See, that was something for the steel-spring in her nature. That
was something for her imagination, something for her benumbed
senses. To think what he meant to do when she should come! To
imagine what he would do if she should not come there as a corpse!

They talked of it in the whole town, talked of it and nothing else.
As the cities of ancient times had loved their martyrs, the little
village loved the unhappy Petter Nord; but no one liked to go into
the graveyard and talk to him. He looked wilder each day. The
obscurity of madness sank ever closer about him. "Why does she not
try to get well?" they said of Edith. "It is unjust of her to die."

Edith was almost angry. She who was so tired of life, must she be
compelled to take up the heavy burden again? But nevertheless she
began an honest effort. She felt what a work of repairing and
mending was going on in her body with seething force during these
weeks. And no material was spared. She consumed incredible
quantities of those things which give strength and life, whatever
they may be: malt extract or codliver oil, fresh air or sunshine,
dreams or love.

And what glorious days they were, long, warm, and sunny!

At last she got the doctor's permission to be carried up there. The
whole town was in alarm when she undertook the journey. Would she
come down with a madman? Could the misery of those weeks be blotted
out of his brain? Would the exertions she had made to begin life
again be profitless? And if it were so, how would it go with her?