be easy, all that seems so difficult now. May I not believe that?" She shook her head decisively, but said nothing.