They walked hand in hand toward the cabin.  When they were about half way there, Osa stopped her father and said: 

“Now remember, father, you are not to mention the wooden shoe or the geese or the little brownie who was so like Nils Holgersson that if it was not himself it must have had some connection with him.”

“Certainly not!” said Jon Esserson.  “I shall only say that their son has been of great help to you on several occasions—­when you were trying to find me—­and that therefore we have come to ask if we can’t do them a service in return, since I’m a rich man now and have more than I need, thanks to the mine I discovered up in Lapland.”

“I know, father, that you can say the right thing in the right way,” Osa commended.  “It is only that one particular thing that I don’t wish you to mention.”

They went into the cabin, and the boy would have liked to hear what they talked about in there; but he dared not venture near the house.  It was not long before they came out again, and his father and mother accompanied them as far as the gate.

His parents were strangely happy.  They appeared to have gained a new hold on life.

When the visitors were gone, father and mother lingered at the gate gazing after them.

“I don’t feel unhappy any longer, since I’ve heard so much that is good of our Nils,” said his mother.

“Perhaps he got more praise than he really deserved,” put in his father thoughtfully.

“Wasn’t it enough for you that they came here specially to say they wanted to help us because our Nils had served them in many ways?  I think, father, that you should have accepted their offer.”

“No, mother, I don’t wish to accept money from any one, either as a gift or a loan.  In the first place I want to free myself from all debt, then we will work our way up again.  We’re not so very old, are we, mother?” The father laughed heartily as he said this.

“I believe you think it will be fun to sell this place, upon which we have expended such a lot of time and hard work,” protested the mother.

“Oh, you know why I’m laughing,” the father retorted.  “It was the thought of the boy’s having gone to the bad that weighed me down until I had no strength or courage left in me.  Now that I know he still lives and has turned out well, you’ll see that Holger Nilsson has some grit left.”

The mother went in alone, and the boy made haste to hide in a corner, for his father walked into the stable.  He went over to the horse and examined its hoof, as usual, to try to discover what was wrong with it.

“What’s this!” he cried, discovering some letters scratched on the hoof.

“Remove the sharp piece of iron from the foot,” he read and glanced around inquiringly.  However, he ran his fingers along the under side of the hoof and looked at it carefully.

“I verily believe there is something sharp here!” he said.