“Hjalmar—­huh!” says Inger contemptuously.  Then suddenly she changes her tone, and turns to Gustaf, thinking to make him jealous.  “Though, after all, he’s nice to have on the place, is Hjalmar,” says she, “and so prettily he sings and all.”

“Don’t think much of him, anyway,” says Gustaf.  He does not seem jealous in the least.

“But you might stay one more night at least?”

No, Gustaf couldn’t stay one more night—­he was going across with the others.

Ay, maybe Gustaf was getting tired of the game by now.  ’Twas a fine thing to snap her up in front of all the rest, and have her for his own the few weeks he was there—­but he was going elsewhere now, like as not to a sweetheart at home—­he had other things in view.  Was he to stay on loafing about here for the sake of her?  He had reason enough for bringing the thing to an end, as she herself must know; but she was grown so bold, so thoughtless of any consequence, she seemed to care for nothing.  No, things had not held for so very long between them—­but long enough to last out the spell of his work there.

Inger is sad and down-hearted enough; ay, so erringly faithful that she mourns for him.  ’Tis hard for her; she is honestly in love, without any thought of vanity or conquest.  And not ashamed, no; she is a strong woman full of weakness; she is but following the law of nature all about her; it is the glow of autumn in her as in all things else.  Her breast heaves with feeling as she packs up food for Gustaf to take with him.  No thought of whether she has the right, of whether she dare risk this or that; she gives herself up to it entirely, hungry to taste, to enjoy.  Isak might lift her up to the roof and thrust her to the floor again—­ay, what of that!  It would not make her feel the less.

She goes out with the parcel to Gustaf.

Now she had set the bucket by the steps on purpose, in case he should care to go with her to the river just once more.  Maybe she would like to say something, to give him some little thing—­her gold ring; Heaven knows, she was in a state to do anything.  But there must be an end of it some time; Gustaf thanks her, says good-bye, and goes.

And there she stands.

“Hjalmar!” she calls out aloud—­oh, so much louder than she need.  As if she were determined to be gay in spite of all—­or crying out in distress.

Gustaf goes on his way....

* * * * *

All through that autumn there was the usual work in the fields all round, right away down to the village:  potatoes to be taken up, corn to be got in, the horned cattle let loose over the ground.  Eight farms there are now and all are busy; but at the trading station, at Storborg, there are no cattle, and no green lands, only a garden.  And there is no trade there now, and nothing for any to be busy about there.