When they arrived at the farm the folks were at dinner. "Here comes
the boss," said one of the men, looking out. Mother Martha got up
from the table, scarcely lifting her heavy eyelids. "Stay where you
are, all of you!" she commanded. "No one need rise from the table."

The old woman walked heavily across the room. Those who turned to
look after her noticed that she had on her best dress, with her
silk shawl across her shoulders, and her silk kerchief on her head,
as if to emphasize her authority. When the horse stopped she was
already at the door.

Ingmar jumped down at once, but Brita kept her seat. He went over
to her side and unfastened the carriage apron.

"Aren't you going to get out?" he said.

"No," she replied, then covering her face with her hands, she burst
into tears.

"I ought never to have come back," she sobbed.

"Oh, do get down!" he urged.

"Let me go back to the city; I'm not good enough for you."

Ingmar thought that maybe she was right about it, but said nothing.
He stood with his hand on the apron, and waited.

"What does she say?" asked Mother Martha from the doorway.