There was a slight pause. "We've one or two things to talk over now," went on the old man. "I should like to hear, to begin with, what you're thinking of doing. Wandering about as before, maybe?"
"No. I've done with that. I've settled down in my own place—I'm building a house there," answered Olof.
"H'm. Building a house, are you? I could find you a house here, for that matter. I dare say you know I've no son to come after me. And I'm an old man now."
Olof looked wonderingly at him. "I understand now," he said slowly, "what you meant before. And I thank you for your kindness. But it's this way with me now—I can't live in another man's house; I must make a place for myself, and work for myself. I was to have had the farm at home, but I couldn't take it." "A farm?" cried the old man, rising to his feet. "Where—where do you come from, then?"
"From Kylanpaa in Hirviyoki—I don't know if you've heard of the place."
"I have been there, years ago," said the old man in a kindlier tone, taking a step towards him. "And what's the name of your place there?" he asked.
"Koskela."
"Koskela? That's a big place."
"Why, 'tis big enough," said Olof.
"And why didn't you say that before—when you were here last?" said the old man sharply. "'Twould have been better for both if you had."