They have a new root crop at Sellanraa called turnips, sending up a colossal growth of green waving leaves out of the earth, and nothing can keep the cows away from them—­the beasts break down all hedgework, and storm in, bellowing.  Nothing for it but to set Leopoldine and little Rebecca to keep guard over the turnip fields, and little Rebecca walks about with a big stick in her hand and is a wonder at driving cows away.  Her father is at work close by; now and again he comes up to feel her hands and feet, and ask if she is cold.  Leopoldine is big and grown up now; she can knit stockings and mittens for the winter while she is watching the herds.  Born in Trondhjem, was Leopoldine, and came to Sellanraa five years old.  But the memory of a great town with many people and of a long voyage on a steamer is slipping away from her now, growing more and more distant; she is a child of the wilds and knows nothing now of the great world beyond the village down below where she has been to church once or twice, and where she was confirmed the year before....

And the little casual work of every day goes on, with this thing and that to be done beside; as, for instance, the road down below, that is getting bad one or two places.  The ground is still workable, and Isak goes down one day with Sivert, ditching and draining the road.  There are two patches of bog to be drained.

Axel Stroem has promised to take part in the work, seeing that he has a horse and uses the road himself—­but Axel had pressing business in the town just then.  Heaven knows what it could be, but very pressing, he said it was.  But he had asked his brother from Breidablik to work with them in his stead.

Fredrik was this brother’s name.  A young man, newly married, a light-hearted fellow who could make a jest, but none the worse for that; Sivert and he are something alike.  Now Fredrik had looked in at Storborg on his way up that morning, Aronsen of Storborg being his nearest neighbour, and he is full of all the trader has been telling him.  It began this way; Fredrik wanted a roll of tobacco.  “I’ll give you a roll of tobacco when I have one,” said Aronsen.

“What, you’ve no tobacco in the place?”

“No, nor won’t order any.  There’s nobody to buy it.  What d’you think I make out of one roll of tobacco?”

Ay, Aronsen had been in a nasty humour that morning, sure enough; felt he had been cheated somehow by that Swedish mining concern.  Here had he set up a store out in the wilds, and then they go and shut down the work altogether!

Fredrik smiles slyly at Aronsen, and makes fun of him now.  “He’s not so much as touched that land of his,” says he, “and hasn’t even feed for his beasts, but must go and buy it.  Asked me if I’d any hay to sell.  No, I’d no hay to sell.  ’Ho, d’you mean you don’t want to make money?’ said Aronsen.  Thinks money’s everything in the world, seems like.  Puts down a hundred-Krone note on the counter, and says ‘Money!’ ‘Ay, money’s well enough,’ says I.  ‘Cash down,’ says he.  Ay, he’s just a little bit touched that way, so to speak, and his wife she goes about with a watch and chain and all on weekdays—­Lord He knows what can be she’s so set on remembering to the minute.”