"Ay, you're right there," put in a stout fellow with a loud voice. "'Twas so with my old woman once when she was young. Got set on a bit of a greenhorn chap, all soft as butter, and took it badly. But I saw 'twas no good for her nor anyone, and heaved him out of the way and took her myself. And well I did, for she's never troubled a thought about him since."
A shout of laughter went up from the men. They had recovered their spirits now.
"Ay, you may laugh," said an elderly man. "But 'tis not every man that troubles if what he thinks best is best for a woman herself." He paused a moment, and sat cleaning his pipe with a straw. "There's girls of our own sort that can't be handled that way to any good—and there's both men and girls that don't take things so lightly."
There was an earnest ring in his voice, a note almost of pain, and the men ceased to smile. Olof turned in surprise, and looked at the speaker—some of the others were making signs behind the old man's back.
"I know one man at least," he went on, "that loved a girl when he was young, and couldn't marry her. He didn't go off and kill himself—but it marked him, none the less, for all he was only a peasant himself. Sold his place, he did, and drank away the money, and wandered about the rest of his life to this day—and never forgotten her."
The old man was silent.
"Ay, 'tis plain to see she's in his mind now that he's old and grey," said one who had pointed to the speaker before.
The old man bowed his head, and pulled his cap down over his eyes; but they could see a quiver in his face, and the brass-bound pipe-stem trembled in his hand.
The men exchanged glances; none seemed wishful to speak.
"Ay, 'tis no light thing to play with," said one at last. "And each knows best what he's learned for himself."