her usual place, by the sewing table, and sat looking out into the light summer night, with no thought, apparently, of retiring.
The Lieutenant had already flung off his coat. "Aren't you going to bed?" he asked. His rasping tones betrayed his irritation and despondency.
"I think," said the wife in a low, even voice—still gazing into the night—"I think you should finish it."
"What are you saying?" the Lieutenant queried impatiently. He had heard what she said, but thought he must have misunderstood.
"I think," she repeated, "that you ought to go on with it."
"Is it the barn you're speaking of?" he asked, going up to her. Her words had awakened a little hope in him, yet he was not certain that he had understood her aright.
Fru Lagerlöf had been turning this matter over in her mind the whole evening; she had said to herself that it would not be well for her husband to go short in yet another undertaking. It might be more expedient perhaps to give over the building scheme; but that would go too hard with him. This was something which her father or her brother could not understand; but she—his wife—understood.
To read the hearts of those she loved—that was as easy to Fru Lagerlöf as reading a book; but to put her own thoughts into words in a moment of deep feeling she could no more do than she could interpret Hebrew.
