"The cushion is not straight," said the son, he rose up to put it right. At the same moment his foot slipped; he stretched out his arms, and with a cry fell into the water.
"Catch hold of the oar!" called the father, he stood up and stuck it out. But when the son had made a few attempts, he became stiff.
"Wait a minute!" cried the father, and began to row. Then the son turned backwards over, gazed earnestly at his father, and sank.
Thord could scarcely believe it to be true; he kept the boat still, and stared at the spot where his son had sunk, as though he would come up again. A few bubbles rose up, a few more, then one great one, it burst--and the sea again lay bright as a mirror.
For three days and three nights the father was seen to row round and round the spot without either food or sleep; he was seeking for his son. On the morning of the third day he found him, and carried him up over the hills to his farm.
It would be about a year after that day, when the pastor, one autumn evening, heard something rustling outside the door in the passage, and fumbling about the lock. The door opened, and in walked a tall thin man, with bent figure and white hair. The pastor looked long at him before he recognised him; it was Thord.
"Do you come so late?" asked the pastor and stood still before him.
"Why yes, I do come late," said Thore, he seated himself. The pastor sat down also, as though waiting; there was a long silence.
Then said Thord, "I have something with me that I wish to give to the poor,"--he rose, laid some money on the table, and sat down again.
The pastor counted it: "It is a great deal of money," he said.