“Nor you, Mother. You hold your own. Don't you wear glasses yet?”
“Only to read by. Where's your trunk, Nils?”
“Oh, I left that in town. I thought it might not be convenient for you to have company so near threshing-time.”
“Don't be foolish, Nils.” Mrs. Ericson turned back to the stove. “I don't thresh now. I hitched the wheat land onto the next farm and have a tenant. Hilda, take some hot water up to the company room, and go call little Eric.”
The tow-haired child, who had been standing in mute amazement, took up the tea-kettle and withdrew, giving Nils a long, admiring look from the door of the kitchen stairs.
“Who's the youngster?” Nils asked, dropping down on the bench behind the kitchen stove.
“One of your Cousin Henrik's.”
“How long has Cousin Henrik been dead?”
“Six years. There are two boys. One stays with Peter and one with Anders. Olaf is their guardeen.”
There was a clatter of pails on the porch, and a tall, lanky boy peered wonderingly in through the screen door. He had a fair, gentle face and big grey eyes, and wisps of soft yellow hair hung down under his cap. Nils sprang up and pulled him into the kitchen, hugging him and slapping him on the shoulders. “Well, if it isn't my kid! Look at the size of him! Don't you know me, Eric?”