That business of the saw was always in his thoughts; it was as he had said. Last winter, when the roads were hard, he had carted up the big circular blade and the fittings, ordered from Trondhjem through the village store. The parts were lying in one of the sheds now, well smeared with oil to keep off the rust. He had brought up some of the beams too, for the framework; he could begin building when he pleased, but he put it off. What could it be? was he beginning to grow slack, was he wearing out? He could not understand it himself. It would have been no surprise to others, perhaps, but Isak could not believe it. Was his head going? He had never been afraid of taking up a piece of work before; he must have changed somehow, since the time when he had built his mill across a river just as big. He could get in help from the village, but he would try again alone; he would start in a day or so—and Inger could lend him a hand.
He spoke to Inger about it.
"Hm. I don't know if you could find time one of these days to lend a hand with that sawmill?"
Inger thought for a moment. "Ye—s, if I can manage it. So you're going to set up a sawmill?"
"Ay, 'tis my intention so. I've worked it all out in my head."
"Will that be harder than the mill was?"
"Much harder, ten times as hard. Why, it's all got to be as close and exact—down to the tiniest line, and the saw itself exactly midways."
"If only you can manage it," said Inger thoughtlessly.
Isak was offended, and answered, "As to that, we shall see."
"Couldn't you get a man to help you, some one that knows the work?"