The Lapp went on his way.  Isak—­ay, he would say a word of that.  The man on the hillside was no runaway; he had told his name.  A runaway?  He would have been found.  Only a worker, and a hardy one.  He set about cutting winter fodder for his goats, clearing the ground, digging a field, shifting stones, making a wall of stones.  By the autumn he had built a house for himself, a hut of turf, sound and strong and warm; storms could not shake it, and nothing could burn it down.  Here was a home; he could go inside and shut the door, and stay there; could stand outside on the door-slab, the owner of that house, if any should pass by.  There were two rooms in the hut; for himself at the one end, and for his beasts at the other.  Farthest in, against the wall of rock, was the hayloft.  Everything was there.

Two more Lapps come by, father and son.  They stand resting with both hands on their long staves, taking stock of the hut and the clearing, noting the sound of the goat-bells up on the hillside.

“Goddag” say the Lapps.  “And here’s fine folk come to live.”  Lapps talk that way, with flattering words.

“You don’t know of any woman hereabouts to help?” says Isak, thinking always of but one thing.

“Woman to help?  No.  But we’ll say a word of it.”

“Ay, if you’d be so good.  That I’ve a house and a bit of ground here, and goats, but no woman to help.  Say that.”

Oh, he had sought about for a woman to help each time he had been down to the village with his loads of bark, but there was none to be found.  They would look at him, a widow or an old unmarried one or so, but all afraid to offer, whatever might be in their minds.  Isak couldn’t tell why.  Couldn’t tell why?  Who would go as help to live with a man in the wilds, ever so many miles away—­a whole day’s journey to the nearest neighbour?  And the man himself was no way charming or pleasant by his looks, far from it; and when he spoke it was no tenor with eyes to heaven, but a coarse voice, something like a beast’s.

Well, he would have to manage alone.

In winter, he made great wooden troughs, and sold them in the village, carrying sacks of food and tools back through the snow; hard days when he was tied to a load.  There were the goats, and none to look to them; he could not be away for long.  And what did he do?  Need made him wise; his brain was strong and little used; he trained it up to ever more and more.  His first way was to let the goats loose before starting off himself, so that they could get a full feed among the undergrowth in the woods.  But he found another plan.  He took a bucket, a great vessel, and hung it up by the river so that a single drop fell in at a time, taking fourteen hours to fill it.  When it was full to the brim, the weight was right; the bucket sank, and in doing so, pulled a line connected with the hayloft; a trap-door opened, and three bundles of fodder came through—­the goats were fed.