"Sulla ma, Sulla ma, Sulla ma, aa kjy!
Sulla ma, Sulla ma, Sulla ma, aa kjy![K]
Sullam, sullam, sy-y-y y-y-y!"
Bedstemor was in her garden, giving an eye to her red-currant bushes, of which she was specially proud, and casting a sly glance round to see what the Swedish artist-lady was doing perched on that rock in the next field. She was only looking towards the Gaard and measuring the cowhouse in the air. Bedstemor thought there was no harm in that; and any way, these people had to do something.
The Sorenskriver was coming down from the birch-woods, alone and apparently in a disagreeable mood, for he pushed roughly on one side the little golden-haired daughter of one of the cotters who was playing on the hillside.
"These wretched Englishmen," he said, frowning. "Uff, they are always in the way, all over the world. And I was having such a pleasant time with her before this fellow came."
Katharine and Clifford were lingering near the foss. Katharine was making a little water-colour of the lovely scene. Through the trees one could catch a glimpse of the shining river and a bit of the bright blue sky.
"Yes," Clifford was saying, "my old Dane was wise to send us, and we were wise to come back. We were not happy together, Miss Frensham. But since we have returned the boy is happier, and—I am happier too."
Katharine, bending over her work, whispered to herself:
"And I—I am happier too."