Poor Oline; they might have left her something—­single golden gleam in her life!  Oline was not over-blessed with this world’s goods.  Practised in evil—­ay, well used to edging her way by tricks and little meannesses from day to day; strong only as a scandalmonger, as one whose tongue was to be feared; ay, so.  But nothing could have made her worse than before; least of all a pittance left her by the dead.  She had toiled all her life, had borne children, and taught them her own few arts; begged for them, maybe stolen for them, but always managing for them somehow—­a mother in her poor way.  Her powers were not less than those of other politicians; she acted for herself and those belonging to her, set her speech according to the moment, and gained her end, earning a cheese or a handful of wool each time; she also could live and die in commonplace insincerity and readiness of wit.  Oline—­maybe old Sivert had for a moment thought of her as young, pretty, and rosy-cheeked, but now she is old, deformed, a picture of decay; she ought to have been dead.  Where is she to be buried?  She has no family vault of her own; nay, she will be lowered down in a graveyard to lie among the bones of strangers and unknown; ay, to that she comes at last—­Oline, born and died.  She had been young once.  A pittance left to her now, at the eleventh hour?  Ay, a single golden gleam, and this slave-woman’s hands would have been folded for a moment.  Justice would have overtaken her with its late reward; for that she had begged for her children, maybe stolen for them, but always managed for them some way.  A moment—­and the darkness would reign in her as before; her eyes glower, her fingers feel out graspingly—­how much? she would say.  What, no more? she would say.  She would be right again.  A mother many times, realizing life—­it was worthy of a great reward.

But all went otherwise.  Old Sivert’s accounts had appeared more or less in order after Eleseus had been through them; but the farm and the cow, the fishery and nets were barely enough to cover the deficit.  And it was due in some measure to Oline that things had turned out no worse; so earnest was she in trying to secure a small remainder for herself that she dragged to light forgotten items that she, as gossip and newsmonger for years, remembered still, or matters outstanding which others would have passed over on purpose, to avoid causing unpleasantness to respectable fellow-citizens.  Oh, that Oline!  And she did not even say a word against old Sivert now; he had made his will in kindness of heart, and there would have been a plenty after him, but that the two men sent by the Department to arrange things had cheated her.  But one day all would come to the ears of the Almighty, said Oline threateningly.

Strange, she found nothing ridiculous in the fact that she was mentioned in the will; after all, it was an honour of a sort; none of her likes were named there with her!

The Sellanraa folk took the blow with patience; they were not altogether unprepared.  True, Inger could not understand it—­Uncle Sivert that had always been so rich....