Isak gathers stones and fills up the dangerous cleft; a wicked place; it shall break no more sheep’s thighs!  Isak wears leather braces; he takes them off now and fastens them round the sheep’s middle, as a support for the udder.  Then, lifting the animal on his shoulders, he sets off home, the lamb at his heels.

After that—­splints and tar bandages.  In a few days’ time the patient begins twitching the foot of the wounded leg; it is the fracture aching as it grows together.  Ay, all things getting well again—­until next time something happens.

The daily round; little matters that are all important to the settler-folk themselves.  Oh, they are not trifles after all, but things of fate, making for their happiness and comfort and well-being, or against them.

In the slack time between the seasons, Isak smooths down some new tree-trunks he has thrown; to be used for something or other, no doubt.  Also he digs out a number of useful stones and gets them down to the house; as soon as there are stones enough, he builds a wall of them.  A year or so back, Inger would have been curious, wondering what her man was after with all this—­now, she seemed for the most part busied with her own work, and asked no questions.  Inger is busy as ever, but she has taken to singing, which is something new, and she is teaching Eleseus an evening prayer; this also is something new.  Isak misses her questioning; it was her curiosity and her praise of all he did that made him the contented man, the incomparable man he was.  But now, she goes by, saying nothing, or at most with a word or so that he is working himself to death.  “She’s troubled after that last time, for all she says,” thinks Isak to himself.

Oline comes over to visit them once more.  If all had been as before she would have been welcome, but now it is different.  Inger greets her from the first with some ill-will; be it what it may, there is something that makes Inger look on her as an enemy.

“I’d half a thought I’d be coming just at the right time again,” says Oline, with delicate meaning.

“How d’you mean?”

“Why, for the third one to be christened.  How is it with you now?”

“Nay,” says Inger.  “For that matter you might have saved yourself the trouble.”

“Ho.”

Oline falls to praising the children, so fine and big they’ve grown; and Isak taking over more ground, and going to build again, by the look of things—­there’s no end to things with them; a wonderful place, and hard to find its like.  “And what is he going to build this time?”

“Ask him yourself,” says Inger.  “I don’t know.”

“Nay,” says Oline. “’Tis no business of mine.  I just looked along to see how things were with you here; it’s a pleasure and delight for me to see.  As for Goldenhorns, I’ll not ask nor speak of her—­she’s fallen into proper ways, as any one can see.”

They talk for a while companionably; Inger is no longer harsh.  The clock on the wall strikes with its sweet little note.  Oline looks up with tears in her eyes; never in all her humble life did she hear such a thing—­’tis like church and organ music, says Oline.  Inger feels herself rich and generous-minded towards her poor relation, and says:  “Come into the next room and see my loom.”