If he had slept, if he had spoken, if he had been restless, if he had shown any sign of doubt, if he had had the carriage driven into the shade! But he was only patience and certainty. Certain, so infectiously certain, that she would come if he only waited! Her head ached. Every nerve quivered. She could get no rest as long as she knew that he sat there. It was as if his will dragged her bound down the stairs. So she thought she would at least talk with him. Before he came, she had all the curtains drawn up, and she placed herself so that her face came in the full light. For it was her intention to put him to a sort of test; but Melchior Sinclair was a wonderful man that day. When he saw her, he did not make a sign, nor did he exclaim. It was as if he had not seen any change in her. She knew how highly he prized her beauty. But he showed no sorrow. He controlled himself not to wound her. That touched her. She began to understand why her mother had loved him through everything. He showed no hesitation. He came with neither reproaches nor excuses. “I will wrap the wolfskin about you, Marianne; it is not cold. It has been on my knees the whole time.” To make sure, he went up to the fire and warmed it. Then he helped her to raise herself from the sofa, wrapped the cloak about her, put a shawl over her head, drew it down under her arms, and knotted it behind her back. She let him do it. She was helpless. It was good to have everything arranged, it was good not to have to decide anything, especially good for one who was so picked to pieces as she, for one who did not possess one thought or one feeling which was her own. Melchior lifted her up, carried her down to the sleigh, closed the top, tucked the furs in about her, and drove away from Ekeby. She shut her eyes and sighed, partly from pleasure, partly from regret. She was leaving life, the real life; but it did not make so much difference to her,—she who could not live but only act. * * * * * A few days later her mother arranged that she should meet Gösta. She sent for him while her husband was off on his long walk to see after his timber, and took him in to Marianne. Gösta came in; but he neither bowed nor spoke. He stood at the door and looked on the ground like an obstinate boy. “But, Gösta!” cried Marianne. She sat in her arm-chair and looked at him half amused. “Yes, that is my name.” “Come here, come to me, Gösta!” He went slowly forward to her, but did not raise his eyes. “Come nearer! Kneel down here!” “Lord God, what is the use of all that?” he cried; but he obeyed. “Gösta, I want to tell you that I think it was best that I came home.” “Let us hope that they will not throw you out in the snow-drift again.” “Oh, Gösta, do you not care for me any longer? Do you think that I am too ugly?” He drew her head down and kissed her, but he looked as cold as ever.