Why should Inger say that about having no more children?  She was not on bad terms with her husband, ’twas no cat-and-dog life between them—­far from it.  They had each their own little ways, but it was rarely they quarrelled, and never for long at a time; it was soon made up.  And many a time Inger would suddenly be just as she had been in the old days, working hard in the cowshed or in the field; as if she had had a relapse into health again.  And at such times Isak would look at his wife with grateful eyes; if he had been the sort of man to speak his mind at once, he might have said, “H’m.  What does this mean, heh?” or something of the sort, just to show he appreciated it.  But he waited too long, and his praise came too late.  So Inger, no doubt, found it not worth while, and did not care to keep it up.

She might have had children till past fifty; as it was, she was perhaps hardly forty now.  She had learned all sorts of things at the institution—­had she also learned to play tricks with herself?  She had come back so thoroughly trained and educated after her long association with the other murderesses; maybe the men had taught her something too—­the gaolers, the doctors.  She told Isak one day what one young medical man had said of her little crime:  “Why should it be a criminal offence to kill children—­ay, even healthy children?  They were nothing but lumps of flesh after all.”

Isak asked:  “Wasn’t he terribly cruel himself, then?”

“Him!” exclaimed Inger, and told how kind he had been to her herself; it was he who had got another doctor to operate on her mouth and make a human being of her.  Now there was only a scar to be seen.

Only a scar, yes.  And a fine woman she was in her way, tall and not over-stout, dark, with rich hair; in summer she went barefooted mostly, and with her skirt kilted high; Inger was not afraid of letting her calves be seen.  Isak saw them—­as who did not!

They did not quarrel, no.  Isak had no talent for quarrelling, and his wife had grown readier-witted to answer back.  A thorough good quarrel took a long time to grow with Isak, heavy stub of a man as he was; he found himself all entangled in her words, and could say next to nothing himself; and besides, he was fond of her—­powerfully in love was Isak.  And it was not often he had any need to answer.  Inger did not complain; he was an excellent husband in many ways, and she let him alone.  What had she to complain of at all?  Isak was not a man to be despised; she might have married a worse.  Worn out, was he?  True, he showed signs of being tired now at times, but nothing serious.  He was full of old health and unwasted strength, like herself, and in this autumn of their married life he fulfilled his part at least as affectionately as she did.