"But now I am through with him," said Thord. He folded his pocketbook together, said good-by and went. The men followed slowly after.
A fortnight after that day the father and son rowed in calm weather across the water to Storliden to confer about the wedding. "This board does not lie securely under me," said the son, and got up to lay it aright. Just then the plank on which he stood slipped; he threw out his arms, gave a cry and fell in the water. "Take hold of the oar!" called the father, rising and holding it toward him. But when the son had made a few strokes he stiffened. "Wait a little!" cried the father, and rowed nearer. Then the son turned over backwards, gave a long look at the father—and sank.
Thord would not believe it. He held the boat still and stared at the spot where his son had sunk down as if he were to come up again. Some bubbles rose to the surface, then a few more, then just one large one that burst—and the sea lay again like a mirror.
For three days and three nights they saw the father rowing about that spot without food or sleep; he was searching for his son. On the third day in the morning he found him, and came carrying him up over the hills to his farm.
A year perhaps had passed since that day. Then the pastor, late one autumn evening, heard something in the hallway outside his door fumbling cautiously for the latch. The minister opened the door and in stepped a tall, bent man, thin and white-haired. The minister looked long at him before he recognized him; it was Thord.
"Do you come so late?" said the pastor and stood still before him.
"O, yes, I come late," said Thord, seating himself.
The pastor also sat down as if waiting. There was a long silence, then Thord said: "I have something with me that I wish to give to the poor; it shall be in the form of a legacy and carry my son's name." He got up, laid money on the table and sat down again.
The pastor counted the money. "That is a great deal," he said.
"It is half of my farm; I sold it today."