And Merle had to admit that her husband was right. It would be selfish of them to keep the boy here, when he might be heir to Bruseth some day if they let him go.
Suppose he stayed and worked here under his father and learned to be a smith? The blacksmith’s day is over—factories do all the work now.
And what schooling could he get away here in the country? Aunt Marit offered to send him to a good school.—And so the die was cast for him too.
But when they went with the boy to see him off at the station, the mother’s handkerchief was at her eyes all the time, do what she would.
And when they came home she had to lie down in bed, while Peer went about the place, humming to himself, while he got ready a little supper and brought it to her bedside.
“I can’t understand how you can take it so easily,” she burst out.
“No—no,” he laughed a little oddly. “The less said about that the better, perhaps.”
But the next day it was Peer who said he felt lazy again and would lie still a bit. Merle looked at him and stroked his forehead.
And the time went on. They worked hard and constantly to make both ends meet without help, and they were content to take things as they came. When the big dairy was started close by, he made a good deal of money setting up the plant, but he was not above sharpening a drill for the road-gangs either. He was often to be seen going down to the country store in a sleeved waistcoat with a knapsack on his back. He carried his head high, the close-trimmed beard was shading over into white, his face often had the strained look that comes from sleeplessness, but his step was light, and he still had a joke for the girls whom he met.
In summer, the neighbours would often see them shutting up the house and starting off up the hill with knapsack and coffee-kettle and with little Asta trotting between them. They were gone, it might be, to try and recapture some memory of old days, with coffee in the open air by a picnic fire.