“So ho!” laughed the gloom.  “So that’s what your sister’s to be like....  Well, go on!”

“And her nature, too, would be strange.  Independent, choosing her own way—­such a nature as old folks say is no good thing for a lad, far less for a girl.  But for her....  And in winter-time she would come racing home on ski—­rushing into the place and making the doors shake.  Then she would jump on my lap, put her cold hands on my shoulders, and look mischievously:  ’Why, what’s this, brother?  As gloomy as a monk again, I declare!’ And I should feel happier then, but still a little earnest, and say, ’Maya, Maya, what a child you are!  As thoughtless as a boy.  And such a noise you make about the place.’  ’Oh, but you’re always in the dumps—­sitting here moping like a grey owl.  You ought to go out and race through the snow, till it whirls up about your ears ... that’s the thing to freshen you up....’  And then she presses cold hands against my cheek, till I shiver, and looks teasingly.  And then all my dull humour’s gone, and I can’t help laughing at her, and calling her a little impudent thing....”

Olof stopped, and smiled—­as if to fix the picture of this bright young creature indelibly in his mind.

The voice of the gloom spoke again:  “So she is to live just for your pleasure—­like all the others?”

The smile died from the young man’s face.

“Go on—­your sister is sitting on your lap, looking mischievously into your eyes...?”

“No, no—­not like that—­no.  She looks earnestly, with eyes that no deceit can face, and says, ’Olof, what’s this they are saying about you...?’

“‘Saying—­about me...?’

“And she looks at me still.  ’Hard things they say, brother—­that you play with women’s hearts....  Is it true?’

“And I cannot meet her eyes, and bow my head.

“‘Olof—­remember that I too am a woman.’

“And that cuts me to the heart.  ’Sister, sister, if you knew it all; if you knew how I have suffered myself.  I never meant to play with them—­only to be with them—­as I am with you.’

“‘As you are with me?’ She looks at me; wonderingly.  ’But you know—­you must know—­that you cannot be as a brother to them.’

“‘Yes, I can—­sometimes.’

“’But never quite.  And still less can they be sisters to you.  Surely you know enough to understand that.’

“‘No!’

“’But you should know.  Oh, think!  With some men, perhaps, they might be as sister and brother—­but not with you.  You, with your dark eyes—­I have always feared them.  They beckon and call ... to evil and disaster.’

“‘Sister—­what must you think of me!’ And I hide my head in her lap, as I used to do in mother’s.

“’I am only sorry—­bitterly sorry for you.  And I can’t help being fond of you, for I know your heart is good and pure—­but you are weak; very, very weak.’  And she strokes my forehead, as mother used to do.