Thus far none of the Ingmarsson family had been seen about the yard; but presently young Ingmar was discovered standing leaning against a wall, quite motionless, and with his eyes half closed.  Now a number of people got up to go over and shake hands with him, but when they were quite close, they bethought themselves and went back to their seats.

Ingmar was deathly pale, and every one who looked at him could see that he was suffering keenly; therefore, no one ventured to speak to him.  He stood so quietly that many had not even noticed that he was there.  But those who had could think of nothing else.  Here there was none of the merriment which usually prevails at auctions.  With Ingmar standing there, hugging the wall of the old home he was about to lose, they felt no inclination to laugh or to joke.

Then came a moment for the opening of the auction.  The auctioneer mounted a chair, and began to offer the first lot—­an old plow.

Ingmar never moved.  He was more like a statue than a human being.

“Good heavens! why can’t he go away?” said the people.  “He doesn’t have to stay here and witness this miserable business.  But the Ingmarssons never behave like other folks.”

The hammer then fell for the first sale.  Ingmar started as if it had caught him; but in a moment he again became motionless.  But at every ring of the hammer a shudder went through him.

Two peasant women passed just in front of Mother Stina; they were talking about Ingmar.

“Think!  If he had only proposed to some rich farmer’s daughter he might have had enough money to buy the farm; but of course he’s going to marry the schoolmaster’s Gertrude,” said one.

“They say that a rich and influential man has offered to give him the Ingmar Farm as a wedding present, if he will marry his daughter,” said the other.  “You see, they don’t mind his being poor, because he belongs to such a good family.”

“Anyway, there’s some advantage in being the son of Big Ingmar.”

“It would indeed have been a good thing if Gertrude had had a little, so that she could have given him a lift,” thought Mother Stina.

When all the farming implements had been sold, the auctioneer moved over to another part of the yard, where the household linens were piled.  He then bean to offer for sale home-woven fabrics—­table cloths, bed linen, and hangings, holding them up so that the embroidered tulips and the various fancy weaves could be seen all over the yard.

Ingmar must have noticed the light flutter of the linen pieces as they were being held aloft, for he involuntarily glanced up.  For a moment his tired eyes looked out upon the desecration, then he turned away.

“I’ve never seen the like of that,” said a young peasant girl.  “The poor boy looks as if he were dying.  If he’d only go away instead of standing here tormenting himself!”

Mother Stina suddenly jumped to her feet as if to cry out that this thing must be stopped; then she sat down again.  “I mustn’t forget that I’m only a poor old woman,” she sighed.