Isak goes down to the village, taking with him a few score of eggs for sale, and brings back paint.  There was enough for one building, for the barn, and it was painted red.  He fetches up more paint, yellow ochre this time, for the house itself.  “Ay, ’tis as I said, here’s going to be fine and grand,” grumbles Oline every day.  Ay, Oline could guess, no doubt, that her time at Sellanraa would soon be up; she was tough and strong enough to bear it, though not without bitterness.  Isak, on his part, no longer sought to settle up old scores with her now, though she pilfered and put away things lavishly enough towards the end.  He made her a present of a young wether; after all, she had been with him a long time, and worked for little pay.  And Oline had not been so bad with the children; she was not stern and strictly righteous and that sort of thing, but had a knack of dealing with children:  listened to what they said, and let them do more or less as they pleased.  If they came round while she was making cheese, she would give them a bit to taste; if they begged to be let off washing their faces one Sunday, she would let them off.

When Isak had given his walls a first coat, he went down to the village again and brought up all the paint he could carry.  Three coats he put on in all, and white on the window-frames and corners.  To come back now and look at his home there on the hillside, it was like looking at a fairy palace.  The wilderness was inhabited and unrecognizable, a blessing had come upon it, life had arisen there from a long dream, human creatures lived there, children played about the houses.  And the forest stretched away, big and kindly, right up to the blue heights.

But the last time Isak went down for paint, the storekeeper gave him a blue envelope with a crest on, and 5 skilling to pay.  It was a telegram which had been forwarded by post, and was from Lensmand Geissler.  A blessing on that man Geissler, wonderful man that he was!  He telegraphed these few words, that Inger was free, “Home soonest possible:  Geissler.”  And at this the store took to whirling curiously round and round; the counter and the people in the shop were suddenly far away.  Isak felt rather than heard himself saying, “Herregud!” and “Praise and thanks to God.”

“She might be here no later than tomorrow the day,” said the storekeeper, “if so be she’s left Trondhjem in time.”

“Ho!” said Isak.

He waited till the next day.  The carrier came up with letters, from the landing-stage where the steamer put in, but no Inger.  “Then she won’t be here now till next week,” the storekeeper said.

Almost as well, after all, that there was time to wait—­Isak has many things to do.  Should he forget himself altogether, and neglect his land?  He sets off home again and begins carting out manure.  It is soon done.  He sticks a crowbar into the earth, noting how the frost disappears from day to day.  The sun is big and strong now, the snow is gone, green showing everywhere; the cattle are out to graze.  Isak ploughs one day, and a few days later he is sowing corn, planting potatoes.  Ho, the youngsters too, planting potatoes like angels; blessed little hands they have, and what can their father do but watch?