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“It is the torture-chamber of the house,” said Fru Adelheid. “I am certain that many women have wept bitterly in here.”

He half rose in his seat and passed his hand over his forehead.

“I am frightened, Cordt. You want to ill-use me. I can’t do what you wish. Shall we talk somewhere else ... in your room, Cordt?”

“No,” he said. “Our place is here. Here we are bound to be.”

He stood up and sat down again at once. His eyes glittered as he spoke:

“Here they all sat, the men who lived in the house and their wives ... in joy and in sorrow. Their faces look at us from every corner, their words whisper all around.... Can you not hear my great-grandmother’s spinning-wheel?... Do you not hear the spinet singing?”

“Yes, Cordt.”

“Here our words become greater and weightier in the stillness. Here we grow more powerful in our affection and our anger. Whatever we can do we can do here. They knew something, those old, big men and women.”

She rose and stood before him, leaning against the mantel, tall and white: