“Yes, yes, yes, yes!”
“Tell him so from me!” she once more repeated, but softly now, and nodding her head with each word, she walked off.
The child washed herself, changed her clothes, and in Sunday attire sat down on the steps outside. But remembering the alarm she had just been in, she sobbed until the tears began to flow again.
“Why do you cry, my child?” asked a voice in more kindly tones than she had ever heard from any one.
She looked up: before her stood a man of graceful build, with a noble countenance, and wearing spectacles. She rose at once; for this was Hans Ödegaard, a young man, in whose presence the whole town stood up.
“Why do you cry, my child?”
Looking up into his face, she told him that she and “some other boys” had meant to take apples from Pedro Ohlsen’s garden, but Pedro and the policeman had been after them, and then, on remembering that her mother had shaken her faith on the score of the shooting, she dared not speak of it, but drew a lone sigh instead.
“Is it possible,” said he, “that a child of your age can take part in so great a sin?”
