Isak fixes things to rights, tucks his little daughter up in the rug, and lays his jacket folded under her head.  Then off again.

Man and wife gossiping of this and that.  The sun is up till late in the evening, and the weather warm.

“Oline,” says Inger—­“where does she sleep?”

“In the little room.”

“Ho!  And the boys?”

“They’ve their own bed in the big room.  There’s two beds there, just as when you went away.”

“Looking at you now,” said Inger, “I can see you’re just as you were before.  And those shoulders of yours, they’ve carried some burdens up along this way, but they’ve not grown the weaker by it, seems.”

“H’m.  Maybe.  What I was going to say:  How it was like with you all the years there?  Bearable like?” Oh, Isak was soft at heart now; he asked her that, and wondered in his mind.

And Inger said:  “Ay, ’twas nothing to complain of.”

They talked more feelingly together, and Isak asked if she wasn’t tired of walking, and would get up in the cart a bit of way.  “No, thanks all the same,” said she.  “But I don’t know what’s the matter with me today; after being ill on the boat, I feel hungry all the time.”

“Why, did you want something, then?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind stopping so long.”

Oh, that Inger, maybe ’twas not for herself at all, but for Isak’s sake.  She would have him eat again; he had spoiled his last meal chewing twigs of heather.

And the evening was light and warm, and they had but a few miles more to go; they sat down to eat again.

Inger took a parcel from her box, and said: 

“I’ve a few things I brought along for the boys.  Let’s go over there in the bushes, it’s warmer there.”

They went across to the bushes, and she showed him the things; neat braces with buckles for the boys to wear, copy-books with copies at the top of the page, a pencil for each, a pocket-knife for each.  And there was an excellent book for herself, she had.  “Look, with my name in and all.  A prayer-book.”  It was a present from the Governor, by way of remembrance.

Isak admired each thing in silence.  She took out a bundle of little collars—­Leopoldine’s, they were.  And gave Isak a black neckerchief for himself, shiny as silk.

“Is that for me?” said he.

“Yes, it’s for you.”

He took it carefully in his hands, and stroked it.

“Do you think it’s nice?”

“Nice—­why I could go round the world in such.”

But Isak’s fingers were rough; they stuck in the curious silky stuff.

Now Inger had no more things to show.  But when she had packed them all up again, she sat there still; and the way she sat, he could see her legs, could see her red-bordered stockings.

“H’m,” said he.  “Those’ll be town-made things, I doubt?”

“’Tis wool was bought in the town, but I knitted them myself.  They’re ever so long—­right up above the knee—­look....”