Then Isak washes out the cart down by the river, and puts the seat in.  Talks to the lads about a little journey; he must have a little journey down to the village.

“But aren’t you going to walk?”

“Not today.  I’ve took into my head to go down with horse and cart today.”

“Can’t we come too?”

“You’ve got to be good boys, and stay at home this time.  Your own mother’ll be coming very soon, and she’ll learn you a many things.”

Eleseus is all for learning things; he asks:  “Father, when you did that writing on the paper—­what does it feel like?”

“Why, ’tis hardly to feel at all; just like a bit of nothing in the hand.”

“But doesn’t it slip, like on the ice?”

“What slip?”

“The pen thing, that you write with?”

“Ay, there’s the pen.  But you have to learn to steer it, you’ll see.”

But little Sivert he was of another mind, and said nothing about pens; he wanted to ride in the cart; just to sit up on the seat before the horse was put in, and drive like that, driving ever so fast in a cart without a horse.  And it was all his doing that father let them both sit up and ride with him a long way down the road.

Chapter XI

Isak drives on till he comes to a tarn, a bit of a pool on the moor, and there he pulls up.  A pool on the moors, black, deep down, and the little surface of the water perfectly still; Isak knew what that was good for; he had hardly used any other mirror in his life than such a bit of water on the moors.  Look how nice and neat he is today, with a red shirt; he takes out a pair of scissors now, and trims his beard.  Vain barge of a man; is he going to make himself handsome all at once, and cut away five years’ growth of iron beard?  He cuts and cuts away, looking at himself in his glass.  He might have done all this at home, of course, but was shy of doing it before Oline; it was quite enough to stand there right in front of her nose and put on a red shirt.  He cuts and cuts away, a certain amount of beard falls into his patent mirror.  The horse grows impatient at last and is moving on; Isak is fain to be content with himself as he is, and gets up again.  And indeed he feels somehow younger already—­devil knows what it could be, but somehow slighter of build.  Isak drives down to the village.

Next day the mail boat comes in.  Isak climbs up on a rock by the storekeeper’s wharf, looking out, but still no Inger to be seen.  Passengers there were, grown-up folk and children with them—­Herregud!—­but no Inger.  He had kept in the background, sitting on his rock, but there was no need to stay behind any longer; he gets down and goes to the steamer.  Barrels and cases trundling ashore, people and mailbags, but still Isak lacked what he had come for.  There was something there—­a woman with a little girl, up at the entrance to the landing-stage already; but the woman was prettier to look at than Inger—­though Inger was good enough.  What—­why—­but it was Inger!  “H’m,” said Isak, and trundled up to meet them.  Greetings:  “Goddag,” said Inger, and held out her hand; a little cold, a little pale after the voyage, and being ill on the way.  Isak, he just stood there; at last he said: