You've no idea how
the little thing takes to it."
"Oh?"
"And Asta's got another tooth--she had a wretched time, poor thing,
while it was coming through."
It was as if she were drawing the children up to him, to show him that
at least he still had them.
He looked at her for a moment. "Merle, you ought never to have married
me. It would have been better for you and for your people too."
"Oh, nonsense, Peer--you know you'll be able to make it all right
again."
They went up to bed, and undressed slowly. "He hasn't noticed me yet,"
thought Merle.
And she laughed a little, and said, "I was sitting thinking this evening
of the first day we met. I suppose you never think of it now?"
He turned round, half undressed, and looked at her. Her lively tone
fell strangely on his ears. "She does not ask how I have got on, or how
things are going," he thought. But as he went on looking at her he began
at last to see through her smile to the anxious heart beneath.
Ah, yes; he remembered well that far-off summer when life had been a
holiday in the hills, and a girl making coffee over a fire had smiled at
him for the first time. And he remembered the first sun-red night of his
love on the shining lake-mirror, when his heart was filled with the rush
of a great anthem to heaven and earth.
She stood there still. He had her yet. But for the first time in their
lives she came to him now humbly, begging him to make the best of her as
she was.
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