“Yes, I know,” said the daughter.  Her voice, at least, had not failed her; it sounded as confident and cheery as of old.  “I went wrong in the beginning—­but perhaps you’ve heard about it?”

“Yes; that much we know,” sighed Katrina.

“That was why I stopped writing,” said Glory Goldie, with a little laugh.  There was something strong and sturdy about the girl then, as formerly.  She was not one of those who torture themselves with remorse and self-condemnation.  “Don’t think any more of that, mother,” she added, as Katrina did not speak.  “I’ve been doing real well lately.  For a time I kept a restaurant and now, I’ll have you know, I’m head stewardess on a steamer that runs between Malmoe and Luebeck, and this fall I have fitted up a home for myself at Malmoe.  Sometimes I felt that I ought to write to you, but finding it rather hard to start in again, I decided to put it off until I was prepared to take you and father to live with me.  Then, after I’d got everything fixed fine for you, I thought it would be ever so much nicer to come for you myself than to write.”

“And you haven’t heard anything about us?” asked Katrina.  All that Glory Goldie had told her mother should have gladdened her, but instead it only made her feel the more depressed.

“No,” replied the daughter, then added, as if in self-justification:  “I knew, of course, that you’d find help if things got too bad.”  At the same time she noticed how Katrina’s hands shook for all they were being held tightly clasped.  She understood then that the old folks were worse off than she had supposed, and tried to explain her conduct.  “I didn’t care to send home small sums, as others do, but wanted to save until I had enough money to provide a good home for you.”

“We haven’t needed money,” said Katrina.  “It would have been enough for us if you had only written.”

Glory Goldie tried to rouse her mother from her slough of despond, as she had often done in the old days.  So she said:  “Mother, you don’t want to spoil this moment for me, do you?  Why, I’m back with you again!  Come, now, and we’ll take in my boxes and unpack them.  I’ve brought provisions along.  We’ll have a fine dinner all ready by the time father comes home.”  She went out to help the driver take the luggage down from the wagon, but Katrina did not follow her.

Glory Goldie had not asked how her father was getting on.  She supposed, of course, that he was still working at Falla.  Katrina knew she would have to tell the daughter of the father’s condition, but kept putting it off.  Anyway, the little girl had brought a freshening breeze into the hut and the mother felt loath to put a sudden end to her delight at being home again.

While Glory Goldie was helping unload the wagon, half a dozen children came to the gate and looked in; they did not speak; they only pointed at her and laughed—­then ran away.  But in a moment or two they came back.  This time they had with them a little faded and shrivelled old man, who strutted along, his head thrown back and his feet striking the ground with the measured tread of a soldier on parade.