The train rolled on and on, from station to station. People got out and others entered. At a great junction where several lines met, all the passengers in the third-class carriage got out, except Lotta Hedman and the stranger sitting opposite. Hardly were they alone when the man sat straight up in his seat, put his hat in the rack above, and began to speak. He was kind and wise, cheerful, and, above all, gentle and humble in manner. It was this gentleness that marked him, so that people could not look at him for five minutes without longing to tell him all their troubles. "That man would understand my weakness"--so thought all who met with him. "It would be good to speak with him. He would understand how hard it is for me." And it was not long before Lotta Hedman broke off in the middle of a conversation about the box factory and work in Stenbroträsk. "I should like to ask you about something," she said. "I am in trouble, and you know I live all alone and have no one to ask. Perhaps you could give me good advice." "Do not say you want me to advise you," said the man. "I am surely but ill-fitted to advise. But tell me, at least, what it is that troubles you. You speak well, and this is a long journey. I am going all the way to Dalsland myself. It will be a couple of days before I get home." "Well, it was this way. Once I had a friend. She was the eldest daughter of the Dean at Stenbroträsk. We were both going to be confirmed, and went to classes together." Her voice choked a moment, and her eyes reddened. "I never cared so much for anyone on earth as I did for her," she went on, after struggling a moment with her emotion. The man sat quite still, making no attempt to hurry or assist her. He looked, indeed, somewhat embarrassed. "Let me tell you how it was she first came to speak to me. Then you will understand what she was like." "Do," he said. "That will be best. And take your time. We have all the day before us." "Well, it was when we were going to the confirmation classes, and one morning, in the interval, some of us, a dozen, perhaps, were standing in a corner of the churchyard talking about a piece in the catechism. I remember one of the boys said he was sure God loved mankind, for He had made us, and so, of course, He must be pleased with His own work. "Now the few of us standing there together, we were the youngest at the classes, and poor folk's children, all of us. The others, who were better and finer than the rest of us, walked up and down outside the church in little groups, and now and then stopped to gather round the Dean's daughter; she was going to be confirmed that year too. She was beautiful to look at, and there was something about her that drew people to her. You could hardly help looking over to where she was. "But we others, we knew, of course, that we couldn't expect her to take any notice of us, and so we had to be content with standing in a corner talking about the catechism.