Guldstad [sharply]. What do you mean? Falk. That is not hard to see. For the sound way of building, I suppose, Is just with cash—the wonder-working paint That round the widow's batten'd forehead throws The aureole of a young adored saint. Guldstad. O no, 'tis something better that I meant. 'Tis the still flow of generous esteem, Which no less honours the recipient Than does young rapture's giddy-whirling dream. It is the feeling of the blessedness Of service, and home quiet, and tender ties, The joy of mutual self-sacrifice, Of keeping watch lest any stone distress Her footsteps wheresoe'er her pathway lies; It is the healing arm of a true friend, The manly muscle that no burdens bend, The constancy no length of years decays, The arm that stoutly lifts and firmly stays. This, Svanhild, is the contribution I Bring to your fortune's fabric: now, reply.
[Svanhild makes an effort to speak; Guldstad lifts his hand to check her.
Consider well before you give your voice!
With clear deliberation make your choice.
