The fellow was poorly dressed, with a big slouch hat. Evidently, some sort of a vagabond. "For Heaven's sake, don't come in here," said Lotta, placing herself in his way. "We've smallpox in the house, and there's one lying dead inside there." The man did not make off at once, as Lotta had expected. He stood in the doorway, looking round the room. And before she could guess his intention, he had thrust her aside, and strode across to the entrance of the little room beyond, looking in at the bed where the dead woman lay. But Lotta gave him no time for close observation. She rushed after him and threw her arms about him, pulled him away, and closed the bedroom door. The man made no resistance. He seemed to think she was anxious to keep him away from infection. "It won't hurt me," he said. "I've got it already if I'm to have it. The woman in there is my wife. She was taken bad a couple of days ago, and this morning she was delirious and ran off." It was evident that he was speaking the truth--and the whole of Sigrun's plan was thus of no avail. Lotta felt as if the place were falling about her ears. "But--who are you, then?" she asked. "I'm not exactly a stranger here," said the man in a calm, quiet voice. "I'm a knife-grinder, and they know me here at the vicarage. I was here only a week ago, doing the scissors and knives. I go about with my horse and cart and grindstone from place to place, and I've not what you could call a proper house of my own for nursing sick folk. When Ruth was taken bad, I was going to get her down to a hospital, but then she ran away, poor creature. I've been wandering about looking for her all day. I wonder how she managed to get here." Worse and worse. Lotta felt as if the ground beneath her feet were giving way. But, in her confusion, she yet made one more endeavour to save her friend. "But it's not your wife lying there," she said. "It's my dear mistress." "Eh?" said the knife-grinder. "The pretty mistress--is she dead? Did they let her lie out here in an outhouse and die?" "She wished it so herself," said Lotta Hedman. "Why, then, I beg pardon for tramping in like I did," said the man. "I'll have to be seeking Ruth somewhere else." He was a little, withered man, with a dark skin and one shoulder constantly thrust up, which gave him a look of sullenness and discontent. Lotta remembered well that the last time he had been at the vicarage he had been rude and troublesome. But now, in the presence of sickness and death, he was quiet and humble. To Lotta's great relief, he moved toward the door. But then he stopped. There before him lay a pair of wet, downtrodden boots. "But--these are Ruth's," he said. "What does this mean?" Lotta's resourcefulness was at an end. She could find nothing for it now but to tell him the truth. Sigrun had reached beyond the church and cemetery of Algeröd, and was just crossing the bridge over the little stream when she heard Lotta Hedman's voice calling to her.