Lavrans was to go next day to a lake farther in the mountains, where lay some of his herdsmen with the bulls. Kristin was to have gone with him, but now he said she must stay in the hut while he was gone—“and you must take heed, both Tordis and Isrid, to keep the door barred and the smokehole closed till we come back, both for Kristin’s sake, and for the poor unchristened babe’s here in the cradle.”
Tordis was so frighted now that she dared no longer stay with the little one up here, for she was still unchurched since her lying in—rather would she go down at once and bide in the parish. Lavrans said this seemed to him but wise; she could go down with them the next evening; he thought he could get an older widow woman, serving at Jörundgaard, up hither in her stead.
Tordis had spread sweet, fresh mountain grass under the skins on the benches; it smelt so strong and good, and Kristin was near asleep while her father said Our Father and Ave Maria over her.
“Aye, ’twill be a long day before I take you with me to the fells again,” said Lavrans, patting her cheek.
Kristin woke up with a start:
“Father—mayn’t I go with you either when you go southwards at harvest, as you promised—”
“We must see about that,” said Lavrans, and straightway Kristin fell asleep between the sheepskins.
2
Each summer it was Lavrans Björgulfsön’s wont to ride southward and see to his manor in Follo. These journeys of her father were landmarks of each year in Kristin’s life—the long weeks while he was gone, and the joy of his homecoming with brave gifts: fine outlandish stuffs for her bride-chest, figs, raisins and honey-bread from Oslo—and many strange things to tell her.