“I've given my word,” said Rolf, in surprise.
“Hey ye signed papers?”
“They're not needed. The only use of signed papers is to show ye have given your word,” said Rolf, quoting his mother, with rising indignation.
The trader sniffed a little contemptuously and said nothing. But he realized the value of a lad who was a steady, intelligent worker, wouldn't drink, and was absolutely bound by a promise; so, after awhile, he said: “Wall, if Van don't want ye now, come back for a couple of weeks.”
Early in the morning Rolf gathered the trifles he had secured for the little children and the book he had bought for Annette, a sweet story of a perfect girl who died and went to heaven, the front embellished with a thrilling wood-cut. Then he crossed the familiar five-mile portage at a pace that in an hour brought him to the lake.
The greeting at Van's was that of a brother come home.
“Vell, Rolf, it's goood to see ye back. It's choost vat I vented. Hi, Marta, I told it you, yah. I say, now I hope ze good Gott send Rolf. Ach, how I am shpoil!”
Yes, indeed. The hay was ready; the barley was changing. So Rolf took up his life on the farm, doing work that a year before was beyond his strength, for the spirit of the hills was on him, with its impulse of growth, its joy in effort, its glory in strength. And all who saw the longlegged, long-armed, flat-backed youth plying fork or axe or hoe, in some sort ventured a guess: “He'll be a good 'un some day; the kind o' chap to keep friendly with.