He had come straight from the ship to their house, he had said, when he arrived; had walked on day after day, going he knew not whither, asking mile by mile for work.  He did not even know one State’s name from another.  He simply chose to go south rather than north,—­always south, he said.

“Why?”

He did not know.

He was indeed strong.  The sickle was in his hand a plaything, so swift-swung that he seemed to be doing little more than simply striding up and down the field, the grain falling to right and left at his steps.  From sunrise to sunset he worked tirelessly.  The famous Alf had never done so much in a day.  Farmer Weitbreck chuckled as he looked on.

“Vat now you say of dat Alf?” he said triumphantly to John; “vork he as dis man?  Oh, but he make swing de hook!”

John assented unqualifiedly to this praise of Wilhelm’s strength and skill; but nevertheless he shook his head.

“Ay, ay,” he said, “I never saw his equal; but I like him not.  What carries he in his heart to be so sour?  He is like a man bewitched.  I know not if there be such a thing as to be sold to the devil, as the stories say; but if there be, on my word, I think Wilhelm has made some such bargain.  A man could not look worse if he had signed himself away.”

“I see not dat he haf fear in his face,” replied the old man.

“No,” said John, “neither do I see fear.  It is worse than fear.  I would like to see his face come alive with a fear.  He gives me cold shivers like a grave underfoot.  I shall be glad when he is gone.”

Farmer Weitbreck laughed.  He and his son were likely to be again at odds on the subject of a laborer.

“But he vill not go.  I haf said to him to stay till Christmas, maybe always.”

John’s surprise was unbounded.

“To stay!  Till Christmas!” he cried.  “What for?  What do we need of a man in the winter?”

“It is not dat to feed him is much, and all dat he make vid de knife is mine.  It is home he vants, no oder ting; he vork not for money.”

“Father,” said John, earnestly, “there must be something wrong about that man.  I have thought so from the first.  Why should he work for nothing but his board,—­a great strong fellow like that, that could make good day’s wages anywhere?  Don’t keep him after the harvest is over.  I can’t bear the sight of him.”

“Den you can turn de eyes to your head von oder way,” retorted his father.  “I find him goot to see; and,” after a pause, “so do Carlen.”

John started.  “Good heavens, father!” he exclaimed.

“Oh, you need not speak by de heavens, mein son!” rejoined the old man, in a taunting tone.  “I tink I can mine own vay, vidout you to be help.  I was not yesterday born!”