Then came spring, and the new season’s work; all was down in the earth before Whitsun.  When there had been only Eleseus to look after, Inger could never find time to help her husband, being tied to her first-born; now, with two children in the house, it was different; she helped in the fields and managed a deal of odd work here and there; planting potatoes, sowing carrots and turnips.  A wife like that is none so easy to find.  And she had her loom besides; at all odd minutes she would slip into the little room and weave a couple of spools, making half-wool stuff for underclothes for the winter.  Then when she had dyed her wools, it was red and blue dress material for herself and the little ones; at last she put in several colours, and made a bedspread for Isak all by herself.  No fancy work from Inger’s loom; useful and necessary things, and sound all through.

Oh, they were doing famously, these settlers in the wilds; they had got on so far, and if this year’s crops turned out well they would be enviable folk, no less.  What was lacking on the place at all?  A hayloft, perhaps; a big barn with a threshing-floor inside—­but that might come in time.  Ay, it would come, never fear, only give then time.  And now pretty Silverhorns had calved, the sheep had lambs, the goats had kids, the young stock fairly swarmed about the place.  And what of the little household itself?  Eleseus could walk already, walk by himself wherever he pleased, and little Sivert was christened.  Inger?  By all signs and tokens, making ready for another turn; she was not what you’d call niggardly at bearing.  Another child—­oh, a mere nothing to Inger!  Though, to be sure, she was proud enough of them when they came.  Fine little creatures, as any one could see.  ’Twas not all, by a long way, that the Lord had blessed with such fine big children.  Inger was young, and making the most of it.  She was no beauty, and had suffered all her girlhood by reason of the same, being set aside and looked down on.  The young men never noticed her, though she could dance and work as well.  They found nothing sweet in her, and turned elsewhere.  But now her time had come; she was in full flower and constantly with child.  Isak himself, her lord and master, was earnest and stolid as ever, but he had got on well, and was content.  How he had managed to live till Inger came was a mystery; feeding, no doubt, on potatoes and goats’ milk, or maybe venturesome dishes without a name; now, he had all that a man could think of in his place in the world.

There came another drought, a new bad year.  Os-Anders the Lapp, coming by with his dog, brought news that folk in the village had cut their corn already, for fodder.

“’Tis a poor look out,” said Inger, “when it comes to that.”

“Ay.  But they’ve the herring.  A fine haul, ’tis said.  Your Uncle Sivert, he’s going to build a country house.”

“Why, he was none so badly off before.”

“That’s true.  And like to be the same with you, for all it seems.”