When the last load was carted down, Isak turned woodman once more, felling and stacking, building his streets, his town of wood-piles for next winter.  He was getting farther and farther from the homestead now, there was a great broad stretch of hillside all ready for tillage.  He would not cut close any more, but simply throw the biggest trees with dry tops.

He knew well enough, of course, what Inger had been thinking of when she asked for another bed; best to hurry up and get it ready.  One dark evening he came home from the woods, and sure enough, Inger had got it over—­another boy—­and was lying down.  That Inger!  Only that very morning she had tried to get him to go down to the village again:  “’Tis time the horse had something to do,” says she.  “Eating his head off all day.”

“I’ve no time for such-like nonsense,” said Isak shortly, and went out.  Now he understood; she had wanted to get him out of the way.  And why?  Surely ’twas as well to have him about the house.

“Why can’t you ever tell a man what’s coming?” said he.

“You make a bed for yourself and sleep in the little room,” said Inger.

As for that, it was not only a bedstead to make; there must be bedclothes to spread.  They had but one skin rug, and there would be no getting another till next autumn, when there were wethers to kill—­and even then two skins would not make a blanket.  Isak had a hard time, with cold at nights, for a while; he tried burying himself in the hay under the rock-shelter, tried to bed down for himself with the cows.  Isak was homeless.  Well for him that it was May; soon June would be in; July....

A wonderful deal they had managed, out there in the wilderness; house for themselves and housing for the cattle, and ground cleared and cultivated, all in three years.  Isak was building again—­what was he building now?  A new shed, a lean-to, jutting out from the house.  The whole place rang with the noise as he hammered in his eight-inch nails.  Inger came out now and again and said it was trying for the little ones.

“Ay, the little ones—­go in and talk to them then, sing a bit.  Eleseus, he can have a bucket lid to hammer on himself.  And it’s only while I’m doing these big nails just here, at the cross-beams, that’s got to bear the whole.  Only planks after that, two-and-a-half-inch nails, as gentle as building dolls’ houses.”

Small wonder if Isak hammered and thumped.  There stood a barrel of herrings, and the flour, and all kinds of food-stuffs in the stable; better than lying out in the open, maybe, but the pork tasted of it already; a shed they must have, and that was clear.  As for the little ones, they’d get used to the noise in no time.  Eleseus was inclined to be ailing somehow, but the other took nourishment sturdily, like a fat cherub, and when he wasn’t crying, he slept.  A wonder of a child!  Isak made no objection to his being called Sivert, though he himself would rather have preferred Jacob.  Inger could hit on the right thing at times.  Eleseus was named after the priest of her parish, and that was a fine name to be sure; but Sivert was called after his mother’s uncle, the district treasurer, who was a well-to-do man, with neither wife nor child to come after him.  They couldn’t do better than name the boy after him.