ountered. It was Humming Pete, of course, who
was said to be a bit queer in his head. Sometimes he used to stay
down in the village, but during the summer he always lived in a mud
cave in the forest.

Then Gertrude recalled to memory what she had heard folks say of
Pete: "Any one wanting to injure an enemy without risking discovery
could avail himself of his services." He was suspected of having
started a number of incendiary fires at the instigation of others.

Gertrude then went up to the man and asked him, half in fun, if he
wouldn't like to set fire to the Ingmar Farm. She wished it done,
she said, because Ingmar Ingmarsson thought more of the farm than
of her.

To her horror, the half-witted dwarf was ready to act on her
suggestion. Nodding gleefully, he started on a run toward the
settlement. She hurried after, but could not seem to overtake him.
Her dress caught in the brushwood, her feet sank in the marsh, and
she stumbled over stony ground. When she was almost out of the
forest, what should she see through the trees but the glow from a
fire. "He has done it, he has set fire to the farm!" she shrieked,
again awakening from the horror of the dream.

Now Gertrude sat up in bed; tears ran down her cheeks. She dared
not sink back on her pillow again for fear of dreaming further.
"Oh, Lord help me, Lord help me!" she cried. "I don't know how much
evil there may be hidden in my heart, but God knows that never once
during all this time have I thought of revenging myself on Ingmar.
O God, let me not fall into this sin!" she prayed. Wringing her
hands in an agony of despair, she cried out:

"Grief is a menace, grief is a menace, grief is a menace!"

It was not very clear to her just what she meant by that; but she
felt somehow that her poor heart was like a ravaged garden, in
which all the flowers had been uprooted, and now Grief, as a
gardener, moved about in there, planting thistles and poisonous
herbs.

The whole forenoon of the following day, Gertrude thought that she
was still dreaming. Her dream had seemed so real that she could not
get it out of her mind. Remembering with what satisfaction she had
plunged the needle into Ingmar's eyes, she shuddered. "How dreadful
that I should have become so cruel and resentful! What shall I do
to rid myself of this? I'm really getting to be a very wicked
person!"

After dinner Gertrude went out to milk the cows. She drew her
kerchief down over her face, as usual, and