That was his way.

A bright idea; an inspiration, maybe, sent from God.  The man had none to help him but himself.  It served his need until late in the autumn; then came the first snow, then rain, then snow again, snowing all the time.  And his machine went wrong; the bucket was filled from above, opening the trap too soon.  He fixed a cover over, and all went well again for a time; then came winter, the drop of water froze to an icicle, and stopped the machine for good.

The goats must do as their master—­learn to do without.

Hard times—­the man had need of help, and there was none, yet still he found a way.  He worked and worked at his home; he made a window in the hut with two panes of real glass, and that was a bright and wonderful day in his life.  No need of lighting fires to see; he could sit indoors and work at his wooden troughs by daylight.  Better days, brighter days ... eyah!

He read no books, but his thoughts were often with God; it was natural, coming of simplicity and awe.  The stars in the sky, the wind in the trees, the solitude and the wide-spreading snow, the might of earth and over earth filled him many times a day with a deep earnestness.  He was a sinner and feared God; on Sundays he washed himself out of reverence for the holy day, but worked none the less as through the week.

Spring came; he worked on his patch of ground, and planted potatoes.  His livestock multiplied; the two she-goats had each had twins, making seven in all about the place.  He made a bigger shed for them, ready for further increase, and put a couple of glass panes in there too.  Ay, ’twas lighter and brighter now in every way.

And then at last came help; the woman he needed.  She tacked about for a long time, this way and that across the hillside, before venturing near; it was evening before she could bring herself to come down.  And then she came—­a big, brown-eyed girl, full-built and coarse, with good, heavy hands, and rough hide brogues on her feet as if she had been a Lapp, and a calfskin bag slung from her shoulders.  Not altogether young; speaking politely; somewhere nearing thirty.

There was nothing to fear; but she gave him greeting and said hastily:  “I was going cross the hills, and took this way, that was all.”

“Ho,” said the man.  He could barely take her meaning, for she spoke in a slovenly way, also, she kept her face turned aside.

“Ay,” said she, “’tis a long way to come.”

“Ay, it’s that,” says the man.  “Cross the hills, you said?”

“Yes.”

“And what for?”

“I’ve my people there.”

“Eh, so you’ve your people there?  And what’s your name?”

“Inger.  And what’s yours?”

“Isak.”

“Isak?  H’m.  D’you live here yourself, maybe?”

“Ay, here, such as it is.”

“Why, ’tis none so bad,” said she to please him.

Now he had grown something clever to think out the way of things, and it struck him then she’d come for that very business and no other; had started out two days back just to come here.  Maybe she had heard of his wanting a woman to help.