Ay, but Margrave, what was he now? A pitiful thing, nothing superhuman, but old and fading, going the way of all flesh. What though he had good bowels, and could eat well, when it gave him no strength? 'Twas Sivert had the strength now, and a mercy it was so—but think, if Isak had had it too! A sorry thing, to find his works running down. He had toiled like a man, carrying loads enough for any beast of burden; now, he could exercise his patience in resting.
Isak is ill-pleased, heavy at heart.
Here lies an old hat, an old sou'wester, rotting on the ground. Carried there by the gale, maybe, or maybe the lads had brought it there to the edge of the wood years ago, when they were little ones. It lies there year after year, rotting and rotting away; but once it had been a new sou'wester, all yellow and new. Isak remembers the day he came home with it from the store, and Inger had said it was a fine hat. A year or so after, he had taken it to a painter down in the village, and had it blacked and polished, and the brim done in green. And when he came home, Inger thought it a finer hat than before. Inger always thought everything was fine; ay, 'twas a good life those days, cutting faggots, with Inger to look on—his best days. And when March and April came, Inger and he would be wild after each other, just like the birds and beasts in the woods; and when May was come, he would sow his corn and plant potatoes, living and thriving from day to dawn. Work and sleep, loving and dreaming, he was like the first big ox, and that was a wonder to see, big and bright as a king. But there was no such May to the years now. No such thing.
Isak was sorely despondent for some days. Dark days they were. He felt neither wish nor strength to start work on the fodder loft—that could be left for Sivert to do some day. The thing to be done now was the house for himself—the last house to build. He could not long hide from Sivert what he was doing; he was clearing the ground, and plain to see what for. And one day he told.
"There's a good bit of stone if we'd any use for stonework," said he.
"And there's another."
Sivert showed no surprise, and only said: "Ay, first-rate stones."
"What you might think," said his father.
"We've been digging round here now to find that other door-slab piece; might almost do to build here. I don't know…."
"Ay, 'tis no bad place to build," said Sivert, looking round.
"Think so? 'Twas none so bad, maybe, to have a bit of a place to house folk if any should come along."