had fallen at that moment, striking them all
three. The mother closed her eyes. Olof was trembling from head
to foot; his brother crouched in his seat, his features stiff with
horror.

"When she came to herself," went on the sick woman in a trembling
voice, "her husband was sitting beside her, with his head in his
hands, his face ashy pale, his eyes bloodshot, and his body trembling
all over as if shivering with cold. The axe had flown straight over
the place where mother and child had been, missing them by an inch,
and stuck fast in the cupboard beyond--it was standing there as it
stands now...."

The woman sighed as if in relief to find the danger past.

Olof grasped her hand eagerly, pressed it, and looked imploringly into
her eyes.

"Yes, yes," she nodded, "he begged forgiveness--and she forgave him.
And they were friends again. And that night he fetched up some putty
from the cellar and filled the hole the axe had made, and painted it
over afterwards. But--you can see where it was...."

Olof rose to his feet and walked over mechanically to the cupboard;
his elder brother sat still on his chair, looking over at the place in
silent horror.

"You can see--it struck just between the two sides, and cut deep into
the edges. It's plain to be seen, for all it's painted over now. As
for the woman...."

She broke off suddenly, her face pale and bloodless, her features
quivering with painful emotion.

"The woman--she forgave him, and never a harsh word between them
after. Folk said they lived so happily together.... But the hurt--the
hurt was there. A woman's heart's not a thing to be healed with any
putty and paint...."

* * * * *

She was silent, but her face was eloquent with feeling still.

Olof went back to his place, took her hand and kissed it again and
again, with tears, as if praying for forgiveness. For the first
time he realised the inner meaning of his mother's nature as he knew
it--the undertone of sadness in her gentle ways. And he could not
free himself from a strange, inexplicable feeling of guilt in himself,
though till that day he had known nothing of her secret.

"And for the man ... well, well, let him rest in peace! 'Twas not from
any thought to soil his memory--but you're grown men now, my sons, and
when you've wives of your own.... Ay, a good man he was in many ways,
a clever worker. And I know he suffered himself for--for the other
thing. He'll be judged