came fit for sledging. It worked out beautifully.
But there was another matter Isak had thought of times out of number: that Goldenhorns, where had she come from, whose had she been? There was never a wife on earth like Inger. Ho! a wild thing she was, that let him do as he pleased with her, and was glad of it. But—suppose one day they were to come for the cow, and take it away—and worse, maybe, to come after? What was it Inger herself had said about the horse: "You haven't stolen it, I suppose, or found it?" That was her first thought, yes. That was what she had said; who could say if she were to be trusted—what should he do? He had thought of it all many a time. And here he had brought up a mate himself for the cow—for a stolen cow, maybe!
And there was the horse he would have to return again. A pity—for 'twas a little friendly beast, and grown fond of them already.
"Never mind," said Inger comfortingly. "Why, you've done wonders already."
"Ay, but just now with the spring coming on—and I've need of a horse. … "
Next morning he drove off quietly with the last load, and was away two days. Coming back on foot the third day, he stopped as he neared the house, and stood listening. There was a curious noise inside. … A child crying—Eyah, Herregud! … Well, there it was; but a terrible strange thing. And Inger had never said a word.
He stepped inside, and there first thing of all was the packing-case—the famous packing-case that he had carried home slung round his neck in front; there it was, hung up by a string at each end from the ceiling, a cradle and a bedplace for the child. Inger was up, pottering about half-dressed—she had milked the cow and the goats, as it might have been just an ordinary day.
The child stopped crying. "You're through with it already?" said Isak.
"Ay, I'm through with it now."
"H'm."
"It came the first evening you were gone."
"H'm."
"I'd only to get my things off and hang up the cradle there, but it was too much for me, like, and I had to lie down."
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
"Why, I couldn't say to a minute when it'd be. 'Tis a boy."
"Ho, a boy."
"And I can't for the life of me think what we're to call him," said
Inger.
Isak peeped at the little red face; well shaped it was, and no hare-lip, and a growth of hair all thick on the head. A fine little fellow for his rank and station in a packing-case; Isak felt himself curiously weak. The rugged man stood there with a miracle before him; a thing created first of all in a sacred mist, showing forth now in life with a little face like an allegory. Days and years, and the miracle would be a human being.
"Come and have your food," said Inger. …
* * * * *
Isak is a woodman, felling trees and sawing logs. He is better off now than before, having a saw. He works away, and mighty piles of wood grow up; he makes a street of them, a town, built up of stacks and piles of wood. Inger is more about the house now, and does not come out as before to watch him at his work; Isak must find a pretext now and then to slip off home for a moment instead. Queer to have a little fellow like that about the place! Isak, of course, would never dream of taking any notice—'twas but a bit of a thing in a packing-case. And as for being fond of it … But when it cried, well, it was only human nature to feel just a little something for a cry like that; a little tiny cry like that.
"Don't touch him!" says Inger. "With your hands all messed up with resin and all!"
"Resin, indeed!" says Isak. "Why, I haven't had resin on my hands since I built this house. Give me the boy, let me take him—there, he's as right as can be!"
* * * * *
Early in May came a visitor. A woman came over the hills to that lonely place where none ever came; she was of Inger's kinsfolk, though not near, and they made her welcome.
"I thought I'd just look in," she says, "and see how Goldenhorns gets on since she left us."
Inger looks at the child, and talks to it in a little pitying voice: "Ah, there's none asks how he's getting on, that's but a little tiny thing."
"Why, as for that, any one can see how he's getting on. A fine little lad and all. And who'd have thought it a year gone, Inger, to find you here with house and husband and child and all manner of things."
"'Tis no doing of mine to praise. But there's one sitting there that took me as I was and no more."
"And wedded?—Not wedded yet, no, I see."
"We'll see about it, the time this little man's to be christened," says Inger. "We'd have been wedded before, but couldn't come by it, getting down to a church and all. What do you say, Isak?"
"Wedded?" says Isak. "Why, yes, of course."
"But if as you'd help us, Oline," says Inger. "Just to come up for a few days in the off time once, and look to the creatures here while we're away?"
Ay, Oline would do that.
"We'll see it's no loss to you after."
Why, as to that, she'd leave it to them. … "And you're building again, I see. Now what'll that be for? Isn't there built enough?"
Inger sees her chance and puts in here: "Why, you must ask him about that. I'm not to know."
"Building?" says Isak. "Oh, 'tis nothing to speak of. A bit of a shed, maybe, if we should need it. What's that you were saying about Goldenhorns? You'd like to see her?"
They go across to the cowshed, and there's cow and calf to show, and an ox to boot. The visitor nods her head, looking at the beasts, and at the shed; all fine as could be, and clean as couldn't be cleaner. "Trust Inger for looking after creatures every way," says Oline.
Isak puts a question: "Goldenhorns was at your place before?"
"Ay, from a calf. Not my place, though; at my son's. But 'tis all the same. And we've her mother still."
Isak had not heard better news a long while; it was a burden lighter. Goldenhorns was his and Inger's by honest right. To tell the truth, he had half thought of getting rid of his trouble in a sorry way; to kill off the cow that autumn, scrape the hide, bury the horns, and thus make away with all trace of Cow Goldenhorns in this life. No need for that now. And he grew mightily proud of Inger all at once.
"Ay, Inger," says he. "She's one to manage things, that's true. There's not her like nor equal to be found. 'Twas a poor place here till I got a woman of my own, as you might say."
"Why, 'tis but natural so," says Oline.
And so this woman from across the hills, a soft-spoken creature with her wits about her, and by name Oline, she stayed with them a couple of days, and had the little room to sleep in. And, when she set out for home, she had a bundle of wool that Inger had given her, from the sheep. There was no call to hide that bundle of wool, but Oline took care that Isak should not see it.
Then the child and Isak and his wife again; the same world again, and the work of the day, with many little joys and big. Goldenhorns was yielding well, the goats had dropped their kids and were yielding well; Inger had a row of red and white cheeses already, stored away to get ripe. It was her plan to save up cheeses till there were enough to buy a loom. Oh, that Inger; she knew how to weave.
And Isak built a shed—he too had a plan of his own, no doubt. He set up a new wing built out from the side of the turf hut, with double panelling boards, made a doorway in it, and a neat little window with four panes; laid on a roof of outer boards, and made do with that till the ground thawed and he could get turf. All that was useful and necessary; no flooring, no smooth-planed walls, but Isak had fixed up a box partition, as for a horse, and a manger.
It was nearing the end of May.