ship between them—how was it that they did not harmonize? Was he stronger or weaker than she? He had lost repeatedly, had resigned, stooped, and submitted in every way, and yet he went on hoping, living, and believing. Was it weakness or vitality? She could not make out.
Was it the difference in their ages after all? He was not old, but his youthfulness belonged to another period, when youth was more unsophisticated and had a healthier creed. Perhaps she was naïve too—with her aims and opinions—but it was in a quite different way. Words change their meanings after twenty years—was that the reason?
The gravel glittered red and purple, and the paint on the station building was blistered by the scorching sun. As she looked up everything went dark before her eyes for a moment; it was a peculiar sensation, but probably the effect of the heat, which she seemed to feel more than usual this summer.
The haze hung trembling over fields and meadows, reaching right out to where the forest lay, a dark green line under the deep blue summer sky. The foliage of the birches had already changed its colour to a darker green.
Cesca was reading a letter from her husband. Her linen dress was strikingly white against the dark gravel of the platform.
Gunnar Heggen's luggage had been put on the pony cart, and he stood stroking the horse's head and talking to it while he waited for the ladies. Cesca put her letter in her pocket, shaking her head as if trying to drive away a thought.
"Sorry to keep you so long, boy—now let us start." Jenny and Cesca took the front seat; she was taking the reins herself. "I am so pleased, Gunnar, that you could come. Won't it be nice to be together again for a few days, we three? Lennart sends his love to both of you."
"Thanks—is he all right?"
"Oh yes—first-rate, thanks. Brilliant idea of father,
