Sometimes as he came in, after skiing or skating or coasting, he would hear Besta’s spinning wheel whirring comfortably away. She liked to spin the wool for her knitting and weaving. Even Margret, up-to-date as she considered herself, preferred the soft wool her grandmother spun to any other. Besta never looked as contented as when her foot was on that treadle, her practiced hand drawing out the fine strong woolen yarn.
Arne usually came from school with a rush and a bang. But one day he came into the kitchen without saying a word. Bergel was with him, and she too was quiet.
“Fresh lefse, Arne,” said his mother.
Arne nodded, but for once he didn’t make a move to take any.
Besta looked at him keenly. “Trouble in school, Arne?” she asked.
Arne’s face darkened, and he doubled up his fists. “That Herr Professor!” he exclaimed. “He’s just so mean and unreasonable. All I did was to ask Sigurd, just behind me, how far we were to study. And I had to stand up in front of the whole room for an hour.” He flushed as he thought of it.
“Perhaps he thought you would have known how far to study if you had been paying attention,” said Mother, shaking her head, though she felt sorry for Arne.
“Well, I was thinking of something more important than English grammar.” In spite of himself, Arne’s face lighted a little. For right in the midst of class, he had suddenly thought of a delightful plan—a surprise for everyone for Christmas. Mother was exactly right, though he didn’t like to admit it. He had been thinking out details of his project instead of paying attention.
“How do you get along with Herr Professor, Bergel?” asked Besta.