nburnt.

Leonarda. You are feeling all right again, then--now?

Aagot. Splendid, aunt! All that is over, now.--I have had a letter from
grandmother.

Leonarda. Was that letter from her that I sent on to you? I could not
make out whom it was from.

Aagot. Yes, it was from her. Here it is. You must hear it.

Leonarda. Yes.

Aagot (reads). "My dear child. I have not written a letter for many
years, so I do not know what this will be like. But Hagbart is away, so
I must tell you myself. Do not be distressed any longer. As soon as you
are married, I will come and live with you." Isn't that glorious, aunt?
(She is trembling with happiness, and throws her arms round LEONARDA'S
neck.)

Leonarda. But--

Aagot. But what? There is no more "but" about it, don't you see! It is
on your account.

Leonarda. On my account? Yes, but--what about you? How do you
stand--with Hagbart?

Aagot. Oh, that?--Well, I will tell you the whole story! I can do that
now.--Oh, don't take it all so seriously, aunt! It really is nothing.
But let us sit down. (Brings forward a seat, as she speaks.) I really
feel as if I wanted to sit down for a little while, too!--Well, you see,
it came upon me like an unexpected attack--a blow from behind, as it
were. Now, my dear aunt, don't look so troubled. It is all over now. As
a matter of fact, the beginning of it all was a play I saw.

Leonarda. A play?

Aagot. We saw it together once, you and I, do you remember? Scribe's
Bataille de Dames.

Leonarda. Yes.

Aagot. And I remember thinking and saying to you: That fellow Henri,
in the play, was a stupid fellow. He had the choice between a
strong-natured, handsome, spirited woman, who was ready to give her life
for him, and a child who was really a stupid little thing--for she was,
it is no use denying it, aunt--and he chose the insignificant little
person. No, I would rather sit down here; I can rest better so. Ah, that
is good! And now you mustn't look me in the face oftener than I want to
let you, because you take it too dreadfully solemnly, and I am going to
tell you something foolish now.--All of a sudden it flashed across my
mind: Good heavens! the woman was--, and the little hussy with the curly
hair was--, and he? But Hagbart is a man of some sense: he had chosen
otherwise! And I did not know; but I realised at the same time that
almost from the first day Hagbart used always to talk to you, and only
to you, and hardly at all to me except to