He was not happy, though he would have found it hard to say what was wrong. He could not honestly declare that he regretted having given up the path of fame that once had stood open to him through his music.
In the old days, whenever he had touched his violin, the contrast between the harmony of music and the discord of the world as it was had wrought on him so strongly that he had been driven to seek solitude. His sensitive soul craved rest, quivering as it did under the harshness of reality. It was not the desire for appreciation of his art, but the longing for harmony in life that he felt most deeply.
Here, on the farm, existence was rendered tolerable by the fact that he had to be constantly at work; the management of the estate gave him much to do, in addition to which the affairs of the parish were almost wholly entrusted to his care. And the affection and respect of his people, which he could not but perceive, served largely to aid him in the constant struggle within.
The people loved him, not only because he helped them in every possible way, and never refused his aid and counsel, but also because they felt that in him they had a true leader. They saw the firmness of character, the stern will, which he exercised in his own life, and it gave them courage.
Ormarr invariably began the day by a visit of inspection round the farm to see that all was in order. The animals allowed to go loose about the place were carefully looked to each morning to see that they had come to no harm during the night.
One of the first things to catch his eye this morning was Ørlygur’s lamb. He noticed the black head at once, and as he approached, the animal rose up, bleating pitifully. Evidently it was in distress about something. As soon as he had caught it, he noticed the blue ribbon at its neck, looked at it, and found the name “Snebiorg” woven in red letters. He was about to take it off, but changed his mind and let the lamb go. There were not two women of that name in the parish. And the lamb had got into the enclosure during the night, though the gate was fastened. Ormarr was not quite clear in his own mind as to what had happened, but at any rate, if the ribbon were intended for any one, it was not for him.
He thought it over for a while, and then went into the house to wake Ørlygur.
“Your lamb has come back. You will find it outside.”
Ørlygur was out of bed in an instant. His father hesitated, as if deliberating whether to say more, but after a moment’s reflection left the room.
Ørlygur threw on his clothes and hurried out—there was the lamb, sure enough. But—it did not recognize him. Evidently, in the course of the summer, it had forgotten him.