her gaze resting more and more sadly on the child the while:—
“That is dangerous.”
“That is not the point,” said he, mildly. “The question is, what is right.”
Into her vigorous eye there came a strange expression: she gave him another penetrating look; but there was so much sincerity in his voice, his words, and his face that Gunlaug felt herself defeated. She walked up to her child, laid her hands on her head, but could not speak.
“I will teach her from this day forth until she is confirmed,” said he, wishing to aid her; “I mean to interest myself in this child.”
“And then you will take her away from me?”
He hesitated and looked inquiringly at her.
“Of course, you are far wiser than I; yet if you had not spoken in the name of the Lord”—She paused. She had been smoothing down her daughter's hair; now she took the kerchief from her own neck and fastened it around Petra. This was the only sign she gave of her consent that the child should go with the young man; but she hastened behind the house as though she could not bear to see her go.
This behavior filled Hans Ödegaard with a
