"Bad? Heaven bless us, he's falling away day by day."
"Was he in bed, then?"
"In bed? How can you talk so light and flighty of death before God's Judgment-seat? Nay, he'll neither hop nor run again in this world, will your Uncle Sivert."
All this seemed to mean that Uncle Sivert had not long to live, and
Inger insisted that little Sivert should set off at once.
But Uncle Sivert, incorrigible old knave, was not on his death-bed; was not even confined to bed at all. When young Sivert came, he found the little place in terrible muddle and disorder; they had not finished the spring season's work properly yet—had not even carted out all the winter manure; but as for approaching death, there was no sign of it that he could see. Uncle Sivert was an old man now, over seventy; he was something of an invalid, and pottered about half-dressed in the house, and often kept his bed for a time. He needed help on the place in many ways, as, for instance, with the herring nets that hung rotting in the sheds. Oh, but for all that he was by no means at his last gasp; he could still eat sour fish and smoke his pipe.
When Sivert had been there half an hour and seen how things were, he was for going back home again.
"Home?" said the old man.
"We're building a house, and father's none to help him properly."
"Ho!" said his uncle. "Isn't Eleseus come home, then?"
"Ay, but he's not used to the work."