And look you, things did go well; neighbours took notice of him, and of his wife—­ay, even of the children.  It was not the least remarkable thing, that folk took notice of the children.  The miners came down from their work in the hills, and had not seen a child’s face for many days; when they caught sight of Aronsen’s little ones playing in the yard, they would talk kindly to them at once, as if they had met three puppies at play.  They would have given them money, but seeing they were the trader’s children, it would hardly do.  So they played music for them on their mouth-organs instead.  Young Gustaf came down, the wildest of them all, with his hat over one ear, and his lips ever ready with a merry word; ay, Gustaf it was that came and played with them for long at a time.  The children knew him every time, and ran to meet them; he would pick them up and carry them on his back, all three of them, and dance with them.  “Ho!” said Gustaf, and danced with them.  And then he would take out his mouth-organ and play tunes and music for them, till the two servant-girls would come out and look at him, and listen, with tears in their eyes.  Ay, a madcap was Gustaf, but he knew what he was doing!

Then after a bit he would go into the shop and throw his money about, buying up a whole knapsack full of things.  And when he went back up the road again, it was with a whole little stock-in-trade of his own—­and he would stop at Sellanraa on the way and open his pack and show them.  Notepaper with a flower in the corner, and a new pipe and a new shirt, and a fringed neckerchief—­sweets for the womenfolk, and shiny things, a watch-chain with a compass, a pocket-knife—­oh, a host of things.  Ay, there were rockets he had bought to let off on Sunday, for every one to see.  Inger gave him milk, and he joked with Leopoldine, and picked up little Rebecca and swung her up in the air—­“Hoy huit!”

“And how’s the building getting on?” he asked the Swedes—­Gustaf was a Swede himself, and made friends with them too.  The building was getting on as best it could, with but themselves to the work.  Why, then, he’d come and give them a hand himself, would Gustaf, though that was only said in jest.

“Ay, if you only would,” said Inger.  For the cowshed ought to be ready by the autumn, when the cattle were brought in.

Gustaf let off a rocket, and having let off one, there was no sense in keeping the rest.  As well let them off too—­and so he did, half a dozen of them, and the women and children stood round breathless at the magic of the magician; and Inger had never seen a rocket before, but the wild fire of them somehow reminded her of the great world she had once seen.  What was a sewing-machine to this?  And when Gustaf finished up by playing his mouth-organ, Inger would have gone off along the road with him for sheer emotion....