But again the days went on, and nothing evil happened for their going on.  Next time he drove; down to the village he had no sheep on his cart, no, still no sheep.  But at the last moment he had taken a lamb.  A big lamb, though; not a miserable little one by any means, and he delivered it with these words: 

“’Tis rare tough meat on a wether, and no sort of a gift to bring.  But this is none so bad.”

But Fru Heyerdahl would not hear of taking it as a gift.  “Say what you want for it,” she said.  Oh, a fine lady, ’twas not her way to take gifts from folk!  And the end of it was that Axel got a good price for his lamb.

He saw nothing of Barbro at all.  Lensmand’s lady had seen him coming, and got her out of the way.  And good luck go with her—­Barbro that had cheated him out of his help for a year and a half!

Chapter IX

That spring something unexpected happened—­something of importance indeed; work at the mine was started again; Geissler had sold his land.  Inconceivable!  Oh, but Geissler was an unfathomable mind; he could make a bargain or refuse, shake his head for a “No,” or nod the same for “Yes.”  Could make the whole village smile again.

Conscience had pricked him, maybe; he had no longer the heart to see the district where he had been Lensmand famishing on home-made gruel and short of money.  Or had he got his quarter of a million?  Possibly, again, Geissler himself had at last begun to feel the need of money, and had been forced to sell for what he could get.  Twenty-five or fifty thousand was not to be despised, after all.  As a matter of fact, there were rumours that it was his eldest son who had settled the business on his father’s account.

Be that as it might, work was recommenced; the same engineer came again with his gangs of men, and the work went on anew.  The same work, ay, but in a different fashion now, going backwards, as it were.

All seemed in regular order:  the Swedish mine-owners had brought their men, and dynamite and money—­what could be wrong, anyway?  Even Aronsen came back again, Aronsen the trader, who had set his mind on buying back Storborg from Eleseus.

“No,” said Eleseus.  “It’s not for sale.”

“You’ll sell, I suppose, if you’re offered enough?”

“No.”

No, Eleseus was not going to sell Storborg.  The truth was, he had changed his mind somewhat as to the position; it was none so bad, after all, to be owner of a trading station in the hills; he had a fine verandah with coloured glass windows, and a chief clerk to do all the work, while he himself went about the country travelling.  Ay, travelling first class, with fine folks.  One day, perhaps, he might be able to go as far as America—­he often thought of that.  Even these little journeys on business to the towns down in the south were something to live on for a long time after.  Not that he