All the same, the sight of the horse had awakened many, memories—­and it was the memories that kept him awake.

That horse had been a fine animal.  His father had let him tend it from the start.  He had broken it in and had loved it above everything else.  His father had complained that he used to feed it too well, and often he had been obliged to steal out and smuggle oats to it.

Once, when he ventured to talk with his father about letting him buy a broadcloth suit, or having the cart painted, his father stood as if petrified, and he thought the old man would have a stroke.  He tried to make his father understand that, when he had a fine horse to drive, he should look presentable himself.

The father made no reply, but two days later he took the horse to Oerebro and sold it.

It was cruel of him.  But it was plain that his father had feared that this horse might lead him into vanity and extravagance.  And now, so long afterward, he had to admit that his father was right.  A horse like that surely would have been a temptation.  At first he had grieved terribly over his loss.  Many a time he had gone down to Oerebro, just to stand on a street corner and see the horse pass by, or to steal into the stable and give him a lump of sugar.  He thought:  “If I ever get the farm, the first thing I do will be to buy back my horse.”

Now his father was gone and he himself had been master for two years, but he had not made a move toward buying the horse.  He had not thought of him for ever so long, until to-night.

It was strange that he should have forgotten the beast so entirely!

His father had been a very headstrong, domineering man.  When his son was grown and the two had worked together, the father had gained absolute power over him.  The boy had come to think that everything his father did was right, and, after he became the master, he only tried to do exactly as his father would have done.

He knew, of course, that folk said his father was stingy; but it was well to keep a tight hold on one’s purse and not throw away money needlessly.  The goods one has received should not be wasted.  It was better to live on a debt-free place and be called stingy, than to carry heavy mortgages, like other farm owners.

He had gone so far in his mind when he was called back by a strange sound.  It was as if a shrill, mocking voice were repeating his thoughts:  “It’s better to keep a firm hold on one’s purse and be called stingy, than to be in debt, like other farm owners.”

It sounded as if some one was trying to make sport of his wisdom and he was about to lose his temper, when he realized that it was all a mistake.  The wind was beginning to rage, and he had been standing there getting so sleepy that he mistook the howling of the wind in the chimney for human speech.

He glanced up at the wall clock, which just then struck eleven.

“It’s time that you were in bed,” he remarked to himself.  Then he remembered that he had not yet gone the rounds of the farm yard, as it was his custom to do every night, to make sure that all doors were closed and all lights extinguished.  This was something he had never neglected since he became master.  He drew on his coat and went out in the storm.