Part 31 (2/2)

Olof started. It was as if something had come between them, something restless and ill-boding that broke the soft swell of the waves on which they drifted happily--something, he knew not what, that made its presence felt.

”Or--not that perhaps--but to have something of his--something he had given me--to lie beside me in a bed of rags and smile,” said the girl.

And laying her head in his lap she clung to him as if her body had been one with his.

The lamp was lit, and a little fire was burning on the hearth. The girl sat on the floor, as was her way, holding her lover's feet in her lap--wrapped in her ap.r.o.n, as if they were her own.

”Go on working--I won't disturb you,” she said, ”only sit here and warm your feet and look at you.”

Olof gave her a quick, warm glance, and turned to his work again.

”Olof,” said the girl, after a pause, ”what shall I have to hold in my lap when you are gone?”

She looked up at him helplessly, as if he alone could aid her.

Olof made a movement of impatience, as if he had made an error in his reckoning that was hard to put right.

”Nothing, I suppose,” he said at last, trying to speak lightly. ”You had nothing before, you know.”

”Ah, but that was different. Now, I must have something.”

There was a strange ring in her voice--the young man laid down his pen and sat staring into the fire. It was like talking to a child--a queer child, full of feeling, knowing and imagining more than its elders often did. But still and for ever a child, asking simple questions now that were hard to answer without hurt.

The girl watched him anxiously.

”Don't be angry, Olof,” she said entreatingly. ”It's very silly of me, I know. Go on with your work, and don't bother about me. Do--or I shall be so sorry.”

”You are so quick to feel things,” said he, pressing her hand. ”I'll talk to you about it all another time--do you understand?”

”Yes--another time. Don't think any more about it now.”

But the words echoed insistently in his ears, with a hollow ring--as if he had spoken carelessly, to be rid of a child's questioning for the time. He took up his pen again, but could not work, only sat drawing squares and interrogations on the margin of the paper.

The girl moved closer, laid her cheek against his knee, and closed her eyes. But her mind was working still, and the light of a sudden impulse shone in her eyes when she looked up at him.

”Olof,” she asked eagerly, ”are you very busy?”

”No--no. What then?” From the tone of her voice he knew she had something important to say.

”There was just an old story that came into my mind--may I tell it to you, now?”

”Yes, yes, do,” said Olof, with a sense of relief. ”You are the only girl I have ever met who could tell fairy tales--and make them up yourself too.”

”This is not one I made up myself. I heard it long ago,” she answered.

”Well, and how does it begin?” said Olof briskly, taking her hands.

”'Once upon a time...'?”

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