“How can you speak so?” he asked, almost in dread.  “It is madness, child.”

“Madness—­yes.  But if you knew how I love you....  Say but one word and I will leave home—­father and mother and all—­and follow you like a beggar girl from place to place.”

“And never care what people said?”

“Care?  Why should I care for them?  What do they know of love?”

“Little Hawthorn....”  Olof bent her head back and looked straight into her eyes.  “Was that a nice thing to say, now?”

The girl bowed her head.  “No—­but I wanted to do something, to make some sacrifice for your sake.”

She was silent for a moment, then her eyes brightened once more.  “Olof, now I know!  I’ll cut off one of the prettiest locks of my hair and you shall keep it for remembrance—­that’s what people do, isn’t it?  And you must keep it always—­and think of me sometimes, even when you love someone else.”

“Oh, my love!  I don’t know whether to laugh or cry when you say such things.  But it is only now, in the gloom of the spring night.  By daylight you will think differently.”

“No, never!  Not even in the grave!”

“And then—­it’s so childish.  Must you have a keepsake from me too, to help you to remember?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then why should I need one?”

“No, no—­it’s childish of me, of course.  Forgive me, Olof—­and don’t be sorry any more.  I ask nothing but to go on loving you.”

“And I you—­without thought or question.”

“Yes.  And I shall remember all my life how happy you have made me; I shall keep the memory of it all as a secret treasure till I die, and bless you....”

She rose up suddenly on her elbow.

“Olof—­tell me something.  Did you ever hear of anyone dying of happiness?”

“No—­I have never heard of it.  Why?”

“But when they are really, really happy...?”

“I don’t think anyone could, even then.”

“But they can die of sorrow sometimes, I’ve heard.  And then if one really wants to....”

“Hawthorn!” He clasped her in a wild embrace.  “There is no one like you in all the world.  If that were possible, I would ask nothing else.”

“Would you—­would you really care to ... with me?”

“Yes, yes ... to swoon in the scent of you and die ... to feel the strands of your hair twined round my throat, and die....  Well for me if I could, perhaps—­and for others....”

SISTER MAYA

Sadness pervaded his soul, and he spoke to the evening gloom that stole in through the window and hovered about his pale face like a watcher.

“I too should have had a sister—­sister Maya,” he said dreamily.

“You had one—­and the best that one could wish for,” said the evening gloom.

“I don’t remember—­I was too young to know....  But mother always spoke so nicely of her ... the time I was ill, for instance.”