“Ho!”

“I was all taken aback, you can think.  She’d a black veil over her face, and all.  But a sweet, pretty thing to see, ay, that she was—­like a blessed angel.  I pulled off my cap, and she looks up at me and nods.  And it gave me such a queer sort of feeling, I just turned round and stood staring after her.”

“Was it just a young girl?”

“Young?  Ay, no more than twenty, at most.  Well, I stood there watching her till she’s out of sight among the trees.  And then it all seemed clear enough.  ’Twas her father or mother was dead, no doubt, and that’s why she came out here all alone, for comfort, like.  Anyway, I was going on.  Then, just past the rock there’s a man calls out, ’She’s gone!’

“I was near falling backwards at that.  I called out to see what was the matter, and ran down to the shore.

“‘Thrown herself down!’ cries out the other man, and goes racing off down to the water.

“We both ran all we could, but there was nothing to see.  We waited a bit, but she didn’t come up.  So I went off to the village, and the other man to the town.

“They got her up after—­at the first haul.  She’d gone down like a stone to the bottom, just at the spot.  But there was no getting her to life again, try all we could.  Just as beautiful to look at she was, for all she was dead.  Ay, a lovely thing, a lovely thing.  We’d had to undo her clothes a bit, trying to bring her round, and her skin—­’twas like white silk.  Seemed almost a sin to touch her with our rough hands and all....”

* * * * *

No one spoke for a while.

“And was it just for sorrow, like?” asked one at last.

“Ay, sorrow enough.  But ’twas neither father nor mother she was sorrowing for.”

“Ah!...  ’Twas a lover, then?  Maybe she’d got into trouble.”

“Nay, ’twas none of that sort.  Just set on him—­the young lad she’d been sitting there with at first—­and he’d left her, that was all.”

The men sat in silence.  Olof’s heart was beating so that he almost feared the rest must hear it.  His eyelids quivered, and his brow was furrowed deep as he sat staring into the fire.

“’Tis that way sometimes with fine folk when they’re in love,” murmured one.

“’Tis a woman’s way altogether,” put in another, with an attempt at gaiety, as if to dispel the feeling of gloom.  “Their heart’s like a flimsy fairing—­little watch looks all right, but just shake it a bit, and ’tis all to pieces.”

“Maybe ’tis so with fine folk and ladies and such, but peasant girls are not so foolish.  More like a grandfather’s clock, say.  Anything goes wrong, you’ve only to give it a shake, let it stop for an hour or so, and shake it again, and scold it a bit—­and it’s as right as ever.  Go any way you like.”

The men laughed—­it was a relief to turn to something lighter.

“Ay, you’re right there,” put in a stout fellow with a loud voice.  “’Twas so with my old woman once when she was young.  Got set on a bit of a greenhorn chap, all soft as butter, and took it badly.  But I saw ’twas no good for her nor anyone, and heaved him out of the way and took her myself.  And well I did, for she’s never troubled a thought about him since.”