Jerusalem / öf, Selma, 1858-1940

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Translated by Velma Swanston Howard


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Title: Jerusalem


Author: Selma Lagerloef

Translator: Velma Swanston Howard

Release Date: May 16, 2005  [eBook #15837]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)


***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JERUSALEM***


E-text prepared by Nicole Apostola



JERUSALEM

A Novel

From the Swedish of

SELMA LAGERLOEF

Translated by VELMA SWANSTON HOWARD

With an Introduction by

HENRY GODDARD LEACH







CONTENTS

Introduction

BOOK ONE

   The Ingmarssons

BOOK TWO

   At the Schoolmaster's
   "And They Saw Heaven Open"
   Karin, Daughter of Ingmar
   In Zion
   The Wild Hunt
   Hellgum
   The New Way

BOOK THREE

   The Loss of "L'Univers"
   Hellgum's Letter
   The Big Log
   The Ingmar Farm
   Hoek Matts Ericsson
   The Auction
   Gertrude
   The Dean's Widow
   The Departure of the Pilgrims





INTRODUCTION

As yet the only woman winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, the
prize awarded to Kipling, Maeterlinck, and Hauptmann, is the
Swedish author of this book, "Jerusalem." The Swedish Academy, in
recognizing Miss Selma Lagerloef, declared that they did so "for
reason of the noble idealism, the wealth of imagination, the
soulful quality of style, which characterize her works." Five years
later, in 1914, that august body elected Doctor Lagerloef into their
fellowship, and she is thus the only woman among those eighteen
"immortals."

What is the secret of the power that has made Miss Lagerloef an
author acknowledged not alone as a classic in the schools but also
as the most popular and generally beloved writer in Scandinavia?
She entered Swedish literature at a period when the cold gray star
of realism was in the ascendant, when the trenchant pen of
Strindberg had swept away the cobwebs of unreality, and people were
accustomed to plays and novels almost brutal in their frankness.
Wrapped in the mantle of a latter-day romanticism, her soul filled
with idealism, on the one hand she transformed the crisp
actualities of human experience by throwing about them the glamour
of the unknown, and on the other hand gave to the unreal--to folk
tale and fairy lore and local superstition--the effectiveness of
convincing fact. "Selma Lagerloef," says the Swedish composer,
Hugo Alfven, "is like sitting in the dusk of a Spanish cathedral ...
afterward one does not know whether what he has seen was dream or
reality, but certainly he has been on holy ground." The average
mind, whether Swedish or Anglo-Saxon, soon wearies of heartless
preciseness in literature and welcomes an idealism as wholesome as
that of Miss Lagerloef. Furthermore, the Swedish authoress attracts
her readers by a diction unique unto herself, as singular as the
English sentences of Charles Lamb. Her style may be described as
prose rhapsody held in restraint, at times passionately breaking
its bonds.

Miss Lagerloef has not been without her share of life's perplexities
and of contact with her fellowmen, it is by intuition that she
_works_ rather than by experience. Otherwise, she could not have
depicted in her books such a multitude of characters from all parts
of Europe. She sees character with woman's warm and delicate
sympathy and with the clear vision of childhood. "Selma Lagerloef,"
declared the Swedish critic, Oscar Levertin, "has the eyes of a
child and the heart of a child." This naivete is responsible for
the simplicity of her character types. Deep and sure they may be,
but never too complex for the reader to comprehend. The more varied
characters--as the critic Johan Mortensen has pointed out--like
Hellgum, the mystic in "Jerusalem," are merely indicated and
shadowy. How unlike Ibsen! Selma Lagerloef takes her delight, not in
developing the psychology of the unusual, but in analyzing the
motives and emotions of the normal mind. This accounts for the
comforting feeling of satisfaction and familiarity which comes over
one reading the chronicles of events so exceptionable as those
which occur in "Jerusalem."

In one of her books, "The Wonderful Adventures of Nils," Miss
Lagerloef has sketched the national character of mart Swedish people
in reference to the various landscapes visited by the wild goose in
its flight. In another romance, "Goesta Berling," she has interpreted
the life of the province at Vermland, where she herself was born
on a farmstead in 1858. A love of starlight, violins, and dancing,
a temperament easily provoked to a laughing abandon of life's
tragedy characterizes the folk of Vermland and the impecunious
gentry who live in its modest manor halls. It is a different folk
to whom one is introduced in "Jerusalem," the people of Dalecarlia,
the province of Miss Lagerloef's adopted home. They, too, have their
dancing festivals at Midsummer Eve, and their dress is the most
gorgeous in Sweden, but one thinks of them rather as a serious and
solid community given to the plow and conservative habits of
thought. They were good Catholics once; now they are stalwart
defenders of Lutheranism, a community not easily persuaded but,
once aroused, resolute to act and carry through to the uttermost.
One thinks of them as the people who at first gave a deaf ear to
Gustaf Vasa's appeal to drive out the Danes, but who eventually
followed him shoulder to shoulder through the very gates of
Stockholm, to help him lay the foundations of modern Sweden. Titles
of nobility have never prospered in Dalecarlia; these stalwart
landed peasants are a nobility unto themselves. The Swedish people
regard their Dalecarlians as a reserve upon whom to draw in times
of crisis.

"Jerusalem" begins with the history of a wealthy and powerful
farmer family, the Ingmarssons of Ingmar Farm, and develops to
include the whole parish life with its varied farmer types, its
pastor, schoolmaster, shopkeeper, and innkeeper. The romance
portrays the religious revival introduced by a practical mystic
from Chicago which leads many families to sell their ancestral
homesteads and--in the last chapter of this volume--to emigrate in
a body to the Holy Land.

Truth is stranger than fiction. "Jerusalem" is founded upon the
historic event of a religious pilgrimage from Dalecarlia in the
last century. The writer of this introduction had opportunity to
confirm this fact some years ago when he visited the parish in
question, and saw the abandoned farmsteads as well as homes to
which some of the Jerusalem-farers had returned. And more than
this, I had an experience of my own which seemed to reflect this
spirit of religious ecstasy. On my way to the inn toward midnight
I met a cyclist wearing a blue jersey, and on the breast, instead
of a college letter, was woven a yellow cross. On meeting me the
cyclist dismounted and insisted on shouting me the way. When we
came to the inn I offered him a krona. My guide smiled as though he
was possessed by a beatific vision. "No! I will not take the money,
but the gentleman will buy my bicycle!" As I expressed my
astonishment at this request, he smiled again confidently and
replied. "In a vision last night the Lord appeared unto me and said
that I should meet at midnight a stranger at the cross-roads
speaking an unknown tongue and 'the stranger will buy thy
bicycle!'"

The novel is opened by that favourite device of Selma Lagerloef, the
monologue, through which she pries into the very soul of her
characters, in this case Ingmar, son of Ingmar, of Ingmar Farm.
Ingmar's monologue at the plow is a subtle portrayal of an heroic
battle between the forces of conscience and desire. Although this
prelude may be too subjective and involved to be readily digested
by readers unfamiliar with the Swedish author's method they will
soon follow with intent interest into those pages that describe how
Ingmar met at the prison door the girl for whose infanticide he was
ethically responsible. He brings her back apparently to face
disgrace and to blot the fair scutcheon of the Ingmarssons, but
actually to earn the respect of the whole community voiced in the
declaration of the Dean: "Now, Mother Martha, you can be proud of
Ingmar! It's plain now he belongs to the old stock; so we must
begin to call him '_Big_ Ingmar.'"

In the course of the book we are introduced to two generations of
Ingmars, and their love stories are quite as compelling as the
religious motives of the book. Forever unforgettable is the scene
of the auction where Ingmar's son renounces his beloved Gertrude
and betroths himself to another in order to keep the old estate
from passing out of the hands of the Ingmars. Thus both of these
heroes in our eyes "play yellow." On the other hand they have our
sympathy, and the reader is tossed about by the alternate undertow
of the strong currents which control the conduct of this farming
folk. Sometimes they obey only their own unerring instincts, as in
that vivid situation of the shy, departing suitor when Karin
Ingmarsson suddenly breaks through convention and publicly over the
coffee cups declares herself betrothed. The book is a succession of
these brilliantly portrayed situations that clutch at the
heartstrings--the meetings in the mission house, the reconciliation
scene when Ingmar's battered watch is handed to the man he felt on
his deathbed he had wronged, the dance on the night of the "wild
hunt," the shipwreck, Gertrude's renunciation of her lover for her
religion, the brother who buys the old farmstead so that his
brother's wife may have a home if she should ever return from the
Holy Land. As for the closing pages that describe the departure of
the Jerusalem-farers, they are difficult to read aloud without a
sob and a lump in the throat.

The underlying spiritual action of "Jerusalem" is the conflict of
idealism with that impulse which is deep rooted in the rural
communities of the old world, the love of home and the home soil.
It is a virtue unfortunately too dimly appreciated in restless
America, though felt in some measure in the old communities of
Massachusetts and Virginia, and Quaker homesteads near Philadelphia.
Among the peasant aristocracy of Dalecarlia attachment to the
homestead is life itself. In "Jerusalem" this emotion is pitted on
the one hand against religion, on the other against _love_. Hearts
are broken in the struggle _which_ permits Karin to sacrifice the
Ingmar Farm to obey the inner voice that summons her on her
religious pilgrimage, and _which_ leads her brother, on the other
hand, to abandon the girl of his heart and his life's personal
happiness in order to win back the farm.

The tragic intensity of "Jerusalem" is happily relieved by the
undercurrent of Miss Lagerloef's sympathetic humour. When she has
almost succeeded in transporting us into a state of religious
fervour, we suddenly catch her smile through the lines and realize
that no one more than she feels the futility of fanaticism. The
stupid blunders of humankind do not escape her; neither do they
arouse her contempt. She accepts human nature as it is with a warm
fondness for all its types. We laugh and weep simultaneously at the
children of the departing pilgrims, who cry out in vain: "We don't
want to go to Jerusalem; we want to go home."

To the translator of "Jerusalem," Mrs. Velma Swanston Howard,
author and reader alike must feel indebted. Mrs. Howard has already
received generous praise for her translation of "Nils" and other
works of Selma Lagerloef. Although born in Sweden she has achieved
remarkable mastery of English diction. As a friend of Miss Lagerloef
and an artist she is enabled herself to pass through the temperament
of creation and to reproduce the original in essence as well as
sufficient verisimilitude. Mrs. Howard is no mere artisan
translator. She goes over her page not but a dozen times, and the
result is not a labored performance, but a work of real art in
strong and confident prose.

                             HENRY GODDARD LEACH.
Villa Nova, Pennsylvania.
June 28, 1915.




BOOK ONE



THE INGMARSSONS

I

A young farmer was plowing his field one summer morning. The sun
shone, the grass sparkled with dew, and the air was so light and
bracing that no words can describe it. The horses were frisky from
the morning air, and pulled the plow along as if in play. They were
going at a pace quite different from their usual gait; the man had
fairly to run to keep up with them.

The earth, as it was turned by the plow, lay black, and shone with
moisture and fatness, and the man at the plow was happy in the
thought of soon being able to sow his rye. "Why is it that I feel
so discouraged at times and think life so hard?" he wondered. "What
more does one want than sunshine and fair weather to be as happy as
a child of Heaven?"

A long and rather broad valley, with stretches of green and yellow
grain fields, with mowed clover meadows, potato patches in flower,
and little fields of flax with their tiny blue flowers, above which
fluttered great swarms of white butterflies--this was the setting.
At the very heart of the valley, as if to complete the picture, lay
a big old-fashioned farmstead, with many gray outhouses and a large
red dwelling-house. At the gables stood two tall, spreading pear
trees; at the gate were a couple of young birches; in the
grass-covered yard were great piles of firewood; and behind the
barn were several huge haystacks. The farmhouse rising above the
low fields was as pretty a sight as a ship, with masts and sails,
towering above the broad surface of the sea.

The man at the plow was thinking: "What a farm you've got! Many
well-timbered houses, fine cattle and horses, and servants who are
as good as gold. At least you are as well-to-do as any one in these
parts, so you'll never have to face poverty.

"But it's not poverty that I fear," he said, as if in answer to his
own thought. "I should be satisfied were I only as good a man as my
father or my father's father. What could have put such silly
nonsense into your head?" he wondered. "And a moment ago you were
feeling so happy. Ponder well this one thing: in father's time all
the neighbours were guided by him in all their undertakings. The
morning he began haymaking they did likewise and the day we started
in to plow our fallow field at the Ingmar Farm, plows were put in
the earth the length and breadth of the valley. Yet here I've been
plowing now for two hours and more without any one having so much
as ground a plowshare.

"I believe I have managed this farm as well as any one who has
borne the name of Ingmar Ingmarsson," he mused. "I can get more for
my hay than father ever got for his, and I'm not satisfied to let
the weed-choked ditches which crossed the farm in his time remain.
What's more, no one can say that I misuse the woodlands as he did
by converting them into burn-beaten land.

"There are times when all this seems hard to bear," said the young
man. "I can't always take it as lightly as I do to-day. When father
and grandfather lived, folks used to say that the Ingmarssons had
been on earth such a long time that they must know what was
pleasing to our Lord. Therefore the people fairly begged them to
rule over the parish. They appointed both parson and sexton; they
determined when the river should be dredged, and where gaols should
be built. But me no one consults, nor have I a say in anything.

"It's wonderful, all the same, that troubles can be so easily borne
on a morning like this. I could almost laugh at them. And still I
fear that matters will be worse than ever for me in the fall. If I
should do what I'm now thinking of doing, neither the parson nor
the judge will shake hands with me when we meet at the church on a
Sunday, which is something they have always done up to the present.
I could never hope to be made a guardian of the poor, nor could I
even think of becoming a churchwarden."

Thinking is never so easy as when one follows a plow up a furrow
and down a furrow. You are quite alone, and there is nothing to
distract you but the crows hopping about picking up worms. The
thoughts seemed to come to the man as readily as if some one had
whispered them into his ear. Only on rare occasions had he been
able to think as quickly and clearly as on that day, and the
thought of it gladdened and encouraged him. It occurred to him that
he was giving himself needless anxiety; that no one expected him to
plunge headlong into misery. He thought that if his father were
only living now, he would ask his advice in this matter, as he had
always done in the old days when grave questions had come up.

"If I only knew the way, I'd go to him," he said, quite pleased at
the idea. "I wonder what big Ingmar would say if some fine day I
should come wandering up to him? I fancy him settled on a big farm,
with many fields and meadows, a large house and barns galore, with
lots of red cattle and not a black or spotted beast among them,
just exactly as he wanted it when he was on earth. Then as I step
into the farmhouse--"

The plowman suddenly stopped in the middle of a furrow and glanced
up, laughing. These thoughts seemed to amuse him greatly, and he
was so carried away by them that he hardly knew whether or not he
was still upon earth. It seemed to him that in a twinkling he had
been lifted all the way up to his old father in heaven.

"And now as I come into the living-room," he went on, "I see many
peasants seated on benches along the walls. All have sandy hair,
white eyebrows, and thick underlips. They are all of them as like
father as one pea is like another. At the sight of so many people I
become shy and linger at the door. Father sits at the head of the
table, and the instant he sees me he says; 'Welcome, little Ingmar
Ingmarsson!' Then father gets up and comes over to me. 'I'd like to
have a word with you, father,' I say, 'but there are so many
strangers here.' 'Oh, these are only relatives!' says father. 'All
these men have lived at the Ingmar Farm, and the oldest among them
is from way back in heathen times.' 'But I want to speak to you in
private,' I say.

"Then father looks round and wonders whether he ought to step into
the next room, but since it's just I he walks out into the kitchen
instead. There he seats himself in the fireplace, while I sit down
on the chopping block.

"'You've got a fine farm here, father,' I say. 'It's not so bad,'
says father, 'but how's everything back home?' 'Oh, everything is
all right there; last year we got twelve kroner for a ton of hay.'
'What!' says father. 'Are you here to poke fun at me, little
Ingmar?'

"'But with me everything goes wrong' I say. 'They forever telling
me that you were as wise as our Lord himself, but no one cares a
straw for me.' 'Aren't you one of the district councillors?' the
old man asks. 'I'm not on the School Board, or in the vestry, nor
am I a councillor.' 'What have you done that's wrong, little
Ingmar?' 'Well, they say that he who would direct the affairs of
others, first show that he can manage his own properly.'

"Then I seem to see the old man lower his eyes and sit pondering.
In a little while he says: 'Ingmar, you ought to marry some nice
girl who will make you a good wife.' 'But that's exactly what I
can't do, father,' I reply. 'There is not a farmer in the parish,
even among the poor and lowly, who would give me his daughter.'
'Now tell me straight out what's back of all this, little Ingmar,'
says father, with such a tender note in his voice.

"'Well, you see, father, four years ago--the same year that I took
over the farm--I was courting Brita of Bergskog.' 'Let me see'--
says father, 'do any of our folks live at Bergskog?' He seems to
have lost all remembrance of how things are down on earth. 'No, but
they are well-to-do people, and you must surely remember that
Brita's father is a member of Parliament?' 'Yes, of course; but you
should have married one of our people, then you would have had a
wife who knew about our old customs and habits.' 'You're right,
father, and I wasn't long finding that out!'

"Now both father and I are silent a moment; then the old man
continues: 'She was good-looking, of course?' 'Yes,' I reply. 'She
had dark hair and bright eyes and rosy cheeks. And she was clever,
too, so that mother was pleased with my choice. All might have
turned out well but, you see, the mistake of it was that she didn't
want me.' 'It's of no consequence what such a slip of a girl wants
or doesn't want.' 'But her parents forced her to say "yes."' 'How
do you know she was forced? It's my candid opinion that she was
glad to get a rich husband like you, Ingmar Ingmarsson.'

"'Oh, no! She was anything but glad. All the same, the banns were
published and the wedding day was fixed. So Brita came down to the
Ingmar Farm to help mother. I say, mother is getting old and
feeble.' 'I see nothing wrong in all that, little Ingmar,' says
father, as if to cheer me up.

"'But that year nothing seemed to thrive on the farm; the potato
crop was a failure, and the cows got sick; so mother I decided it
was best to put off the wedding a year. You see, I thought it
didn't matter so much about the wedding as long as the banns had
been read. But perhaps it was old-fashioned to think that way.'

"'Had you chosen one of our kind she would have exercised
patience,' says father. 'Well, yes,' I say. 'I could see that Brita
didn't like the idea of a postponement; but, you see, I felt that I
couldn't afford a wedding just then. There had been the funeral in
the spring, and we didn't want to take the money out of the bank.'
'You did quite right in waiting,' says father. 'But I was a little
afraid that Brita would not care to have the christening come
before the wedding.' 'One must first make sure that one has the
means,' says father.

"'Every day Brita became more and more quiet and strange. I used to
wonder what was wrong with her and fancied she was homesick, for
she had always loved her home and her parents. This will blow over,
I thought, when she gets used to us; she'll soon feel at home on
the Ingmar Farm. I put up with it for a time; then, one day, I
asked mother why Brita was looking so pale and wild eyed. Mother
said it was because she was with child, and she would surely be her
old self again once that was over with. I had a faint suspicion
that Brita was brooding over my putting off the wedding, but I was
afraid to ask her about it. You know, father, you always said that
the year I married, the house was to have a fresh coat of red
paint. That year I simply couldn't afford it. By next year
everything will be all right, I thought then.'"

The plowman walked along, his lips moving all the while. He
actually imagined that he saw before him the face of his father. "I
shall have to lay the whole case before the old man, frankly and
clearly," he remarked to himself, "so he can advise me."

"'Winter had come and gone, yet nothing was changed. I felt at
times that if Brita were to keep on being unhappy I might better
give her up and send her home. However, it was too late to think of
that. Then, one evening, early in May, we discovered that she had
quietly slipped away. We searched for her all through the night,
and in the morning one of the housemaids found her.'

"I find it hard now to continue, and take refuge in silence. Then
father exclaims: 'In God's name, she wasn't dead, was she?' 'No,
not she,' I say, and father notes the tremor in my voice. 'Was the
child born?' asks father. 'Yes,' I reply, 'and she had strangled
it. It was lying dead beside her.' 'But she couldn't have been in
her right mind.' 'Oh, she knew well enough what she vas about!' I
say. 'She did it to get even with me for forcing myself upon her.
Still she would never have done this thing had I married her. She
said she had been thinking that since I did not want my child
honourably born, I should have no child.' Father is dumb with
grief, but by and by he says to me: 'Would you have been glad of
the child, little Ingmar?' 'Yes,' I answer. 'Poor boy! It's a shame
that you should have fallen in with a bad woman! She is in prison,
of course,' says father. 'She was sent up for three years.' 'And
it's because of this that no man will let you marry a daughter of
his?' 'Yes, but I haven't asked anyone, either.' 'And this is why
you have no standing in the parish?' 'They all think it ought not
to have gone that way for Brita. Folks say that if I had been a
sensible man, like yourself, I would have talked to her and found
out what was troubling her.' 'It's not so easy for a man to
understand a bad woman!' says father. 'No, father, Brita was not
bad, but she was a proud one!' 'It comes to the same thing,' says
father.

"Now that father seems to side with me, I say: 'There are many who
think I should have managed it in such a way that no one would have
known but that the child was born dead.' 'Why shouldn't she take
her punishment?' says father. 'They say if this had happened in
your time, you would have made the servant who found her keep her
tongue in her head so that nothing could have leaked out.' 'And in
that case would you have married her?' 'Why then there would have
been no need of my marrying her. I would have sent her back to her
parents in a week or so and the banns annulled, on the grounds that
she was not happy with us.' 'That's all very well, but no one can
expect a young chap like you to have an old man's head on him.'
'The whole parish thinks that I behaved badly toward Brita.' 'She
has done worse in bringing disgrace upon honest folk.' 'But I made
her take me.' 'She ought to be mighty glad of it,' says father.
'But, father, don't you think it is my fault her being in prison?'
'She put herself there, I'm thinking.' Then I get up and say very
slowly: 'So you don't think, father, that I have to do anything for
her when she comes out in the fall?' 'What should you do? Marry
her?' 'That's just what I ought to do.' Father looks at me a
moment, then asks: 'Do you love her?' 'No! She has killed my love.'
Father closes his eyes and begins to meditate. 'You see, father, I
can't get away from this: that I have brought misfortune upon some
one.'

"The old man sits quite still and does not answer.

"'The last time I saw her was in the courtroom. Then she was so
gentle, and longed so for her child. Not one harsh word did she say
against me. She took all the blame to herself. Many in that
courtroom were moved to tears, and the judge himself had to swallow
hard. He didn't give her more than three years, either.'

"But father does not say a word.

"'It will be hard for her when fall comes, and she's sent home.
They won't be glad to have her again at Bergskog. Her folks all
feel that she has brought shame upon them, and they're pretty sure
to let her know it, too! There will be nothing for her but to sit
at home all the while; she won't even dare to go to church. It's
going to be hard for her in every way.'

"But father doesn't answer.

"'It is not such an easy thing for me to marry her! To have a wife
that menservants and maidservants will look down upon is not a
pleasant prospect for a man with a big farmstead. Nor would mother
like it. We never invite people to the house, either to weddings
or funerals.'

"Meanwhile, not a word out of father.

"Of course at the trial I tried to help her as much as I could. I
told the judge that I was entirely to blame, as I took the girl
against her will. I also said that I considered her so innocent of
any wrong that I would marry her then and there, if she could only
think better of me. I said that so the judge would give her a
lighter sentence. Although I've had two letters from her, there's
nothing in them to show any changed feeling toward me. So you see,
father, I'm not obliged to marry her because of that speech.'

"Father sits and ponders, but he doesn't speak.

"'I know that this is simply looking at the thing from the
viewpoint of men, and we Ingmars have always wanted to stand well
in the sight of God. And yet sometimes I think that maybe our Lord
wouldn't like it if we honoured a murderess.'

"And father doesn't utter a sound.

"'Think, father, how one must feel who lets another suffer without
giving a helping hand. I have passed through too much these last
few years not to try to do something for her when she gets out.

"Father sits there immovable.

"Now I can hardly keep back the tears. 'You see, father, I'm a
young man and will lose much if I marry her. Every one seems to
think I've already made a mess of my life; they will think still
worse of me after this!'

"But I can't make father say a word.

"'I have often wondered why it is that we Ingmars have been allowed
to remain on our farm for hundreds of years, while the other farms
have all changed hands. And the thought comes to me that it may be
because the Ingmars have always tried to walk in the ways of God.
We Ingmars need not fear man; we have only to walk in God's ways.'

"Then the old man looks up and says: 'This is a difficult problem,
my son. I guess I'll go in and talk it over with the other Ingmarssons.'

"So father goes back to the living-room, while I remain in the
kitchen. There I sit waiting and waiting, but father does not
return. Then, after hours and hours of this, I get cross and go to
him. 'You must have patience, little Ingmar,' says father. 'This is
a difficult question.' And I see all the old yeomen sitting there
with closed eyes, deep in thought. So I wait and wait and, for
aught I know, must go on waiting."


Smiling, he followed the plow, which was now moving along very
slowly, as if the horses were tired out and could scarcely drag it.
When he came to the end of the furrow he pulled up the plow and
rested. He had become very serious.

"Strange, when you ask anyone's advice you see yourself what is
right. Even while you are asking, you discover all at once what you
hadn't been able to find out in three whole years. Now it shall be
as God wills."

He felt that this thing must be done, but at the same time it
seemed so hard to him that the mere thought of it took away his
courage. "Help me, Lord!" he said.

Ingmar Ingmarsson was, however, not the only person abroad at that
hour. An old man came trudging along the winding path that crossed
the fields. It was not difficult to guess his occupation, for he
carried on his shoulder a long-handled paint brush and was
spattered with red paint from his cap to his shoe tips. He kept
glancing round-about, after the manner of journeymen painters, to
find an unpainted farmhouse or one that needed repainting. He had
seen, here and there, one and another which he thought might answer
his purpose, but he could not seem to fix upon any special one.
Then, finally, from the top of a hillock he caught sight of the big
Ingmar Farm down in the valley. "Great Caesar!" he exclaimed, and
stopped short. "That farmhouse hasn't been painted in a hundred
years. Why, it's black with age, and the barns have never seen a
drop of point. Here there's work enough to keep me busy till fall."

A little farther on he came upon a man plowing. "Why, there's a
farmer who belongs here and knows all about this neighbourhood,"
thought the painter. "He can tell me all I need know about that
homestead yonder." Whereupon he crossed the path into the field,
stepped up to Ingmar, and asked him if he thought the folks living
over there wanted any painting done.

Ingmar Ingmarsson was startled, and stood staring at the man as
though he were a ghost.

"Lord, as I live, it's a painter!" he remarked to himself. "And to
think of his coming just now!" He was so dumbfounded that he could
not answer the man. He distinctly recalled that every time any one
had said to his father: "You ought to have that big, ugly house of
yours painted, Father Ingmar," the old man had always replied that
he would have it done the year Ingmar married.

The painter put the question a second time, and a third, but Ingmar
stood there, dazed, as if he had not understood him.

"Are they ready at last with their answer?" he wondered. "Is this a
message from father to say that he wishes me to marry this year?"

He was so overwhelmed by the thought that he hired the man on the
spot. Then he went on with his plowing, deeply moved and almost
happy.

"You'll see it won't be so very hard to do this now that you know
for certain it is father's wish," he said.



II

A fortnight later Ingmar Ingmarsson stood polishing some harness.
He seemed to be in a bad humour, and found the work rather irksome.
"Were I in our Lord's place," he thought, then put in another rub
or two and beg again: "Were I in our Lord's place, I'd see to it
that a thing was done the instant your mind was made up. I
shouldn't allow folks such a long time to think it over, and ponder
all the obstacles. I shouldn't give them time to polish harness and
paint wagons; I'd take them straight from the plow."

He caught the sound of wagon wheels from the road, and looked out.
He knew at once whose rig it was. "The senator from Bergskog is
coming!" he shouted into the kitchen, where his mother was at work.
Instantly fresh wood was laid on the fire and the coffee mill was
set going.

The senator drove into the yard, where he pulled up without
alighting. "No, I'm not going into the house," he said, "I only
want a word or two with you, Ingmar. I'm rather pressed for time as
I am due at the parish meeting."

"Mother is just making some fresh coffee," said Ingmar.

"Thank you, but I must not be late."

"It's a good while now since you were here, Senator," said Ingmar
pressingly.

Then Ingmar's mother appeared in the doorway, and protested:

"Surely you're not thinking of going without first coming in for a
drop of coffee?"

Ingmar unbuttoned the carriage apron, and the senator began to
move. "Seeing it's Mother Martha herself that commands me I suppose
I shall have to obey," he said.

The senator was a tall man of striking appearance, with a certain
ease of manner. He was of a totally different stamp from Ingmar or
his mother, who were very plain looking, with sleepy faces and
clumsy bodies. But all the same, the senator had a profound respect
for the old family of Ingmars, and would gladly have sacrificed his
own active exterior to be like Ingmar, and to become one of the
Ingmassons. He had always taken Ingmar's part against his own
daughter, so felt rather light of heart at being so well received.

In a while, when Mother Martha had brought the coffee, he began to
state his errand.

"I thought," he said, and cleared his throat. "I thought you had
best be told what we intend to do with Brita." The cup which Mother
Martha held in her hand shook a little, and the teaspoon rattled in
the saucer. Then there was a painful silence. "We have been
thinking that the best thing we could do would be to send her to
America." He made another pause, only to be met by the same ominous
silence. He sighed at the thought of these unresponsive people.
"Her ticket has already been purchased."

"She will come home first, of course," said Ingmar.

"No; what would she be doing there?"

Again Ingmar was silent. He sat with his eyes nearly closed, as if
he were half asleep.

Then Mother Martha took a turn at asking questions. "She'll be
needing clothes, won't she?"

"All that has been attended to; there is a trunk, ready packed, at
Loevberg's place, where we always stop when we come to town."

"Her mother will be there to meet her, I suppose?"

"Well, no. She would like to, but I think it best that they be
spared a meeting."

"Maybe so."

"The ticket and some money are waiting for her at Loevberg's, so
that she will have everything she needs. I felt that Ingmar ought
to know of it, so he won't have this burden on his mind any longer,"
said the senator.

Then Mother Martha kept still, too. Her headkerchief had slipped
back, and she sat gazing down at her apron.

"Ingmar should be looking about for a new wife."

Both mother and son persistently held their peace.

"Mother Martha needs a helper in this big household. Ingmar should
see to it that she has some comfort in her old age." The senator
paused a moment, wondering if they could have heard what he said.
"My wife and I wanted to make everything right again," he declared
finally.

In the meantime, a sense of great relief had come to Ingmar. Brita
was going to America, and he would not have to marry her. After all
a murderess was not to become the mistress of the old Ingmar home.
He had kept still, thinking it was not the thing to show at once
how pleased he was, but now he began to feel that it would be only
right and proper for him to say something.

The senator quietly bided his time. He knew that he had to give
these old-fashioned people time to consider. Presently Ingmar's
mother said:

"Brita has paid her penalty; now it's our turn." By this the old
woman meant that if the senator wanted any help from the
Ingmarssons, in return for his having smoothed the way for them,
they would not withhold it. But Ingmar interpreted her utterance
differently. He gave a start, as if suddenly awakened from sleep.
"What would father say of this?" he wondered. "If I were to lay the
whole matter before him, what would he be likely to say? 'You must
not think that you can make a mockery of God's judgment,' he would
say. 'And don't imagine that He will let it go unpunished if you
allow Brita to shoulder all the blame. If her father wants to cast
her off just to get into your good graces, so that he can borrow
money from you, you must nevertheless follow God's leading, little
Ingmar Ingmarsson.'

"I verily believe the old man is keeping close watch of me in this
matter," he thought. "He must have sent Brita's father here to show
me how mean it is to try to shift everything on to her, poor girl!
I guess he must have noticed that I haven't had any great desire to
take that journey these last few days."

Ingmar got up, poured some brandy into his coffee, and raised the
cup.

"Here's a thank you to the senator for coming here to-day," he
said, and clinked cups with him.



III

Ingmar had been busy all the morning, working around the birches
down by the gate. First he had put up a scaffolding, then he had
bent the tops of the trees toward each other so that they formed an
arch.

"What's all that for?" asked Mother Martha.

"Oh, it suits my fancy to have them grow that way for a change,"
said Ingmar.

Along came the noon hour, and the men folks stopped their work;
after the midday meal the farm hands went out into the yard and lay
down in the grass to sleep. Ingmar Ingmarsson slept, too, but he
was lying in a broad bed in the chamber off the living-room. The
only person not asleep was the old mistress, who sat in the big
room, knitting.

The door to the entrance hall was cautiously opened, and in came an
old woman carrying two large baskets on a yoke. After passing the
time of day, she sat down on a chair by the door and took the lids
off the baskets, one of which was filled with rusks and buns, the
other with newly baked loaves of spiced bread. The housewife at
once went over to the old woman and began to bargain. Ordinarily
she kept a tight fist on the pennies, but she never could resist
a temptation to indulge her weakness for sweets to dip in her coffee.

While selecting her cakes she began to chat with the old woman,
who, like most persons that go from place to place and know many
people, was a ready talker. "Kaisa, you're a sensible person," said
Mother Martha, "and one can rely on you."

"Yes, indeed," said the other. "If I didn't know enough to keep mum
about most of the things I hear, there'd be some fine hair-pulling
matches, I'm thinking!"

"But sometimes you are altogether too close-mouthed, Kaisa."

The old woman looked up; the inference was quite plain to her.

"May the Lord forgive me!" she said tearfully, "but I talked to the
senator's wife at Bergskog when I should have come straight to
you."

"So you have been talking to the senator's wife!" And the emphasis
given to the last two words spoke volumes.

Ingmar had been startled from his sleep by the opening of the
outside door. No one had come in, apparently; still the door stood
ajar. He did not know whether it had sprung open or whether some
one had opened it. Too sleepy to get up, he settled back in bed.
And then he heard talking in the outer room.

"Now tell me, Kaisa, what makes you think that Brita doesn't care
for Ingmar."

"From the very start folks have been saying that her parents made
her take him," returned the old woman, evasively.

"Speak right out, Kaisa, for when I question you, you don't have to
beat about the bush. I guess I'm able to bear anything you may have
to tell me."

"I must say that every time I was at Bergskog Brit always looked as
if she'd been crying. Once, when she and I were alone in the
kitchen, I said to her: 'It's a fine husband you'll be getting,
Brita.' She looked at me as if she thought I was making fun of her.
Then she came at me with this: 'You may well say it, Kaisa. Fine,
indeed!' She said it in such a way that I seemed to see Ingmar
Ingmarsson standing there before my face and eyes, and he's no
beauty! As I've always had a great respect for all the Ingmarssons,
that thought had never before entered my mind. I couldn't help
smiling a little. Then Brita gave me a look and said once more:
'Fine, indeed'' With that she turned on her heel and ran into her
room, crying as if her heart would break. As I was leaving I said
to myself: 'It will all come out right; everything always comes out
right for the Ingmarssons.' I didn't wonder at her parents doing
what they did. If Ingmar Ingmarsson had proposed to a daughter of
mine, I shouldn't have given myself a moment's peace till she said
yes."

Ingmar from his bedroom could hear every word that was spoken.

"Mother is doing this on purpose," he thought. "She's been
wondering about that trip to town to-morrow. Mother fancies I'm
going after Brita, to fetch her home. She doesn't suspect that I'm
too big a coward to do it."

"The next time I saw Brita," the old woman went on, "was after she
had come here to you. I couldn't ask her just then how she liked it
here, seeing the house was full of visitors; but when I had gone a
ways into the grove she came running after me.

"'Kaisa!' she called, 'have you been up at Bergskog lately?'

"'I was there day before yesterday,' I replied.

"'Gracious me! were you there day before yesterday? And I feel as
if I hadn't been at home in years!' It wasn't easy to know just
what to say to her, for she looked as if she couldn't bear the
least little thing and would be ready to cry at whatever I might
say. 'You can surely go home for a visit?' I said. 'No; I don't
think I shall ever go home again.' 'Oh, do go,' I urged. 'It's
beautiful up there now; the woods are full of berries; the bushes
are thick with red whortleberries.' 'Dear me!' she said, her eyes
growing big with surprise, 'are there whortleberries already?'
'Yes, indeed. Surely you can get off a day, just to go home and eat
your fill of berries?' 'No, I hardly think I want to,' she said.
'My going home would make it all the harder to come back to this
place.' 'I've always heard that the Ingmars are the best kind of
folks to be with,' I told her. 'They are honest people.' 'Oh, yes,'
she said, 'they are good in their way.' 'They are the best people
in the parish,' I said, 'and so fair-minded.' 'It is not considered
unfair then to take a wife by force.' 'They are also very wise.'
'But they keep all they know to themselves.' 'Do they never say
anything?' 'No one ever says a word more than what is absolutely
necessary.'

"I was just about to go my way, when it came to me to ask her where
the wedding was going to be held--here or at her home. 'We're
thinking of having it here, where there is plenty of room.' 'Then
see to it that the wedding day isn't put off too long,' I warned.
'We are to be married in a month,' she answered.

"But before Brita and I parted company, it struck me that the
Ingmarssons had had a poor harvest, so I said it was not likely
that they would have a wedding that year. 'In that case I shall
have to jump into the river,' she declared.

"A month later I was told that the wedding had been put off and,
fearing that this would not end well, I went straight to Bergskog
and had a talk with Brita's mother. 'They are certainly making a
stupid blunder down at the Ingmar Farm,' I told her. 'We are
satisfied with their way of doing things,' she said. 'Every day we
thank God that our daughter has been so well provided for.'"

"Mother needn't have given herself all this bother," Ingmar was
thinking, "for no one from this farm is going to fetch Brita. There
was no reason for her being so upset at the sight of the arch: that
is only one of those things a man does so that he can turn to our
Lord and say: 'I wanted to do it. Surely you must see that I meant
to do it.' But doing it is another matter."

"The last time I saw Brita," Kaisa vent on, "was in the middle of
the winter after a big snowfall. I had come to a narrow path in the
wild forest, where it was heavy walking. Soon I came upon some one
who was sitting in the snow, resting. It was Brita. 'Are you all by
yourself up here?' I asked. 'Yes, I'm out for a walk.' she said. I
stood stockstill and stared at her; I couldn't imagine what she was
doing there. 'I'm looking round to see if there are any steep hills
hereabout,' she then said. 'Dear heart! are you thinking of casting
yourself from a cliff?' I gasped, for she looked as if she was
tired of life.

"'Yes,' she said. 'If I could only find a hill that was high and
steep I'd certainly throw myself down.' 'You ought to be ashamed to
talk like that, and you so well cared for.' 'You see, Kaisa, I'm a
bad lot.' 'I'm afraid you are.' 'I am likely to do something
dreadful, therefore I might better be dead.' 'That's only silly
gabble, child.' 'I turned bad as soon as I went to live with those
people.' Then, coming quite close to me, with the wildest look in
her eyes, she shrieked: 'All they think about is how they can
torture me, and I think only of how I can torture them in return.'
'No, no, Brita; they are good people.' 'All they care about is to
bring shame upon me.' 'Have you said so to them?' 'I never speak to
them. I only think and wonder how I'm going to get even with them.
I'm thinking of setting fire to the farm, for I know he loves it.
How I'd like to poison the cows! they are so old and ugly and white
around the eyes that one would think they were related to him.'
'Barking dogs never bite,' I said. 'I've got to do something to
him, or I'll never have any peace of mind.' 'You don't know what
you are saying, child,' I protested. 'What you are thinking of
doing would forever destroy your peace of mind.'

"All at once she began to cry. Then, after a little, she became
very meek and said that she had suffered so from the bad thoughts
that came to her. I then walked home with her and, as we parted
company, she promised me that she would do nothing rash if I would
only keep a close mouth.

"Still I couldn't help thinking that I ought to talk to some one
about this," said Kaisa. "But to whom? I felt kind of backward
about going to big folk like yourselves--"

Just then the bell above the stable rang. The midday rest was over.
Mother Martha suddenly interrupted the old woman: "I say, Kaisa, do
you think things can ever be right again between Ingmar and Brita?"

"What?" gasped the old woman in astonishment.

"I mean, if by chance she were not going to America, do you suppose
she would have him?"

"Well, I should say not!"

"Then you are quite sure she would give him no for an answer."

"Of course she would."

Ingmar sat on the edge of the bed, his legs dangling over the side.

"Now you got just what you needed, Ingmar," he thought; "and now I
guess you'll take that journey to-morrow," he said, pounding the
edge of the bed with his fist. "How can mother think she'll get me
to stay at home by showing me that Brita doesn't like me!"

He kept pounding the side of the bed, as if in thought he were
knocking down something that was resisting him.

"Anyway, I'm going to chance it once more," he decided. "We Ingmars
begin all over again when things go wrong. No man that is a man can
sit back calmly and let a woman fret herself insane over his
conduct."

Never had he felt so keenly his utter defeat, and he was determined
to put himself right.

"I'd be a hell of a man if I couldn't make Brita happy here!" he
said.

He dealt the bedpost a last blow before getting up to go back to
his work.

"As sure as you're born it was Big Ingmar that sent old Kaisa here,
in order to make me tale that trip to the city."



IV

Ingmar Ingmarsson had arrived in the city, and was walking slowly
toward the big prison house, which was beautifully situated on the
crest of a hill overlooking the public park. He did not glance
about him, but went with eyes downcast, dragging himself along with
as much difficulty as though he were some feeble old man. He had
left off his usual picturesque peasant garb on this occasion, and
was wearing a black cloth suit and a starched shirt which he had
already crumpled. He felt very solemn, yet all the while he was
anxious and reluctant.

On coming to the gravelled yard in front of the jail he saw a guard
on duty and asked him if this was not the day that Brita Ericsson
was to be discharged.

"Yes, I think there is a woman coming out to-day," the guard
answered.

"One who has been in for infanticide," Ingmar explained.

"Oh, that one! Yes, she'll be out this forenoon."

Ingmar stationed himself under a tree, to wait. Not for a second
did he take his eyes off the prison gate. "I dare say there are
some among those who have gone in there that haven't fared any too
well," he thought. "I don't want to brag, but maybe there's many a
one on the inside that has suffered less than I who am outside.
Well, I declare, Big Ingmar has brought me here to fetch my bride
from the prison house," he remarked to himself. "But I can't say
that little Ingmar is overpleased at the thought; he would have
liked seeing her pass through a gate of honour instead, with her
mother standing by her side, to give her to the bridegroom. And
then they should have driven to the church in a flower-trimmed
chaise, followed by a big bridal procession, and she should have
sat beside him dressed as a bride, and smiling under her bridal
crown."

The gate opened several times. First, a chaplain come out, then it
was the wife of the governor of the prison, and then some servants
who were going to town. Finally Brita came. When the gate opened he
felt a cramp at the heart. "It is she," he thought. His eyes
dropped. He was as if paralyzed, and could not move. When he had
recovered himself, he looked up; she was then standing on the steps
outside the gate.

She stood there a moment, quite still; she had pushed back her
headshawl and, with eyes that were clear and open, she looked out
across the landscape. The prison stood on high ground, and beyond
the town and the stretches of forest she could see her native
hills.

Suddenly she seemed to be shaken by some unseen force; she covered
her face with her hands and sank down upon the stone step. Ingmar
could hear her sobs from where he stood.

Presently he went over to her, and waited. She was crying so hard
that she seemed deaf to every other sound; and he had to stand
there a long time. At last he said:

"Don't cry like that, Brita!"

She looked up. "O God in Heaven!" she exclaimed, "are you here?"

Instantly all that she had done to him flashed across her mind--and
what it must have cost him to come. With a cry of joy she threw her
arms around his neck and began to sob again.

"How I have longed that you might come!" she said.

Ingmar's heart began to beat faster at the thought of her being so
pleased with him. "Why, Brita, have you really been longing for
me?" he said, quite moved.

"I have wanted so much to ask your forgiveness."

Ingmar drew himself up to his full height and said very coldly:

"There will be plenty of time for that I don't think we ought to
stop here any longer."

"No, this is no place to stop at," she answered meekly.

"I have put up at Loevberg's," he said as they walked along the
road.

"That's where my trunk is."

"I have seen it there," said Ingmar. "It's too big for the back of
the cart, so it will have to be left there till we can send for
it."

Brita stopped and looked up at him. This was the first time he had
intimated that he meant to take her home.

"I had a letter from father to-day. He says that you also think
that I ought to go to America."

"I thought there was no harm in our having a second choice. It
wasn't so certain that you would care to come back with me."

She noticed that he said nothing about wanting her to come, but
maybe it was because he did not wish to force himself upon her a
second time. She grew very reluctant. It couldn't be an enviable
task to take one of her kind to the Ingmar Farm. Then something
seemed to say:

"Tell him that you will go to America; it is the only service you
can render him. Tell him that, tell him that!" urged something
within her. And while this thought was still in her mind she heard
some one say: "I'm afraid that I am not strong enough to go to
America. They tell me that you have to work very hard over there."
It was as if another had spoken, and not she herself.

"So they say," Ingmar said indifferently.

She was ashamed of her weakness and thought of how only that
morning she had told the prison chaplain that she was going out
into the world a new and a better woman. Thoroughly displeased with
herself, she walked silently for some time, wondering how she
should take back her words. But as soon as she tried to speak, she
was held back by the thought that if he still cared for her it
would be the basest kind of ingratitude to repulse him again. "If I
could only read his thoughts!" she said herself.

Presently she stopped and leaned against a wall. "All this noise
and the sight of so many people makes my bead go round," she said.
He put out his hand, which she took; then they went along, hand in
hand. Ingmar was thinking, "Now we look like sweethearts." All the
same he wondered how it would be when he got home, how his mother
and the rest of the folks would take it.

When they came to Loevberg's place, Ingmar said that his horse was
now thoroughly rested, and if she had no objection they might as
well cover the first few stations that day. Then she thought: "Now
is the time to tell him that you won't go. Thank him first, then
tell him that you don't want to go with him." She prayed God that
she might be shown if he had come for her only out of pity. In the
meantime Ingmar had drawn the cart out of the shed. The cart had
been newly painted, the dasher shone, and the cushions had fresh
covering. To the buckboard was attached a little half-withered
bouquet of wild flowers. The sight of the flowers made her stop
and think. Ingmar, meanwhile, had gone back to the stable and
harnessed the horse, and was now leading him out. Then she
discovered another bouquet of the same sort between the harness,
and began to feel that after all he must like her. So it seemed
best not to say anything. Otherwise he might think she was
ungrateful and that she did not understand how big a thing he was
offering her.

For a time they drove along without exchanging a word. Then, in
order to break the silence, she began to question him about various
home matters. With every question he was reminded of some one or
other whose judgment he feared. How so and so will wonder and how
so and so will laugh at me, he thought.

He answered only in monosyllables. Time and again she felt like
begging him to turn back. "He doesn't want me," she thought. "He
doesn't care for me; he is doing this only out of charity."

She soon stopped asking questions. They drove on for miles in deep
silence. When they came to their first stopping place, which was an
inn, there were coffee and hot biscuits in readiness for them; and
on the tray were some more flowers. She knew then that he had
ordered this the day before, when passing. Was that, too, done only
out of kindness and pity? Was he happy yesterday? Was it only to-day
that he had lost heart, after seeing her come out of prison?
To-morrow, when he had forgotten this, perhaps all would be well
again.

Sorrow and remorse had softened Brita: she did not grant to cause
him any more unhappiness. Perhaps, after all, he really--


They stayed at the inn overnight and left early the next morning.
By ten o'clock they were already within sight of their parish
church. As they drove along the road leading to the church it was
thronged with people, and the bells were ringing.

"Why, it's Sunday!" Brita exclaimed, instinctively folding her
hands. She forgot everything else in the thought of going to church
and praising God. She wanted to begin her new life with a service
in the old church.

"I should love to go to church," she said to Ingmar, never thinking
that it might be embarrassing for him be seen there with her. She
was all devotion and gratitude! Ingmar's first impulse was to say
that she couldn't; he felt somehow that he had not the courage to
face the curious glances and gossiping tongues of these people. "It
has got to be met sooner or later," he thought. "Putting it off
won't make it any easier."

He turned and drove in on the church grounds. The service had not
yet started; and many persons were sitting in the grass and on the
stone hedge, watching the people arrive. The instant they saw
Ingmar and Brita they began to nudge each other, and whisper, and
point. Ingmar glanced at Brita. She sat there with clasped hands,
quite unconscious of the things about her. She saw no persons,
apparently, but Ingmar saw them only too well. They came running
after the wagon, and did not wonder at their running or their
stares. They must have thought that their eyes had deceived them.
Of course, they could not believe that he had come to the house of
God with her--the woman who had strangled his child. "This is too
much!" he said. "I can't stand it.

"I think you'd better go inside at once, Brita," he suggested.

"Why, certainly," she answered. To attend service was her only
thought; she had not come there to meet people.

Ingmar took his own time unharnessing and feeding the horse. Many
eyes were fixed upon him, but nobody spoke to him. By the time he
was ready to go into the church, most of the people were already in
their pews, and the opening hymn was being sung. Walking down the
centre isle, he glanced over at the side where the women were
seated. All the pews were filled save one, and in that there was
only one person. He saw at once that it was Brita and knew, of
course, that no one had cared to sit with her. Ingmar went and sat
down beside her. Brita looked up at him in wonderment. She had not
noticed it before, but now she understood why she had the pew to
herself. Then the deep feeling of devotion, which she had but just
experienced, was dispelled by a sense of black despair. "How would
it all end?" she wondered. She should never have come with him.

Her eyes began to fill. To keep from breaking down she took up an
old prayerbook from the shelf in front of her, and opened it. She
kept turning the leaves of both gospels and epistles without being
able to see a word for the tears. Suddenly something bright caught
her eye. It was a bookmark, with a red heart, which lay between the
leaves. She took it out and slipped it toward Ingmar. She saw him
close his big hand over it and steal a glance at it. Shortly
afterward it lay upon the floor. "What is to become of us?" thought
Brita, sobbing behind the prayerbook.

As soon as the preacher had stepped down from the pulpit they went
out. Ingmar hurriedly hitched up the horse, with Brita's help. By
the time the benediction was pronounced and the congregation was
beginning to file out, Brita and Ingmar were already off. Both
seemed to be thinking the same thought: one who has committed such
a crime cannot live among people. The two fell as if they had been
doing penance by appearing at church. "Neither of us will be able
to stand it," they thought.

In the midst of her distress of mind, Brita caught a glimpse of the
Ingmar Farm, and hardly knew it again. It looked so bright and red.
She remembered having heard that the house was to be painted the
year Ingmar married. Before, the wedding had been put off because
he had felt that he could not afford to pay out any money just
then. Now she understood that he had always meant to have everything
right; but the way had been made rather hard for him.

When they arrived at the farm the folks were at dinner. "Here comes
the boss," said one of the men, looking out. Mother Martha got up
from the table, scarcely lifting her heavy eyelids. "Stay where you
are, all of you!" she commanded. "No one need rise from the table."

The old woman walked heavily across the room. Those who turned to
look after her noticed that she had on her best dress, with her
silk shawl across her shoulders, and her silk kerchief on her head,
as if to emphasize her authority. When the horse stopped she was
already at the door.

Ingmar jumped down at once, but Brita kept her seat. He went over
to her side and unfastened the carriage apron.

"Aren't you going to get out?" he said.

"No," she replied, then covering her face with her hands, she burst
into tears.

"I ought never to have come back," she sobbed.

"Oh, do get down!" he urged.

"Let me go back to the city; I'm not good enough for you."

Ingmar thought that maybe she was right about it, but said nothing.
He stood with his hand on the apron, and waited.

"What does she say?" asked Mother Martha from the doorway.

"She says she isn't good enough for us," Ingmar replied, for
Brita's words could scarcely be heard for her sobs.

"What is she crying about?" asked the old woman.

"Because I am such a miserable sinner," said Brita, pressing her
hands to her heart which she thought would break.

"What's that?" the old woman asked once more.

"She says she is such a miserable sinner," Ingmar repeated.

When Brita heard him repeat her words in a cold and indifferent
tone, the truth suddenly flashed upon her. No, he could never have
stood there and repeated those words to his mother had he been fond
of her, or had there been a spark of love in his heart for her.

"Why doesn't she get down?" the old woman then asked.

Suppressing her sobs, Brita spoke up: "Because I don't want to
bring misfortune upon Ingmar."

"I think she is quite right," said the old mistress. "Let her go,
little Ingmar! You may as well know that otherwise I'll be the one
to leave: for I'll not sleep one night under the same roof with the
likes of her."

"For God's sake let me go!" Brita moaned.

Ingmar ripped out an oath, turned the horse, and sprang into the
cart. He was sick and tired of all this and could not stand any
more of it.

Out on the highway they kept meeting church people. This annoyed
Ingmar. Suddenly he turned the horse and drove in on a narrow
forest road.

As he turned some one called to him. He glanced back. It was the
postman with a letter for him. He took the letter, thrust it into
his pocket, and drove on.

As soon as he felt sure that he could not be seen from the road, he
slowed down and brought out the letter. Instantly Brita put her
hand on his arm. "Don't read it!" she begged.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Never mind reading it; it's nothing."

"But how can you know?"

"It's a letter from me."

"Then tell me yourself what's in it."

"No, I can't tell you that."

He looked hard at her. She turned scarlet, her eyes growing wild
with alarm. "I guess I will read that letter anyway," said Ingmar,
and began to tear open the envelope.

"O Heavenly Father!" she cried, "am I then to be spared nothing?
Ingmar," she implored, "read it in a day or two--when I am on my
way to America."

By that time he had already opened the letter and was scanning it.
She put her hand over the paper. "Listen to me, Ingmar!" she said.
"It was the chaplain who got me to write that letter, and he
promised not to send it till I was on board the steamer. Instead he
sent it off too soon. You have no right to read it yet; wait till
I'm gone, Ingmar."

Ingmar gave her an angry look and jumped out of the wagon, so that
he might read the letter in peace. Brita was as much excited now as
she had been in the old days, when things did not go her way.

"What I say in that letter isn't true. The chaplain talked me into
writing it. I _don't_ love you, Ingmar."

He looked up from the paper and gazed at her in astonishment. Then
she grew silent, and the lessons in humility which she had learned
in prison profited her now. After all she suffered no greater
embarrassment than she deserved.

Ingmar, meanwhile, stood puzzling over the letter. Suddenly, with
an impatient snarl, he crumpled it up.

"I can't make this out!" he said, stamping his foot. "My head's all
in a muddle."

He went up to Brita and gripped her by the arm.

"Does it really say in the letter that you care for me?" His tone
was shockingly brutal, and the look of him was terrible.

Brita was silent.

"Does the letter say that you care for me?" he repeated savagely.

"Yes," she answered faintly.

Then his face became horribly distorted. He shook her arm and
thrust it from him. "How you can lie!" he said, with a hoarse and
angry laugh. "How you can lie!"

"God knows I have prayed night and day that I might see you again
before I go!" she solemnly avowed.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to America, of course."

"The hell you are!"

Ingmar was beside himself. He staggered a few steps into the woods
and cast himself upon the ground. And now it was his turn to weep!

Brita followed him and sat down beside him, she was so happy that
she wanted to shout.

"Ingmar, little Ingmar!" she said, calling him by his pet name.

"But you think I'm so ugly!" he returned.

"Of course I do."

Ingmar pushed her hand away.

"Now let me tell you something," said Brita.

"Tell away."

"Do you remember what you said in court three years ago?"

"I do."

"That if I could only get to think differently of you, you would
marry me?"

"Yes, I remember."

"It was after that I began to care for you. I had never imagined
that any mortal could say such a thing. It seemed almost
unbelievable your saying it to me, after all I had done to you. As
I saw you that day, I thought you better looking than all the
others, and you were wiser than any of them, and the only one with
whom it would be good to share one's life. I fell so deeply in love
with you that it seemed as if you belonged to me, and I to you. At
first I took it for granted that you would come and fetch me, but
later I hardly dared think it."

Ingmar raised his head. "Then why didn't you write?" he asked.

"But I did write."

"Asking me to forgive you, as if that were anything to write
about!"

"What should I have written?"

"About the other thing."

"How would I have dared--I?"

"I came mighty near not coming at all."

"But Ingmar! do you suppose I could have written love letters to
you after all I had done! My last day in prison I wrote to you
because the chaplain said I must. When I gave him the letter, he
promised not to send it until I was well on my way."

Ingmar took her hand and flattened it against the earth, then
slapped it.

"I could beat you!" he said.

"You may do with me what you will, Ingmar."

He looked up into her face, upon which suffering had wrought a new
kind of beauty. "And I came so near letting you go!" he sighed.

"You just had to come, I suppose."

"Let me tell you that I didn't care for you."

"I don't wonder at that."

"I felt relieved when I heard that you were to be sent to America."

"Yes, father wrote me that you were pleased."

"Whenever I looked at mother, I felt somehow that I couldn't ask
her to accept a daughter-in-law like you."

"No, it would never do, Ingmar."

"I've had to put up with a lot on your account; no one would notice
me because of my treatment of you."

"Now you are doing what you threatened to do," said Brita. "You're
striking me."

"I can't begin to tell you how mad I am at you."

She kept still.

"When I think of all I've had to stand these last few weeks--" he
went on.

"But Ingmar--"

"Oh, I'm not angry about that, but at the thought of how near I
came to letting you go!"

"Didn't you love me, Ingmar?"

"No, indeed."

"Not during the whole journey home?"

"No, not for a second! I was just put out with you."

"When did you change?"

"When I got your letter."

"I saw that your love was over; that was why I did not want you to
know that mine was but just beginning."

Ingmar chuckled.

"What amuses you, Ingmar?"

"I'm thinking of how we sneaked out of church, and of the kind of
welcome we got at the Ingmar Farm."

"And you can laugh at that?"

"Why not as well laugh? I suppose we'll have to take to the road,
like tramps. Wonder what father would say to that?"

"You may laugh, Ingmar, but this can't be; it can't be."

"I think it can, for now I don't care a damn about anything or
anybody but you!"

Brita was ready to cry, but he just made her tell him again and
again how often she had thought of him, and how much she had longed
for him. Little by little he became as quiet as a child listening
to a lullaby. It was all so different from what Brita had expected.
She had thought of talking to him about her crime, if he came for
her, and the weight of it. She would have liked to tell either him
or her mother, or whoever had come for her, how unworthy she was
of them. But not a word of this had she been allowed to speak.

Presently he said very gently:

"There is something you want to tell me?"

"Yes."

"And you are thinking about it all the time?"

"Day and night!"

"And it gets sort of mixed in with everything?"

"That's true."

"Now tell me about it, so there will be two instead of one to bear
it."

He sat looking into her eyes; they were like the eyes of a poor,
hunted fawn. But as she spoke they became calmer.

"Now you feel better," he said when she had finished.

"I feel as if a great weight had been lifted from my heart."

"That is because we are two to bear it. Now, perhaps, you won't
want to go away."

"Indeed I should love to stay!" she said.

"Then let us go home," said Ingmar, rising.

"No, I'm afraid!"

"Mother is not so terrible," lie laughed, "when she sees that one
has a mind of one's own."

"No, Ingmar, I could never turn her out of her home. I have no
choice but to go to America."

"I'm going to tell you something," said Ingmar, with a mysterious
smile. "You needn't be the least bit afraid, for there is some one
who will help us."

"Who is it?"

"It's father. He'll see to it that everything comes out right."

There was some one coming along the forest road. It was Kaisa. But
as she was not bearing the familiar yoke, with the baskets, they
hardly knew her at first.

"Good-day to you!" greeted Ingmar and Brita, and the old woman came
up and shook hands with them.

"Well, I declare, here you sit, and all the folks from the farm out
looking for you! You were in such a hurry to get out of church,"
the old woman went on, "that I never got to meet you at all. So I
went down to the farm to pay my respects to Brita. When I got there
who should I see but the Dean, and he was in the house calling
Mother Martha at the top of his lungs before I even had a chance to
say 'how d'ye do.' And before he had so much as shaken hands with
her, he was crying out: 'Now, Mother Martha, you can be proud of
Ingmar! It's plain now that he belongs to the old stock; so we must
begin to call him _Big_ Ingmar.'

"Mother Martha, as you know, never says very much; she just stood
there tying knots in her shawl. 'What's this you're telling me?'
she said finally. 'He has brought Brita home,' the Dean explained,
'and, believe me, Mother Martha, he will be honoured and respected
for it as long as he lives.' 'You don't tell me,' said the old
lady. 'I could hardly go on with the service when I saw them
sitting in church; it was a better sermon than any I could ever
preach. Ingmar will be a credit to us all, as his father before him
was.' 'The Dean brings us great news,' said Mother Martha. 'Isn't
he home yet?" asked the Dean. 'No, he is not at home; but they may
have stopped at Bergskog first.'"

"Did mother really say that?" cried Ingmar.

"Why, of course she did; and while we sat waiting for you to
appear, she sent out one messenger after the other to look for
you."

Kaisa kept up a steady stream of talk, but Ingmar no longer heard
what she said. His thoughts were far away. "I come into the living-room,
where father sits with all the old Ingmars. 'Good-day to you, Big
Ingmar Ingmarsson,' says father, rising and coming toward me. 'The
same to you, father,' says I, 'and thank you for your help.' 'Now
you'll be well married,' says father, 'and then the other matters
will all right themselves.' 'But, father, it could never have
turned out so well if you hadn't stood by me.' 'That was nothing,'
says father. 'All we Ingmars need do is to walk in the ways of
God.'"




BOOK TWO


AT THE SCHOOLMASTER'S

In the early eighties there was no one in the parish where the old
Ingmarsson family lived who would have thought of embracing any new
kind of faith or attending any new form of sacred service. That new
sects had sprung up, here and there, in other Dalecarlian parishes,
and that people went out into rivers and lakes to be immersed in
accordance with the new rites of the Baptists, was known; but folks
only laughed at it all and said: "That sort of thing may suit those
who live at Applebo and in Gagnef, but it can never touch our
parish."

The people of that parish clung to their old customs and habits,
one of which was a regular attendance at church on Sundays; every
one that could go went, even in the severest winter weather. Then,
of all times, it was almost a necessity; with the thermometer at
twenty below zero outside, it would have been beyond human
endurance to sit in the unheated church had it not been packed to
the doors with people.

It could not be said of the parishioners that they turned out in
such great numbers because they had a particularly brilliant pastor
or one who had any special gift for expounding the Scriptures. In
those days folks went to church to praise God and not to be
entertained by fine sermons. On the way home, when fighting against
the cutting wind on an open country road, one thought: "Our Lord
must have noticed that you were at church this cold morning." That
was the main thing. It was no fault of theirs if the preacher had
said nothing more than he had been heard to say every Sunday since
his appointment to the pastorate.

As a matter of fact, the majority seemed perfectly satisfied with
what they got. They knew that what the pastor read to them was the
Word of God, and therefore they found it altogether beautiful. Only
the schoolmaster and one or two of the more intelligent farmers
occasionally said among themselves: "The parson seems to have only
one sermon; he talks of nothing but God's wisdom and God's
government. All that is well enough so long as the Dissenters keep
away. But this stronghold is poorly defended and would fall at the
first attack."

Lay preachers generally passed by this parish. "What's the good of
going there?" they used to say. "Those people don't want to be
awakened." Not only the lay preachers, but even all the "awakened
souls" in the neighbouring parishes looked upon the Ingmarssons and
their fellow-parishioners as great sinners, and whenever they
caught the sound of the bells from their church they would say the
bells were tolling, "Sleep in your sins! Sleep in your sins!"

The whole congregation, old and young alike, were furious when they
learned that people spoke in that way of their bells. They knew
that their folks never forgot to repeat the Lord's Prayer whenever
the church bells rang, and that every evening, at the time of the
Angelus, the menfolk uncovered their heads, the women courtesied,
and everybody stood still about as long as it takes to say an Our
Father. All who have lived in that parish must acknowledge that God
never seemed so mighty and so honoured as on summer evenings, when
scythes were rested, and plows were stopped in the middle of a
furrow, and the seed wagon was halted in the midst of the loading,
simply at the stroke of a bell. It was as if they knew that our
Lord at that moment was hovering over the parish on an evening
cloud--great and powerful and good--breathing His blessing upon the
whole community.

None of your college-bred men had ever taught in that parish. The
schoolmaster was just a plain, old-fashioned farmer, who was
self-taught. He was a capable man who could manage a hundred
children single-handed. For thirty years and more he had been the
only teacher there, and was looked up to by everybody. The
schoolmaster seemed to feel that the spiritual welfare of the
entire congregation rested with him, and was therefore quite
concerned at their having called a parson who was no kind of a
preacher. However, he held his peace as long as it was only a
question of introducing a new form of baptism, and elsewhere at
that; but on learning that there had also been some changes in the
administration of the Holy Communion and that people were beginning
to gather in private homes to partake of the Sacrament, he could no
longer remain passive. Although a poor man himself, he managed to
persuade some of the leading citizens to raise the money to build a
mission house. "You know me," he said to them. "I only want to
preach in order to strengthen people in the old faith. What would
be the natural result if the lay preachers were to come upon us,
with their new baptism and their new Sacrament, if there were no
one to tell the people what was the true doctrine and what the
false?"

The schoolmaster was as well liked by the clergyman as by every one
else. He and the parson were frequently seen strolling together
along the road between the schoolhouse and the parsonage, back and
forth, back and forth, as if they had no end of things to say to
each other. The parson would often drop in at the schoolmaster's of
an evening to sit in the cozy kitchen by an open fire and chat with
the schoolmaster's wife, Mother Stina. At times he came night after
night. He had a dreary time of it at home; his wife was always
ailing, and there was neither order nor comfort in his house.

One winter's evening the schoolmaster and his wife were sitting by
the kitchen fire, talking in earnest whispers, while a little girl
of twelve played by herself in a corner of the room. The little
girl was their daughter, and her name was Gertrude. She was a fair
little lass, with flaxen hair and plump, rosy cheeks, but she did
not have that wise and prematurely old look which one so often sees
in the children of schoolmasters.

The corner in which she sat was her playground. There she had
gathered together a variety of things: bits of coloured glass,
broken teacups and saucers, pebbles from the banks of the river,
little square blocks of wood, and more rubbish of the same sort.

She had been let play in peace all the evening; neither her father
nor her mother had disturbed her. Busy as she was she did not want
to be reminded of lessons and chores. It didn't look as if there
were going to be any extra sums to do for father that night, she
thought.

She had a big work in hand, the little girl back there in her
corner. Nothing less than making a whole parish! She was going to
build up the entire district with both church and schoolhouse; the
river and the bridge were also to be included. Everything had to be
quite complete, of course.

She had already got a good part of it done. The whole wreath of
hills that went round the parish was made up of smaller and larger
stones. In all the crevices she had planted forests of little
spruce twigs, and with two jagged stones she had erected Klack
Mountain and Olaf's Peak on either side of the Dal River. The long
valley in between the mountains had been covered with mould taken
from one of her mother's flowerpots. So far everything was all
right, only she had not been able to make the galley blossom. But
she comforted herself by pretending it was early springtime, before
grass and grain had sprouted.

The broad, beautiful Dal River that flows through the valley she
had managed to lay out effectively with a long and narrow piece of
glass, and the floating bridge connecting both sides of the parish,
had been making on the water this long while. The more distant
farms and settlements were marked off by pieces of red brick.
Farthest north, amid fields and meadows, lay the Ingmar Farm. To
the east was the village of Kolasen, at the foot of the mountain.
At the extreme south, where the river, with rapids and falls,
leaves the valley and rushes under the mountain, was Bergsana
Foundry.

The entire landscape was now ready, with country roads laid out
along the river, sanded and gravelled. Groves had also been set
out, here and there, on the plains and near the cottages. The
little girl had only to cast a glance at her structure of glass and
stone and earth and twigs to see before her the whole parish. And
she thought it all very beautiful.

Time after time she raised her head to call her mother and show her
what she had done, then changed her mind. She had always found it
wiser not to call attention to herself. But the most difficult work
of all was yet to come: the building up of the town on both sides
of the river. It meant much shifting about of stones and bits of
glass. The sheriff's house wanted to crowd out the merchant's shop;
there was no room for the judge's house next door to the doctor's.
There were the church and the parsonage, the drug-store and post-office,
the peasant homesteads, with their barns and outhouses, the inn,
the hunter's lodge, the telegraph station. To remember everything
was no small task!

Finally, the whole town of white and red houses stood embedded in
green. Now there was only one thing left: she had worked hard to
get everything else done so as to begin on the schoolhouse. She
wanted plenty of space for the school, which was to be built on the
riverside, and must have a big yard, with a flagpole right in the
middle of the lawn.

She had saved all her best blocks for the schoolhouse. Now she
wondered how she had best go about it. She wanted it to be just
like their school, with a big classroom on the ground floor and
another upstairs; then there was the kitchen and also the big room
where she and her parents lived. But all that would take a good
while. "They won't leave me in peace long enough," she said to
herself.

Just then footsteps were heard in the entry; some one was stamping
off snow. In a twinkling she went ahead with her building. "Here
comes the parson to chat with father and mother," she thought. Now
she would have the whole evening to herself. And with renewed
courage she began to lay the foundation of a schoolhouse as big as
half the parish.

Her mother, who had also heard the steps in the hall, got up
quickly and drew an old armchair up to the fireplace. Then turning
to her husband, she said: "Shall you tell him about it to-night?"

"Yes," answered the schoolmaster, "as soon as I can get round to
it."

Presently the pastor came in, half frozen and glad to be in a warm
room where he could sit by an open fire. He was very talkative, as
usual. It would be hard to find a more likable man than the parson
when he came in of an evening to chat about all sorts of things,
big and little. He spoke with such ease and assurance of everything
pertaining to this world, that one could scarcely believe that he
and the dull preacher were one and the same person. But if you
happened to speak to him about spiritual things he grew red in the
face, began fishing for words, and never said anything that was
convincing, unless he chanced to mention that "God governs wisely."

When the parson had settled himself comfortably, the schoolmaster
suddenly turned to him and said in a cheery tone:

"Now I must tell you the news: I'm going to build a mission house."

The clergyman became as white as a sheet and sank back in his
chair.

"What are you saying, Storm?" he gasped. "Are they really thinking
of building a mission house here? Then what's to become of me and
the church? Are we to be dispensed with?"

"The church and the pastor will be needed just the same," returned
the schoolmaster with a confident air. "It is my purpose that the
mission house shall promote the welfare of the church. With so many
schisms cropping up all over the country, the church is sorely in
need of help."

"I thought you were my friend, Storm," said the parson, mournfully.
Only a few moments before he had come in confident and happy, and
now all at once his spirit was gone, and he looked as if he were
entirely done for.

The schoolmaster understood quite well why the pastor was so
distressed. He and every one else knew that at one time the
clergyman had been a man of rare promise; but in his student days
he had "gone the pace," so to speak, and, in consequence, had
suffered a stroke. After that he was never the same. Sometimes he
seemed to forget that he was only the ruin of a man; but when
reminded of it, a sense of deep despondency came over him. Now he
sat there as if paralyzed. It was a long time before any one
ventured to speak.

"You mustn't take it like that, Parson," the schoolmaster said at
last, trying to make his voice very soft and low.

"Hush, Storm! I know that I'm not a great preacher; still I
couldn't have believed it possible that you would wish to take the
living from me."

Storm made a gesture of protest, which said, in effect, that
anything of the sort had never entered his mind, but he had not the
courage to put it into words.

The schoolmaster was a man of sixty and, despite all the work and
responsibility which had fallen to his lot, he was still master of
his forces. There was a great contrast between him and the parson.
Storm was one of the biggest men in Dalecarlia. His head was
covered with a mass of black bushy hair, his skin was as dark as
bronze, and his features were strong and clear cut. He looked
singularly powerful beside the pastor, who was a little
narrow-chested, bald-headed man.

The schoolmaster's wife thought that her husband, as the stronger,
ought to give in, and motioned to him to drop the matter. Whatever
of regret he may have felt, there was nothing in his manner to
indicate that he had any idea of relinquishing his project.

Then the schoolmaster began to speak plainly and to the point. He
said he was certain that before long the heretics would invade
their parish; therefore, it was very necessary that they should
have a meeting place where one could talk to the people in a more
informal way than at a regular church service; where one might
choose one's own text, expound the whole Bible, and interpret its
most difficult passages to the people.

His wife again signed to him to keep still. She knew what the
clergyman was thinking while her husband talked. "So I haven't
taught them anything, and I haven't given them any sort of
protection against unbelief? I must be a poor specimen of a pastor
when the schoolmaster in my own parish thinks himself a better
preacher than I."

The schoolmaster, however, did not keep still, but went on talking
of all that must be done to protect the flock from the wolves.

"I haven't seen any wolves," said the pastor.

"But I know they are on their way."

"And you, Storm, are opening the door to them," declared the
minister, rising. The schoolmaster's talk had irritated him. The
blood mounted to his face, and he regained a little of his old
dignity.

"My dear Storm, let us drop the subject," he said. Then turning to
the housewife, he passed some pleasant remark about the last pretty
bride she had dressed. For Mother Stina dressed all the brides in
the parish.

Peasant woman though she was, she understood how it must hurt him
to be so cruelly reminded of his own impotence. She wept from
compassion, and could not answer him for the tears; so the pastor
had to do most of the talking.

Meanwhile, he kept thinking: "Oh, if I only had some of the power
and the capacity of my younger days, I would convince this peasant
at once of the wrong he is doing." With that he turned again to the
schoolmaster:

"Where did you get the money, Storm?" he asked.

"A company has been formed," Storm explained; then he mentioned the
names of several men who had pledged their support, just to show
the parson that they were the kind of people who would harm neither
the church nor its pastor.

"Is Ingmar Ingmarsson in it, too?" the parson exclaimed. The effect
of this was like a deathblow. "And to think that I was as sure of
Ingmar Ingmarsson as I had been of you, Storm!"

He said nothing more about this just then, but instead turned to
Mother Stina and talked to her. He must have seen that she was
crying, but acted as if he had not noticed it. In a little while he
again addressed the schoolmaster.

"Drop it, Storm!" he begged. "Drop it for my sake. You wouldn't
like it if somebody put up another school next to yours."

The schoolmaster sat gazing at the floor and reflected a moment.
Presently he said, almost reluctantly, "I can't, Parson."

For fully ten minutes there was a dead silence. Where upon the
pastor put on his overcoat and cap, and went toward the door.

The whole evening he had been trying to find words with which to
prove to Storm that he was not only doing harm to the pastor with
this undertaking, but he was undermining the parish. Although
thoughts and words kept crowding into his head, he could neither
arrange them into an orderly sequence nor give utterance to them,
because he was a broken man. Walking toward the door, he espied
Gertrude sitting in her corner playing with her blocks and bits of
glass. He stopped and looked at her. Evidently she had not heard a
word of the conversation, for her eyes sparkled with delight and
her cheeks were like fresh-blown roses.

The pastor was startled at the sight of all this innocent happiness
of the child in contrast to his own heart heaviness.

"What are you making?" he asked, and went up to her.

The little girl had got through with her parish long before that;
in fact, she had already pulled it down and started something new.

"If you had only come a minute sooner!" exclaimed the child. "I had
made such a beautiful parish, with both church and schoolhouse--"

"But where is it now?"

"Oh, I've destroyed the parish, and now I'm building a Jerusalem,
and--"

"What?" interrupted the parson. "Have you destroyed the parish in
order to build a Jerusalem?"

"Yes," said Gertrude, "and it was such a fine parish! But we read
about Jerusalem yesterday in school, and now I have pulled down the
parish to build a Jerusalem."

The preacher stood regarding the child. He put his hand to his
forehead and thought a moment, then he said: "It is surely someone
greater than you that speaks through your mouth."

The child's words seemed to him so extraordinarily prophetic that
he kept repeating them to himself, over and over. Gradually his
thoughts drifted back into their old groove, and he began to ponder
the ways of Providence and the means by which He works His will.

Presently he went back to the schoolmaster, his eyes shining with a
new light, and said in his usual cheery tone:

"I'm no longer angry at you, Storm. You are only doing what you
must do. All my life I have been pondering the ways of Providence,
and I can't seem to get any light on them. Nor do I understand this
thing, but I understand that you are doing what you needs must do."



"AND THEY SAW HEAVEN OPEN"

The spring the mission house was built there was a great thaw, and
the Dal River rose to an alarming height. And what quantities of
water that spring brought! It came in showers from the skies; it
came rushing down in streams from the mountainsides, and it welled
out of the earth; water ran in every wheel rut and in every furrow.
All this water found its way to the river, which kept rising higher
and higher, and rolled onward with greater and greater force. It
did not present its usual shiny and placid appearance, but had
turned a dirty brown from all the muddy water that kept flowing in.
The surging stream, filled with logs and cakes of ice, looked
strangely weird and threatening.

At first the grown folks paid no special heed to the spring flood;
only the children ran down to the banks to watch the raging river
and all that it carried along.

But timber and ice floes were not the only things that went
floating by! Presently the stream came driving with washing piers
and bath houses, then with boats and wreckage of bridges.

"It will soon be taking our bridge, too!" the children exclaimed.
They felt a bit uneasy, but were glad at the same time that
something so extraordinary was likely to happen.

Suddenly a huge pine, root and branch, came sailing past, followed
by a white-stemmed aspen tree, its spreading branches thick with
buds which had swelled from being so long in the water. Close upon
the trees came a little hay shed, bottom upward; it was still full
of hay and straw, and floated on its roof like a boat on its keel.

But when things of that sort began to drift past, the grown-ups,
too, bestirred themselves. They realized now that the river had
overflowed its banks somewhere up north, and hurried down to the
shores with poles and boat hooks, to haul up on land buildings and
furniture.

At the northern end of the parish, where the houses were scattered
and people were scarce, Ingmar Ingmarsson alone was standing on the
bank, gazing out at the river. He was then almost sixty, and looked
even older. His face was weatherbeaten and furrowed, his figure
bent; he appeared to be as awkward and helpless as ever. He stood
leaning on a long, heavy boat hook, his dull, sleepy-looking eyes
fixed on the water. The river raged and foamed, arrogantly marching
past with all that it had matched from the shores. It was as if it
were deriding the peasant for his slowness. "Oh, you're not the one
to wrest from me any of the things I'm carrying away!" it seemed to
say.

Ingmar Ingmarsson made no attempt to rescue any of the floating
bridges or boat hulls that passed quite close to the bank. "All
that will be seen to down at the village," he thought. Not for a
second did his gaze wander from the river. He took note of
everything that drifted past. All at once he sighted something
bright and yellow floating on some loosely nailed boards quite a
distance up the river. "Ah, this is what I have been expecting all
along!" he said aloud. At first he could not quite make out what
the yellow was; but for one who knew how little children in
Dalecarlia are dressed it was easy to guess. "Those must be
youngsters who were out on a washing pier playing," he said, "and
hadn't the sense to get back on land before the river took them."

It was not long until the peasant saw that he had guessed rightly.
Now he could distinctly see three little children, in their yellow
homespun frocks and round yellow hats, being carried downstream on
a poorly constructed raft that was being slowly torn apart by the
swift current and the moving ice floes.

The children were still a long way off. Big Ingmar knew there was a
bend in the river where it touched his land. If God in His mercy
would only direct the raft with the children into this current, he
thought, he might be able to get them ashore.

He stood very still, watching the raft. All at once it seemed as if
some one had given it a push; it swung round and headed straight
for the shore. By that time the children were so close that he
could see their frightened little faces and hear their cries. But
they were still too far out to be reached by the boat hook, from
the bank at least; so he hurried down to the water's edge, and
waded into the river.

As he did so, he had a strange sort of feeling that some one was
calling to him to comeback. "You are no longer a young man, Ingmar;
this may prove a perilous business for you!" a voice said to him.

He reflected a moment, wondering whether he had the right to risk
his life. The wife, whom he had once fetched from the prison, had
died during the winter, and since her going his one longing had
been that he might soon follow. But, on the other hand, there was
his son who needed a father's care, for he was only a little lad
and could not look after the farm.

"In any case, it must be as God wills," he said.

Now Big Ingmar was no longer either awkward or slow. As he plunged
into the raging river, he planted his boat hook firmly into the
bottom, so as not to be carried away by the current, and he took
good care to dodge the floating ice and driftwood. When the raft
with the children was quite near, he pressed his feet down in the
river bed, thrust out his boat hook, and got a purchase on it.

"Hold on tight!" he shouted to the children, for just then the raft
made a sudden turn and all its planks creaked. But the wretched
structure held together, and Big Ingmar managed to pull it out of
the strongest current. That done, he let go of it, for he knew that
the raft would now drift shoreward by itself.

Touching bottom with his boat hook again, he turned to go back to
the bank. This time, however, he failed to notice a huge log that
was coming toward him with a rush. It caught him in the side just
below the armpit. It was a terrific blow, for the log was hurled
against him with a violent force that sent him staggering in the
water. Yet he kept a tight grip on the boat hook until he reached
the bank. When he again stood on firm ground, he hardly dared touch
his body, for he felt that his chest had been crushed. Then his
mouth suddenly filled with blood. "It's all up with you, Ingmar!"
he thought, and sank down on the bank, for he could not go a step
farther. The little children whom he had rescued gave the alarm,
and soon people came running down to the bank, and Big Ingmar was
carried home.

The pastor was called in, and he remained at the Ingmar Farm the
whole afternoon. On his way home, he stopped at the schoolmaster's.
He had experienced things in the course of the day which he felt
the need of telling to some one who would understand.

Storm and Mother Stina were deeply grieved, for they had already
heard that Ingmar Ingmarsson was dead. The clergyman, on the other
hand, looked almost radiant as he stepped into the schoolmaster's
kitchen.

Immediately Storm asked the pastor if he had been in time.

"Yes," he said, "but on this occasion I was not needed."

"Weren't you?" said Mother Stina.

"No," answered the pastor with a mysterious smile. "He would have
got on just as well without me. Sometimes it is very hard to sit by
a deathbed," he added.

"It is indeed," nodded the schoolmaster.

"Particularly when the one who is passing from among us happens to
be the best man in your parish."

"Just so."

"But things can also be quite different from what one had imagined."

For a moment the pastor sat quietly gazing into space; his eyes
looked clearer than usual behind the spectacles.

"Have you, Strong, or you, Mother Stina, ever heard of the
wonderful thing that once happened to Big Ingmar when he was a
young man?" he asked.

The schoolmaster said that he had heard many wonderful things about
him.

"Why, of course; but this is the most wonderful of all! I never
knew of it myself until to-day. Big Ingmar had a good friend who
has always lived in a little cabin on his estate," the pastor
continued.

"Yes, I know," said the schoolmaster. "He is also named Ingmar;
folks call him Strong Ingmar by way of distinction."

"True," said the pastor; "his father named him Ingmar in honour of
the master's family. One Saturday evening, at midsummer, when the
nights are almost as light as the days, Big Ingmar and his friend,
Strong Ingmar, after finishing their work, put on their Sunday
clothes and went down to the village in quest of amusement."

The pastor paused a moment, and pondered. "I can imagine that the
night must have been a beautiful one," he went on, "clear and
still--one of those nights when earth and sky seem to exchange
hues, the sky turning a bright green while the earth becomes veiled
in white mists, lending to everything a white or bluish tinge. When
Big Ingmar and Strong Ingmar were crossing the bridge to the
village, it was as if some one had told them to stop and look
upward. They did so. And they saw heaven open! The whole firmament
had been drawn back to right and left, like a pair of curtains, and
the two stood there, hand in hand, and beheld all the glories of
heaven. Have you ever heard anything like it, Mother Stina, or you,
Storm?" said the pastor in awed tones. "Only think of those two
standing on the bridge and seeing heaven open! But what they saw
they have never divulged to a soul. Sometimes they would tell a
child or a kinsman that they had once seen heaven open, but they
never spoke of it to outsiders. But the vision lived in their
memories as their greatest treasure, their Holy of Holies."

The pastor closed his eyes for a moment, and heaved a deep sigh. "I
have never before heard tell of such things." His voice shook a
little as he proceeded. "I only wish I had stood on the bridge with
Big Ingmar and Strong Ingmar, and seen heaven open!

"This morning, immediately after Big Ingmar had been carried home,
he requested that Strong Ingmar be sent for. At once a messenger
was dispatched to the croft to fetch him, only to find that Strong
Ingmar was not at home. He was in the forest somewhere, chopping
firewood, and was not easy to find. Messenger after messenger went
in search of him. In the meantime, Big Ingmar felt very anxious
lest he should not get to see his old friend again in this life.
First the doctor came, then I came, but Strong Ingmar they couldn't
seem to find. Big Ingmar took very little notice of us. He was
sinking fast. 'I shall soon be gone, Parson,' he said to me. 'I
only wish I might see Strong Ingmar before I go.' He was lying on
the broad bed in the little chamber off the living-room. His eyes
were wide open and he seemed to be looking all the while at
something that was far, far away, and which no one else saw. The
three little children he had rescued sat huddled at the foot of his
bed. Whenever his eyes wandered for an instant from that which he
saw in the distance, they rested upon the children, and then his
whole face was wreathed in smiles.

"At last they had succeeded in finding the crofter. Big Ingmar
glanced away from the children with a sigh of relief when he heard
Strong Ingmar's heavy step in the hallway. And when his friend came
over to the bedside, he took his hand and patted it gently, saying:
'Do you remember the time when you and I stood on the bridge and
saw heaven open?' 'As if I could ever forget that night when we two
had a vision of Paradise!' Strong Ingmar responded. Then Big Ingmar
turned toward him, his face beaming as if he had the most glorious
news to impart. 'Now I'm going there,' he said. Then the crofter
bent over him and looked straight into his eyes. 'I shall come
after,' he said. Big Ingmar nodded. 'But you know I cannot come
before your son returns from the pilgrimage.' 'Yes, yes, I know,'
Big Ingmar whispered. Then he drew in a few deep breaths and,
before we knew it, he was gone."

The schoolmaster and his wife thought, with the pastor, that it was
a beautiful death. All three of them sat profoundly silent for a
long while.

"But what could Strong Ingmar have meant," asked Mother Stina
abruptly, "when he spoke of the pilgrimage?"

The pastor looked up, somewhat perplexed. "I don't know," he
replied. "Big Ingmar died just after that was said, and I have not
had time to ponder it." He fell to thinking, then he spoke kind of
half to himself: "It was a strange sort of thing to say, you're
right about that, Mother Stina."

"You know, of course, that it has been said of Strong Ingmar that
he can see into the future?" she said reflectively.

The pastor sat stroking his forehead in an effort to collect his
thoughts. "The ways of Providence cannot be reasoned out by the
finite mind," he mused. "I cannot fathom them, yet seeking to know
them is the most satisfying thing in all the world."



KARIN, DAUGHTER OF INGMAR

Autumn had come and school was again open. One morning, when the
children were having their recess, the schoolmaster and Gertrude
went into the kitchen and sat down at the table, where Mother Stina
served them with coffee. Before they had finished their cups a
visitor arrived.

The caller was a young peasant named Halvor Halvorsson, who had
lately opened a shop in the village. He came from Tims Farm, and
was familiarly known as Tims Halvor. He was a tall, good-looking
chap who appeared to be somewhat dejected. Mother Stina asked him
also to have some coffee; so he sat down at the table, helped
himself, and began to talk to the schoolmaster.

Mother Stina sat by the window knitting; from where she was seated
she could look down the road. All at once she grew red in the face
and leaned forward to get a better view. Trying to appear
unconcerned, she said with feigned indifference: "The grand folk
seem to be out walking to-day."

Tims Halvor thought he detected a certain something in her tone
that sounded a bit peculiar, and he got up and looked out. He saw a
tall, stoop-shouldered woman and a half-grown boy coming toward the
schoolhouse.

"Unless my eyes deceive me, that's Karin, daughter of Ingmar!" said
Mother Stina.

"It's Karin all right," Tims Halvor confirmed. He said nothing
more, but turned away from the window and glanced around the room,
as if trying to discover some way of escape; but in a moment he
quietly went back to his seat.

The summer before, when Big Ingmar was still alive, Halvor had paid
court to Karin Ingmarsson. The courtship had been a long one, with
many ifs and buts on the part of her family. The old Ingmars were
not quite sure that he was good enough for Karin. It had not been
a question of money, for Halvor was well-to-do; his father,
however, had been addicted to drink, and who could say but that
this failing had been transmitted to the son. However, it was
finally decided that Halvor should have Karin. The wedding day was
fixed and they had asked to have the banns published. But before
the day set for the first reading Karin and Halvor made a journey
to Falun, to purchase the wedding ring and the prayerbook. They
were away for three days, and when they got back Karin told her
father that she could not marry Halvor. She had no fault to find
with him save that on one occasion he had taken a drop too much,
and she feared he might become like his father. Big Ingmar then
said that he would not try to influence her against her better
judgment, so Halvor was dismissed, and the engagement was off.

Halvor took it very much to heart. "You are heaping upon me shame
that will be hard to bear," he said. "What will people think if you
throw me over in this way? It isn't fair to treat a decent man like
that."

But Karin was not to be moved, and ever since Halvor had been
morose and unhappy. He could not forget the injustice that had been
done him by the Ingmarssons. And here sat Halvor, and there came
Karin! What would happen next? This much was certain: a
reconciliation was out of the question. Since the previous autumn
Karin had been married to one Elof Ersson. She and her husband
lived at the Ingmar Farm, which they had been running since the
death of Big Ingmar, in the spring. Big Ingmar had left five
daughters and one son, but the son was too young to take over the
property.

Meanwhile Karin had come in. She was only about two and twenty, but
was one of those women who never look real young. Most people
thought her exceedingly plain, for she favoured her father's family
and had their heavy eyelids, their sandy hair, and hard lines about
the mouth. But the schoolmaster and his wife were pleased to think
that she bore such a striking resemblance to the old Ingmars. When
Karin saw Halvor, her face did not change. She moved about, slowly
and quietly, and greeted each of them in turn; when she offered her
hand to Halvor, he put out his, and they barely touched each other
with the tips of their fingers. Karin always stooped a little and,
as she stood before Halvor, with head bowed, she seemed to be more
bent than usual, while Halvor looked taller and straighter than
ever.

"So Karin has really ventured out to-day?" said Mother Stina,
drawing up the pastor's chair for her.

"Yes," she answered. "It's easy walking now that the frost has set
in."

"There has been a hard frost during the night," the schoolmaster
put in.

This was followed by a dead silence, which lasted several minutes.
Presently Halvor got up, and the others started, as if suddenly
awakened from a sound sleep.

"I must get back to the shop," said Halvor.

"What's your hurry?" asked Mother Stina.

"I hope Halvor isn't going on my account," said Karin meekly.

As soon as Halvor was gone the tension was broken, and the
schoolmaster knew at once what to say. He looked at the lad Karin
had brought with her, and of whom no one had taken any notice
before. He was a little chap who could not have been much older
than Gertrude. He had a fair, soft baby face, yet there was
something about him that made him appear old for his years. It was
easy to tell to what family he belonged.

"I think Karin has brought us a new pupil," said Storm.

"This is my brother," Karin replied. "He is the present Ingmar
Ingmarsson."

"He's rather little for that name," Storm remarked.

"Yes, father died too soon!"

"He did indeed," said the schoolmaster and his wife, both in the
same breath.

"He has been attending the school in Falun," Karin explained.
"That's why he hasn't been here before."

"Aren't you going to let him go back this year, too?"

Karin dropped her eyes and a sigh escaped her. "He has the name of
being a good student," she said, evading his question.

"I'm only afraid that I can't teach him anything. He must know as
much as I do."

"Well, I guess the schoolmaster knows a good deal more than a
little chap like him." Then came another pause, after which Karin
continued: "This is not only the question of his attending school,
but I would also like to ask whether you and Mother Stina would let
the boy come here to live."

The schoolmaster and his wife looked at each other in astonishment,
but neither of them was prepared to answer.

"I fear our quarters are rather close," said Storm, presently.

"I thought that perhaps you might be willing to accept milk and
butter and eggs as part payment."

"As to that--"

"You would be doing me a great service," said the rich peasant
woman.

Mother Stina felt that Karin would never have made this singular
request had there not been some good reason for it; so she promptly
settled the matter.

"Karin need say no more. We will do all that we can for the
Ingmarssons."

"Thank you," said Karin.

The two women talked over what had best be done for Ingmar's
welfare. Meantime, Storm took the boy with him to the classroom,
and gave him a seat next to Gertrude. During the whole of the first
day Ingmar never said a word.

***

Tims Halvor did not go near the schoolhouse again for a week or
more; it was as if he were afraid of again meeting Karin there. But
one morning when it rained in torrents, and there was no likelihood
of any customers coming, he decided to run over and have a chat
with Mother Stina. He was hungry for a heart-to-heart talk with
some kindly and sympathetic person. He had been seized by a
terrible fit of the blues. "I'm no good, and no one has any respect
for me," he murmured, tormenting himself, as he had been in the
habit of doing ever since Karin had thrown him over.

He closed his shop, buttoned his storm coat, and went on his way to
the school, through wind and rain and slush. Halvor was happy to be
back once more in the friendly atmosphere of the schoolhouse, and
was still there when the recess bell rang, and Storm and the two
children came in for their coffee. All three went over to greet
him. He arose to shake hands with the schoolmaster, but when little
Ingmar put out his hand, Halvor was talking so earnestly to Mother
Stina that he seemed not to have noticed the boy. Ingmar remained
standing a moment, then he went up to the table and sat down. He
sighed several times, just as Karin had done the day she was there.

"Halvor has come to show us his new watch," said Mother Stina.

Whereupon Halvor took from his pocket a new silver watch, which he
showed to them. It was a pretty little timepiece, with a flower
design engraved on the case. The schoolmaster opened it, went into
the schoolroom for a magnifying glass, adjusted it to his eye, and
began examining the works. He seemed quite carried away as he
studied the delicate adjustment of the tiny wheels, and said he had
never seen finer workmanship. Finally he gave the watch back to
Halvor, who put it in his pocket, looking neither pleased nor
proud, as folks generally do when you praise their purchases.

Ingmar was silent during the meal, but when he had finished his
coffee, he asked Storm whether he really knew anything about
watches.

"Why, of course," returned the schoolmaster. "Don't you know that I
understand a little of everything?"

Ingmar then brought out a watch which he carried in his vest
pocket. It was a big, round, silver _turnip_ that looked ugly and
clumsy as compared with Halvor's watch. The chain to which it was
attached was also a clumsy contrivance. The case was quite plain
and dented. It was not much of a watch: it had no crystal, and the
enamel on its face was cracked.

"It has stopped," said Storm, putting the watch to his ear.

"Yes, I kn-n-ow," stammered the boy. "I was just wondering if you
didn't think it could be mended."

Storm opened it and found that all the wheels were loose. "You must
have been hammering nails with this watch," he said. "I can't do
anything with it."

"Don't you think that Eric, the clockmaker, could fix it?"

"No, no more than I. You'd better send it to Falun and have new
works put in."

"I thought so," said Ingmar, and took the watch.

"For heaven's sake, what have you been doing with it?" the
schoolmaster exclaimed.

The boy swallowed hard. "It was father's watch," he explained, "and
it got damaged like that when father was struck by the whirling
log."

Now they all grew interested.

With an effort to control his feelings, Ingmar continued: "As you
know, it happened during Holy Week, when I was at home. I was the
first person to reach father when he lay on the bank. I found him
with the watch in his hand. 'Now it's all over with me, Ingmar,' he
said. 'I'm sorry the watch is broken, for I want you to give it,
with my greetings, to some one that I have wronged.' Then he told
me who was to have the watch, and bade me take it along to Falun
and have it repaired before presenting it. But I never went back to
Falun, and now I don't know what to do about it."

The schoolmaster was wondering whether he knew of any one who was
soon going to the city, when Mother Stina turned to the boy:

"Who was to have the watch, Ingmar?" she asked.

"I don't know as I ought to tell," the boy demurred.

"Wasn't it Tims Halvor, who is sitting here?"

"Yes," he whispered.

"Then give Halvor the watch just as it is," said Mother Stina.
"That will please him best."

Ingmar obediently rose, took out the watch and rubbed it in the
sleeve of his coat, to shine it up a bit. Then he went over to
Halvor.

"Father asked me to give you this with his compliments," he said,
holding out the watch.

All this while Halvor had sat there, silent and glum. And when the
boy went over to him, he put his hand up to his eyes, as if he did
not want to look at him. Ingmar stood a long time holding out the
watch; finally, he glanced appealingly at Mother Stina.

"Blessed are the peacemakers," she said.

Then Storm put in a word. "I don't thick you could ask for a better
amend, Halvor," he said. "I've always maintained that if Ingmar
Ingmarsson had lived he would have given you full justice long
before this."

The next they saw was Halvor reaching out for the watch, almost as
if against his will. But the moment he had got it into his hand, he
put it in the inside pocket of his vest.

"There's no fear of any one taking that watch from him," said the
schoolmaster with a laugh, as he saw Halvor carefully buttoning his
coat.

And Halvor laughed, too. Presently he got up, straightened himself,
and drew a deep breath. The colour came into his cheeks, and his
eyes shone with a new-found happiness.

"Now Halvor must feel like a new man," said the schoolmaster's
wife.

Then Halvor put his hand inside his overcoat and drew out his
brand-new watch. Crossing over to Ingmar, who was again seated at
the table, he said: "Since I have taken your father's watch from
you, you must accept this one from me."

He laid the watch on the table and went out, without even saying
good-bye. The rest of the day he tramped the roads and bypaths. A
couple of peasants who had come from a distance to trade with him
hung around outside the shop from noon till evening. But no Tims
Halvor appeared.

***

Elof Ersson, the husband of Karin Ingmarsson, was the son of a
cruel and avaricious peasant, who had always treated him harshly.
As a child he had been half starved, and even after he was grown up
his father kept him under his thumb. He had to toil and slave from
morning till night, and was never allowed any pleasures. He was not
even allowed to attend the country dances like other young folk,
and he got no rest from his work even on Sundays. Nor did Elof
become his own master when he married. He had to live at the Ingmar
Farm and be under the domination of his father-in-law; and also at
the Ingmar Farm hard work and frugality were the rule of the day.
As long as Ingmar Ingmarsson lived Elof seemed quite content with
his lot, toiling and slaving with never so much as a complaint.
Folks used to say that now the Ingmarssons had got a son-in-law
after their own hearts, for Elof Ersson did not know that there was
anything else in life than just toil and drudgery.

But as soon as Big Ingmar was dead and buried, Elof began to drink
and carouse. He made the acquaintance of all the rounders in the
parish, and invited them down to the Farm, and went with them to
dance halls and taverns. He quit work altogether, and drank himself
full every day. In the space of two short months he became a poor
drunken wretch.

The first time Karin saw him in a state of intoxication she was
horrified. "This is God's judgment upon me for my treatment of
Halvor," was the thought that came to her. To the husband she said
very little in the way of rebuke or warning. She soon perceived
that he was like a blasted tree, doomed to wither and decay, and
she could not hope for either help or protection from him.

But Karin's sisters were not so wise as she was. They resented his
escapades, blushed at his ribald songs and coarse jokes, by turns
threatening and admonishing him. And although their brother-in-law
was on the whole rather good-natured, he sometimes got into a rage
and had words with them. Then Karin's only thought was how she
should get her sisters away from the house, that they might escape
the misery in which she herself had to live. In the course of the
summer she managed to marry off the two older girls, and the two
younger ones she sent to America, where they had relatives who were
well-to-do.

All the sisters received their proportion of the inheritance, which
amounted to twenty thousand kroner each. The farm had been left to
Karin, with the understanding that young Ingmar was to take it over
when he became of age.

It seemed remarkable that Karin, who was so awkward and diffident,
should have been able to send so many birds from the nest, find
mates for them, and homes. She arranged it all herself, for she
could get no help whatever from her husband, who had now become
utterly worthless.

Her greatest concern, however, was the little brother--he who was
now Ingmar Ingmarsson. The boy exasperated Karin's husband even
more than the sisters had done. He did it by actions rather than
words. One time he poured out all the corn brandy Elof had brought
home; another time the brother-in-law caught him in the act of
diluting his liquor with water.

When autumn came Karin demanded that the boy be sent back to high
school that year, as in former years, but her husband, who was also
his guardian, would not hear of it.

"Ingmar shall be a farmer, like his father and me and my father,"
said Elof. "What business has he at high school? When the winter
comes, he and I will go into the forest to put up charcoal kilns.
That will be the best kind of schooling for him. When I was his
age, I spent a whole winter working at the kiln."

As Karin could not induce him to alter his mind, she had to make
the best of it and keep Ingmar at home for the time being.

Elof then tried to win the confidence of little Ingmar. Whenever he
went anywhere he always wanted the boy to accompany him. The lad
went, of course, but unwillingly. He did not like to go with him on
his sprees. Then Elof would coax the boy, and vow that he was not
going any farther than the church or the shop. But when once he got
Ingmar in the cart, he would drive off with him, down to the
smithies at Bergsana, or the tavern in Karmsund.

Karin was glad that her husband took the boy along; it was at least
a safeguard against Elof being left in a ditch by the roadside, or
driving the horse to death.

Once, when Elof came home at eight in the morning, Ingmar was
sitting beside him in the cart, fast asleep.

"Come out here and look after the boy!" Elof shouted to Karin, "and
carry him in. The poor brat's as full as a tick, and can't walk a
step."

Karin was so shocked that she almost collapsed. She was obliged to
sit down on the steps for a moment, to recover herself, before she
could lift the boy. The minute she took hold of him she discovered
that he was not really asleep, but stiff from the cold, and
unconscious. Taking the boy in her arms, she carried him into the
bedroom, locked the door after her, and tried to bring him to.
After a while she stepped into the living-room, where Elof sat
eating his breakfast. She walked straight up to him and put her
hand on his shoulder.

"You'd better lay in a good meal while you're about it," she said,
"for if you have made my brother drink himself to death, you'll
soon have to put up with poorer fare than you're getting on the
Ingmar Farm."

"How you talk! As if a little brandy could hurt him!"

"Mark what I say! If the boy dies, you'll get twenty years in
prison, Elof."

When Karin returned to the bedroom, the boy had come out of his
stupor, but was delirious and unable to move hand or foot. He
suffered agonies.

"Do you think I'm going to die, Karin?" he moaned.

"No, dear, of course not," Karin assured him.

"I didn't know what they were giving me."

"Thank God for that!" said Karin fervently.

"If I die, write to my sisters and tell them I didn't know it was
liquor," wailed the boy.

"Yes, dear," soothed Karin.

"Really and truly I didn't know--I swear it!"

All day Ingmar lay in a raging fever. "Please don't tell father
about it!" he raved.

"Father will never know of it," she said.

"But suppose I die, then father would surely find it out, and I
would be shamed before him."

"But it wasn't your fault, child."

"Maybe father will think that I shouldn't have taken what Elof
offered me? Don't you suppose the whole parish must know that I
have been full?" he asked. "What do the hired men say, and what
does old Lisa say, and Strong Ingmar?"

"They're not saying anything," Karin replied.

"You will have to tell them how it happened. We were at the tavern
in Karmsund, where Elof and some of his pals had been drinking the
whole night. I was sitting in a corner on a bench, half asleep,
when Elof came over and roused me. 'Wake up, Ingmar,' he said very
pleasantly, 'and I'll give you something that will make you warm.
Drink this,' he urged, holding a glass to my lips. 'It's only hot
water with a little sugar in it.' I was shivering with the cold
when I awoke and, as I drank the stuff, I only noticed that it was
hot and sweet. But he had gone and mixed something strong with it!
Oh, what will father say?"

Then Karin opened the door leading to the living-room, where Elof
still lingered over his meal. She felt that it would be well for
him to hear this.

"If only father were living, Karin, if only father were living!"

"What then, Ingmar?"

"Don't you think he'd kill him?"

Elof broke into a loud laugh, and when the boy heard him, he turned
so pale with fright that Karin promptly closed the door again.

It had this good effect upon Elof, at all events: he put up no
objection when Karin decided to take the boy to Storm's school.

***

Soon after Halvor had received the watch, his shop was always full
of people. Every farmer in the parish, when in town, would stop at
Halvor's shop in order to hear the story of Big Ingmar's watch. The
peasants in their long white fur coats stood hanging over the
counter by the hour, their solemn, furrowed faces turned toward
Halvor as he talked to them. Sometimes he would take out the watch,
and show them the dented case and the cracked face.

"So it was there the blow caught him," the peasants would say. And
they seemed to see before them what had happened when Big Ingmar
was hurt. "It is a great thing for you, Halvor, to have that
watch!"

When Halvor was showing the watch he would never let it out of his
hands, but would always keep a tight grip on the chain.

One day Halvor stood talking to a group of peasants, telling them
the usual story, and at t