ruth was not dangerous nor lying either. The young men
were not waiting outside her door.

Did she know or did she not know that her eldest daughter had that
very morning left her home and had gone to her father?

***

The sacrifice which Matts Wik had made to save his wife's honor
became known. He was admired; he was derided. His letter was read
aloud at the meeting. Some of those present wept with emotion.
People came and pressed his hands on the street. His daughter moved
to his house.

For several evenings after he was silent at the meetings. He felt
no inspiration. At last they asked him to speak. He mounted the
platform, folded his hands together and began.

When he had said a couple of words he stopped, confused. He did not
recognize his own voice. Where was the lion's roar? Where the
raging north wind? And where the torrent of words? He did not
understand, could not understand.

He staggered back. "I cannot," he muttered. "God gives me no
strength to speak yet." He sat down on a bench and buried his head
in his hands. He gathered all his powers of thought to discover
first what he wanted to talk about. Did he have to consider so in
the old days? Could he consider now? His head whirled.

Perhaps it would go if he should stand up again, place himself
where he was accustomed to stand, and begin with his usual prayer.
He tried. His face turned ashy-gray. All glances were turned
towards him. A cold sweat trickled down his forehead. He found not
a word on his lips.

He sat down in his place and wept, moaning heavily. The gift was
taken from him. He tried to speak, tried silently to himself. What
should he talk about. His sorrow was taken from him. He had nothing
to say to people which he was not allowed to tell them. He had no
secret to disguise. He did not need to romance. Romance left him.

It was the agony of death; it was a struggle for life. He wished to
hold fast that which was already gone. He wished to have his grief
again in order to be able again to speak. His grief was gone; he
could not get it back.

He staggered forward like a drunken man to the platform again and
again: He stammered out a few meaningless words. He repeated like a
lesson learned by heart what he had heard others say. He tried to
imitate himself. He looked for devotion in the glances, for trembling
silence, quickening breaths. He perceived nothing. That which had
been his joy was taken from him.

He sank back into the darkn