Then she sank back on the pillows and went to sleep again. "She is still frightened," thought Lotta, "but she is in her senses again now. Thank Heaven for that. To-morrow she will be well again." She did as Sigrun had said--lay down on a small folding sofa and slept till seven o'clock, when she rose and was going out to look to the fowls. But just as she reached the door, Sigrun called her back. Sigrun was crying and trembling at the thought of being left alone. She was terribly nervous again now, and when Lotta told her that her husband was hurt and unable to move, she did not seem to understand. Lotta had to content herself with standing at the window looking out into the grey autumn dark, until the milkmaid came across. She called her in, told her that her mistress was very ill and could not be left alone, and asked her to attend to her work for the morning. The milkmaid, too, had something to tell. The Bailie had not come back at all. He had taken refuge with the verger, who lived not far from the vicarage. He had stayed the night there, and next morning a boy from the house came over to fetch his belongings. No one regretted his going; it was a relief to have him out of the way. The Pastor himself was in a bad way. He thought his leg was broken; a doctor had been telephoned for, and had promised to come over during the day. "That's what comes of getting mad beyond reason," said the dairymaid. "We all knew that the Bailie was taken with Mistress, but none but a fool would ever believe she could care for a broken-down old creature like him." Lotta Hedman, for her part, was not altogether sorry about the Pastor's accident. It would force him to keep to his bed, and Sigrun would have time to get over her fright. Lotta was almost inclined to regard it as a special intervention of Providence. "Thank Heaven," she sighed. "It will be all right now. And perhaps when it's all over they may be happier than before." A little later in the day, the boy from the verger's came over stealthily with a letter, but Lotta sent it back unopened. Otherwise, the day passed quietly. Sigrun did not get up, but slept for hours together. And she was not the only one. The whole of the household seemed to have fallen into the same slumber as its mistress. "It's all so quiet about the house to-day, it's almost uncanny," said the cook and the housemaid, when they came out to the brewhouse to ask how Mistress was getting on. "Like as if someone was on a death-bed." The Pastor sent for Lotta, to ask after his wife. And Lotta went in and told him, with perfect truth, that Sigrun was asleep, had no fever, and that the slight cut on her forehead was nothing to speak of. But when he suggested that Sigrun should be moved back into the house, Lotta firmly refused. Much better leave her where she was. She was all of a tremble still, and nervous. "Afraid of me, I suppose," said her husband.