In the living-room, on the other hand, the people were very quiet, and when any one spoke, it was in hushed tones; for every one’s thoughts were in the little room where the fate of the farm was being settled.

Mother Stina turned to Gabriel, saying:  “I suppose there’s no chance of Ingmar getting the farm?”

“The bidding has gone far beyond his figure by now,” Gabriel replied.  “The innkeeper from Karmsund is said to have offered thirty-two thousand, and the Company’s bid has been raised to thirty-five.  The pastor is now trying to persuade Karin and Halvor to let it go to the innkeeper rather than to the Company.”

“But what about Berger Sven Persson?”

“It seems that he has not made any bid to-day.”

The pastor was still talking.  He was evidently pleading with some one.  They could not hear what he said, but they knew that no decision had been reached or the pastor would not have gone on talking.

Then came a moment of silence, after which the innkeeper was heard to say, not exactly loudly, but with a clearness that made every word carry:  “I bid thirty-six thousand, not that I think the place is worth that much, but I can’t bear the thought of its becoming a corporation property.”

Immediately after there was a noise as of some one striking a table with his fist, and the manager of the Company was heard to shout:  “I bid forty thousand, and more than that Karin and Halvor are not likely to get.”

Mother Stina, who had turned as white as a sheet, got up and went back to the yard.  It was dreary enough out there, but not as insufferable as sitting in the close room listening to the haggling.

The sale of linen was over; the auctioneer had again changed his place, and was about to cry out the old family silverware—­the heavy silver jugs inlaid with gold coin, and the beakers bearing inscriptions from the seventeenth century.  When he held up the first jug, Ingmar started forward as if to stop the sale, but restrained himself at once, and went back to his place.

A few minutes later an old peasant came bearing the silver jug, which he respectfully deposited at Ingmar’s feet.  “You must keep this as a souvenir of all that by right should have been yours,” he said.

Again a tremor passed through Ingmar’s body; his lips quivered, and he tried to say something.

“You needn’t say anything now,” said the old peasant.  “That will keep till another time.”  He withdrew a few paces, then suddenly turned back.  “I hear that folks are saying you could take over the farm if you cared to.  It would be the greatest service you could render this parish.”

There were a number of old servants living at the farm, who had been there from early youth.  Now that old age had overtaken them they still stayed on, and over these hung a pall of uncertainty such as had not touched the others.  They feared that under a new master they would be turned out of their old home to become beggars.  Or, whatever happened, they knew in their hearts that no stranger would care for them as their old master and mistress had done.  These poor old pensioners wandered restlessly about the farmyard all day long.  Seeing them shrink past, frail and helpless, with a look of hopeless appeal in their weak, watery eyes, every one felt sorry for them.