For the rest, Lavrans Björgulfsön had reason enough this summer to be moody and downcast, for now all tokens showed that the year would be an exceedingly bad one in all the country round; and the farmers were coming together time and again to take counsel how they should meet the coming winter. As the late summer drew on, it was plain to most, that they must slaughter great part of their cattle or drive them south for sale, and buy corn to feed their people through the winter. The year before had been no good corn year, so that the stocks of old corn were but scanty.
One morning in early autumn Ragnfrid went out with all her three daughters to see to some linen she had lying out on the bleach field. Kristin praised much her mother’s weaving. Then the mother stroked little Ramborg’s hair and said:
“We must save this for your bride-chest, little one.”
“Then, mother,” said Ulvhild, “shall I not have any bride-chest when I go to the nunnery?”
“You know well,” said Ragnfrid, “your dowry will be nowise less than your sisters. But ’twill not be such things as they need that you will need. And then you know full well, too, that you are to bide with your father and me as long as we live—if so be you will.”
“And when you come to the nunnery,” said Kristin, unsteadily, “it may be, Ulvhild, that I shall have been a nun there for many years.”
She looked across at her mother, but Ragnfrid held her peace.
“Had I been such an one that I could marry,” said Ulvhild, “never would I have turned away from Simon—he was so kind, and he was so sorrowful when he said farewell to us all.”
“You know your father bade us not speak of this,” said Ragnfrid—but Kristin broke in defiantly:
“Aye; well I know that ’twas far more sorrow for him parting from you than from me.”