you're fond of me, I can't restrain myself. . . . Oh, tell me that you forgive me, say it, say it!"
"My child, if it does you any good to hear me say so, though I have nothing to forgive, very well, I forgive you."
"Oh, thank you, thank you, Auntie! . . . You are good and kind; you understand."
"Yes, dear, I understand. But the real thing will come later."
"No, nothing will ever come, nothing can come . . ."
"Can't it?"
"No, how could it?"
"If you had the strength and courage not to give in, Marianne, there would be happiness for you in days to come."
"But I have neither courage, Auntie, nor strength. What am I? Nothing. There is a great, big river, which rushes and flows, carrying everything, everything with it, like a deluge. And then there is . . . a tiny twig, a leaf. That's what I am, Auntie. . . . How can I hope to . . . ?"
"You're talking in parables, my child. Shall I do the same?"
"Do, Auntie."
"Come and sit here beside me. Put your head on my shoulder. There. And now listen to my parable. . . . There was once a soul, a very small soul, like yours, Marianne. A very small soul it
