“I have no right to hold you back,” answered Sort quietly, “but it will be lonely travelling for me. I shall feel as if I’d lost a son. But of course you’ve got other things to think of than to remember a poor hunchback! The world is open to you. Once you’ve feathered your nest, you’ll think no more of little Sort!”
“I shall think of you, right enough,” replied Pelle. “And as soon as I’m doing well I shall come back and look out for you—not before. Father will be sure to object to my idea of travelling—he would so like me to take over Heath Farm from him; but there you must back me up. I’ve no desire to be a farmer.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Now just look at it! Nothing but stone upon stone with heather and scrubby bushes in between! That’s what Heath Farm was four years ago —and now it’s quite a fine property. That the two of them have done —without any outside help.”
“You must be built of good timber,” said Sort. “But what poor fellow is that up on the hill? He’s got a great sack on his back and he’s walking as if he’d fall down at every step.”
“That—that is Father Lasse! Hallo!” Pelle waved his cap.
Lasse came stumbling up to them; he dropped his sack and gave them his hand without looking at them.
“Are you coming this way?” cried Pelle joyfully; “we were just going on to look for you!”
“You can save yourself the trouble! You’ve become stingy about using your legs. Spare them altogether!” said Lasse lifelessly.
Pelle stared at him. “What’s the matter? Are you leaving?”