“But I can’t make father say a word.

“’I have often wondered why it is that we Ingmars have been allowed to remain on our farm for hundreds of years, while the other farms have all changed hands.  And the thought comes to me that it may be because the Ingmars have always tried to walk in the ways of God.  We Ingmars need not fear man; we have only to walk in God’s ways.’

“Then the old man looks up and says:  ’This is a difficult problem, my son.  I guess I’ll go in and talk it over with the other Ingmarssons.’

“So father goes back to the living-room, while I remain in the kitchen.  There I sit waiting and waiting, but father does not return.  Then, after hours and hours of this, I get cross and go to him.  ‘You must have patience, little Ingmar,’ says father.  ’This is a difficult question.’  And I see all the old yeomen sitting there with closed eyes, deep in thought.  So I wait and wait and, for aught I know, must go on waiting.”

Smiling, he followed the plow, which was now moving along very slowly, as if the horses were tired out and could scarcely drag it.  When he came to the end of the furrow he pulled up the plow and rested.  He had become very serious.

“Strange, when you ask anyone’s advice you see yourself what is right.  Even while you are asking, you discover all at once what you hadn’t been able to find out in three whole years.  Now it shall be as God wills.”

He felt that this thing must be done, but at the same time it seemed so hard to him that the mere thought of it took away his courage.  “Help me, Lord!” he said.

Ingmar Ingmarsson was, however, not the only person abroad at that hour.  An old man came trudging along the winding path that crossed the fields.  It was not difficult to guess his occupation, for he carried on his shoulder a long-handled paint brush and was spattered with red paint from his cap to his shoe tips.  He kept glancing round-about, after the manner of journeymen painters, to find an unpainted farmhouse or one that needed repainting.  He had seen, here and there, one and another which he thought might answer his purpose, but he could not seem to fix upon any special one.  Then, finally, from the top of a hillock he caught sight of the big Ingmar Farm down in the valley.  “Great Caesar!” he exclaimed, and stopped short.  “That farmhouse hasn’t been painted in a hundred years.  Why, it’s black with age, and the barns have never seen a drop of point.  Here there’s work enough to keep me busy till fall.”

A little farther on he came upon a man plowing.  “Why, there’s a farmer who belongs here and knows all about this neighbourhood,” thought the painter.  “He can tell me all I need know about that homestead yonder.”  Whereupon he crossed the path into the field, stepped up to Ingmar, and asked him if he thought the folks living over there wanted any painting done.

Ingmar Ingmarsson was startled, and stood staring at the man as though he were a ghost.