Evening is drawing
on, but not dark yet at that season of the year. Poor Barbro--she does
not spare herself, but goes on her errand like another; she is bound
for a place, to commence another struggle there. She has never spared
herself, to tell the truth, never been of a lazy sort, and that is why
she has her neat figure now and pretty shape. Barbro is quick to learn
things, and often to her own undoing; what else could one expect? She
had learned to save herself at a pinch, to slip from one scrape to
another, but keeping all along some better qualities; a child's death
is nothing to her, but she can still give sweets to a child alive.
Then she has a fine musical ear, can strum softly and correctly on a
guitar, singing hoarsely the while; pleasant and slightly mournful
to hear. Spared herself? no; so little, indeed, that she has thrown
herself away altogether, and felt no loss. Now and again she cries,
and breaks her heart over this or that in her life--but that is
only natural, it goes with the songs she sings, 'tis the poetry and
friendly sweetness in her; she had fooled herself and many another
with the same.
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