"There now, Meri!" said old Larsson with fatherly sympathy, as he held the fainting woman's head on his knees and bathed her forehead with cold water; "there, my child, don't be foolish enough to die and leave your old friend; what joy would he then have on earth? ... She cannot hear me, poor child! Who ever had such a father as hers? To compel this delicate thing to work in such heat! ... Drink a little—that's right ... it is very good of you; now open your lovely eyes once more. Do not trouble, Meri; we will go to the house, and you shall not work any more to-day."
The pale and delicate creature endeavoured to rise and seize her sickle.
"Thank you, Larsson," she said in a low but melodious voice, "I am better now. I will work; father washes it."
"Father wishes it!" exclaimed the old man testily. "You see, I do not; I forbid you to work. Even if your father turned me out of doors, and I had to beg my bread, you should not work any more to-day. Well, well, my child, don't take it so hard; your father is not so foolish. He knows that you are not strong; you are like your dead mother, who was a lady by birth, and from your education in Stockholm ... There, there; let us go home; don't be obstinate now, Meri!"
"Let me go, Larsson; see, he comes himself!" cried Meri, tearing herself free and grasping the scythe, with which she again tried to mow the golden rye. But as she stooped down, it grew dark before her eyes, and for the second time she sank fainting between the waving stalks.
At that instant the efforts of all the workers redoubled; he approached in person, the severe and dreaded owner of Bertila farm. Like a gloomy shadow he came slowly along the path—a tall old man of seventy, but little bent by age. His costume was the same as that of the peasants in summer: wide shirt-sleeves, a long red-striped vest, short linen pantaloons, blue stockings, and bark-shoes. He wore a high pointed cap of red yarn on his white head, which made his tall figure still more imposing. In spite of his simple costume, his whole bearing was commanding. The decided carriage, sharp penetrating look, resolute expression, love of authority around the tightly drawn upper lip, indicated the former political leader and the rich and powerful land-owner, accustomed to rule over many hundreds of subordinates. Seeing this old man, one understood why he was known in many neighbouring parishes as the Peasant King.
Cold and calm, old Aron Bertila approached the spot where his only daughter lay in a dead faint.
"Put her in the hay-wagon and take her up to the house," he said. "In two hours she will be back to her work."
"But, Bertila!" exclaimed Larsson excitedly.
Bertila looked round with a glance before which the other quailed; then he stalked on through the field as if nothing had occurred, observing with a keen eye the labours of the reapers; here and there breaking off an ear and closely examining the number and weight of the seeds. From the barn the whole harvest-field was visible; it was new, and more than a hundred acres in extent. The old man looked with great pride on the waving sea of golden ears; his carriage became more erect, his breast expanded, as he beckoned Larsson to him.