Isak went out into the yard and stood over the bundle.  He was still in doubt; he thrust his hat back and scratched his head, which gave him a devil-may-care appearance for the moment; something lordly and careless, as it might have been a Spaniard.  But then he must have thought something like this:  “Nay, here am I, and far from being in any way splendid or excellent; a very dog.”  And then he tied up the bundle neatly once more, picked up the cap, and carried all back into the barn again.  And that was done.

As he went out from the barn and over to the mill, away from the yard, away from everything, there was no Inger to be seen in the window of the house.  Nay, then, let her be where she pleased—­no doubt she was in bed—­where else should she be?  But in the old days, in those first innocent years, Inger could never rest, but sat up at nights waiting for him when he had been down to the village.  It was different now, different in every way.  As, for instance, when he had given her that ring.  Could anything have been more utterly a failure?  Isak had been gloriously modest, and far from venturing to call it a gold ring.  “’Tis nothing grand, but you might put it on your finger just to try.”

“Is it gold?” she asked.

“Ay, but ’tis none so thick,” said he.

And here she was to have answered:  “Ay, but indeed it is.”  But instead she had said:  “No, ’tis not very thick, but still....”

“Nay, ’tis worth no more than a bit of grass, belike,” said he at last, and gave up hope.

But Inger had indeed been glad of the ring, and wore it on her right hand, looking fine there when she was sewing; now and again she would let the village girls try it on, and sit with it on their finger for a bit when they came up to ask of this or that.  Foolish Isak—­not to understand that she was proud of it beyond measure!...

It was a profitless business sitting there alone in the mill, listening to the fall the whole night through.  Isak had done no wrong; he had no cause to hide himself away.  He left the mill, went up over the fields, and home—­into the house.

And then in truth it was a shamefaced Isak, shamefaced and glad.  Brede Olsen sat there, his neighbour and no other; sat there drinking coffee.  Ay, Inger was up, the two of them sat there simply and quietly, talking and drinking coffee.

“Here’s Isak,” said Inger pleasantly as could be, and got up and poured out a cup for him.  “Evening,” said Brede, and was just as pleasant too.

Isak could see that Brede had been spending the evening with the telegraph gangs, the last night before they went; he was somewhat the worse for it, maybe, but friendly and good-humoured enough.  He boasted a little, as was his way:  hadn’t the time really to bother with this telegraphic work, the farm took all of a man’s day—­but he couldn’t very well say no when the engineer was so anxious to have him.  And so it had come about, too, that Brede had had to take over the job of line inspector.  Not for the sake of the money, of course, he could earn many times that down in the village, but he hadn’t liked to refuse.  And they’d given him a neat little machine set up on the wall, a curious little thing, a sort of telegraph in itself.