He sat up; the girl grasped his hand in fear.

They could hear it plainly now--footsteps, coming nearer. Heavily,
hesitatingly, as if not knowing whether to go on or turn back.

Olof was petrified. It was all unreal as a dream, and yet--he knew
that step--would know it among a thousand.

"I must go!" He pressed the girl's hand fiercely, and reached
hurriedly for his hat. He groped his way toward the door, found the
handle, but had not strength to open it.

He strove to pull himself together. He must go--for the sake of the
girl who lay trembling there in bed, and more for the sake of her who
stood in the room beyond. The door opened and closed again.

An old woman stood there waiting. Motionless as a statue, her wrinkled
features set, her eyes full of a pain and bitterness that crushed him
like a burden.

For a while neither moved. The woman's face seemed to fade away into
the gloom, but the look in her eyes was there still. A sudden tremor,
and Olof saw no more, but felt a warm flood welling from beneath his
eyelids.

Without a word she turned, and went down the steps. Olof followed her.

With bowed head, and arms hanging loosely at her side, she walked on.
The last brief hour seemed to have aged her beyond all knowing.