Isak worked and toiled, dug ditches and broke new ground, set up his boundary lines between his land and the State’s, and gained another season’s stock of timber.  But now that Inger was no longer there to wonder at his doings, he worked more from habit than for any joy in what he did.  And he had let two sessions pass without having his title-deeds registered, caring little about it; at last, that autumn, he had pulled himself together and got it done.  Things were not as they should be with Isak now.  Quiet and patient as ever—­yes, but now it was because he did not care.  He got out hides because it had to be done—­goatskins and calfskins—­steeped them in the river, laid them in bark, and tanned them after a fashion ready for shoes.  In the winter—­at the very first threshing—­he set aside his seed corn for the next spring, in order to have it done; best to have things done and done with; he was a methodical man.  But it was a grey and lonely life; eyah, Herregud! a man without a wife again, and all the rest....

What pleasure was there now in sitting at home Sundays, cleanly washed, with a neat red shirt on, when there was no one to be clean and neat for!  Sundays were the longest days of all, days when he was forced to idleness and weary thoughts; nothing to do but wander about over the place, counting up all that should have been done.  He always took the children with him, always carried one on his arm.  It was a distraction to hear their chatter, and answer their questions of everything.

He kept old Oline because there was no one else he could get.  And Oline was, after all, of use in a way.  Carding and spinning, knitting stockings and mittens, and making cheese—­she could do all these things, but she lacked Inger’s happy touch, and had no heart in her work; nothing of all she handled was her own.  There was a thing Isak had bought once at the village store, a china pot with a dog’s head on the lid.  It was a sort of tobacco box, really, and stood on a shelf.  Oline took off the lid and dropped it on the floor.  Inger had left behind some cuttings of fuchsia, under glass.  Oline took the glass off and, putting it back, pressed it down hard and maliciously; next day, all the cuttings were dead.  It was not so easy for Isak to bear with such things; he looked displeased, and showed it, and, as there was nothing swanlike and gentle about Isak, it may well be that he showed it plainly.  Oline cared little for looks; soft-spoken as ever, she only said:  “Now, could I help it?”

“That I can’t say,” answered Isak.  “But you might have left the things alone.”

“I’ll not touch her flowers again,” said Oline.  But the flowers were already dead.

Again, how could it be that the Lapps came up to Sellanraa so frequently of late?  Os-Anders, for instance, had no business there at all, he should have passed on his way.  Twice in one summer he came across the hills, and Os-Anders, it should be remembered, had no reindeer to look to, but lived by begging and quartering himself on other Lapps.  As soon as he came up to the place, Oline left her work and fell to chatting with him about people in the village, and, when he left, his sack was heavy with no end of things.  Isak put up with it for two years, saying nothing.