Ay, it came to that:  Jensine would leave, if you please; she wished it so.  Oh, Jensine was not one of your common sort, none could say that.  Sivert had once offered to drive her back home at once, and on that occasion she had cried, which was a pity; but afterwards she repented of that, and made it clear that she repented, and gave notice and would leave.  Ay, a proper way to do.

Nothing could have suited Inger at Sellanraa better than this; Inger was beginning to grow dissatisfied with her maid.  Strange; she had nothing to say against her, but the sight of the girl annoyed her, she could hardly endure to have her about the place.  It all arose, no doubt, from Inger’s state of mind; she had been heavy and religious all that winter, and it would not pass off.  “Want to leave, do you?  Why, then, well and good,” said Inger.  It was a blessing, the fulfilment of nightly prayers.  Two grown women they were already, what did they want with this Jensine, fresh as could be and marriageable and all?  Inger thought with a certain displeasure of that same marriageableness, thinking, maybe, how she had once been the same herself.

Her deep religiousness did not pass off.  She was not full of vice; she had tasted, sipped, let us say, but ’twas not her intent to persevere in that way all through her old age, not by any means; Inger turned aside with horror from the thought.  The mine and all its workmen were no longer there—­and Heaven be praised.  Virtue was not only tolerable, but inevitable, it was a necessary thing; ay, a necessary good, a special grace.

But the world was all awry.  Look now, here was Leopoldine, little Leopoldine, a seedling, a slip of a child, going about bursting with sinful health; but an arm round her waist and she would fall helpless—­oh, fie!  There were spots on her face now, too—­a sign in itself of wild blood; ay, her mother remembered well enough, ’twas the wild blood would out.  Inger did not condemn her child for a matter of spots ’on her face; but it must stop, she would have an end of it.  And what did that fellow Andresen want coming up to Sellanraa of Sundays, to talk fieldwork with Isak?  Did the two menfolk imagine the child was blind?  Ay, young folk were young folk as they had ever been, thirty, forty years ago, but worse than ever now.

“Why, that’s as it may be,” said Isak, when they spoke of the matter.  “But here’s the spring come, and Jensine gone, and who’s to manage the summer work?”

“Leopoldine and I can do the haymaking,” said Inger.  “Ay, I’d rather go raking night and day myself,” said she bitterly, and on the point of crying.

Isak could not understand what there was to make such a fuss about; but he had his own ideas, no doubt, and off he went to the edge of the wood, with crowbar and pick, and fell to working at a stone.  Nay, indeed, Isak could not see why Jensine should have left them; a good girl, and a worker.  To tell the truth, Isak was often at a loss in all save the simplest things—­his work, his lawful and natural doings.  A broad-shouldered man, well filled out, nothing astral about him at all; he ate like a man and throve on it, and ’twas rarely he was thrown off his balance in any way.