In the early eighties there was no one in the parish where the old
Ingmarsson family lived who would have thought of embracing any new
kind of faith or attending any new form of sacred service. That new
sects had sprung up, here and there, in other Dalecarlian parishes,
and that people went out into rivers and lakes to be immersed in
accordance with the new rites of the Baptists, was known; but folks
only laughed at it all and said: "That sort of thing may suit those
who live at Applebo and in Gagnef, but it can never touch our
parish."
The people of that parish clung to their old customs and habits,
one of which was a regular attendance at church on Sundays; every
one that could go went, even in the severest winter weather. Then,
of all times, it was almost a necessity; with the thermometer at
twenty below zero outside, it would have been beyond human
endurance to sit in the unheated church had it not been packed to
the doors with people.
It could not be said of the parishioners that they turned out in
such great numbers because they had a particularly brilliant pastor
or one who had any special gift for expounding the Scriptures. In
those days folks went to church to praise God and not to be
entertained by fine sermons. On the way home, when fighting against
the cutting wind on an open country road, one thought: "Our Lord
must have noticed that you were at church this cold morning." That
was the main thing. It was no fault of theirs if the preacher had
said nothing more than he had been heard to say every Sunday since
his appointment to the pastorate.
As a matter of fact, the majority seemed perfectly satisfied with
what they got. They knew that what the pastor read to them was the
Word of God, and therefore they found it altogether beautiful. Only
the schoolmaster and one or two of the more intelligent farmers
occasionally said among themselves: "The parson seems to have only
one sermon; he talks of nothing but God's wisdom and God's
government. All that is well enough so long as the Dissenters keep
away. But this stronghold is poorly defended and would fall at the
first attack."
Lay preachers generally passed by this parish. "What's the good of
going there?" they used to say. "Those people don't want to be
awakened." Not only the lay preachers, but even all the "awakened
souls" in the neighbouring parishes looked upon the Ingmarssons and
their fellow-parishioners as great sinners, and whenever they
caught the sound of the bells from their church they would say the
bells were tolling, "Sleep in your sins! Sleep in your sins!"
The whole congregation, old and young alike, were furious when they
learned that people spoke in that way of their bells. They knew
that their folks never forgot to repeat the Lord's Prayer whenever
the church bells rang, and that every evening, at the time of the
Angelus, the menfolk uncovered their heads, the women courtesied,
and everybody stood still about as long as it takes to say an Our
Father. All who have lived in that parish must acknowledge that God
never seemed so mighty and so honoured as on summer evenings, when
scythes were rested, and plows were stopped in the middle of a
furrow, and the seed wagon was halted in the midst of the loading,
simply at the stroke of a bell. It was as if they knew that our
Lord at that moment was hovering over the parish on an evening
cloud--great and powerful and good--breathing His blessing upon the
whole community.
None of your college-bred men had ever taught in that parish. The
schoolmaster was just a plain, old-fashioned farmer, who was
self-taught. He was a capable man who could manage a hundred
children single-handed. For thirty years and more he had been the
only teacher there, and was looked up to by everybody. The
schoolmaster seemed to feel that the spiritual welfare of the
entire congregation rested with him, and was therefore quite
concerned at their having called a parson who was no kind of a
preacher. However, he held his peace as long as it was only a
question of introducing a new form of baptism, and elsewhere at
that; but on learning that there had also been some changes in the
administration of the Holy Communion and that people were beginning
to gather in private homes to partake of the Sacrament, he could no
longer remain passive. Although a poor man himself, he managed to
persuade some of the leading citizens to raise the money to build a
mission house. "You know me," he said to them. "I only want to
preach in order to strengthen people in the old faith. What would
be the natural result if the lay preachers were to come upon us,
with their new baptism and their new Sacrament, if there were no
one to tell the people what was the true doctrine and what the
false?"
The schoolmaster was as well liked by the clergyman as by every one
else. He and the parson were frequently seen strolling together
along the road between the schoolhouse and the parsonage, back and
forth, back and forth, as if they had no end of things to say to
each other. The parson would often drop in at the schoolmaster's of
an evening to sit in the cozy kitchen by an open fire and chat with
the schoolmaster's wife, Mother Stina. At times he came night after
night. He had a dreary time of it at home; his wife was always
ailing, and there was neither order nor comfort in his house.
One winter's evening the schoolmaster and his wife were sitting by
the kitchen fire, talking in earnest whispers, while a little girl
of twelve played by herself in a corner of the room. The little
girl was their daughter, and her name was Gertrude. She was a fair
little lass, with flaxen hair and plump, rosy cheeks, but she did
not have that wise and prematurely old look which one so often sees
in the children of schoolmasters.
The corner in which she sat was her playground. There she had
gathered together a variety of things: bits of coloured glass,
broken teacups and saucers, pebbles from the banks of the river,
little square blocks of wood, and more rubbish of the same sort.
She had been let play in peace all the evening; neither her father
nor her mother had disturbed her. Busy as she was she did not want
to be reminded of lessons and chores. It didn't look as if there
were going to be any extra sums to do for father that night, she
thought.
She had a big work in hand, the little girl back there in her
corner. Nothing less than making a whole parish! She was going to
build up the entire district with both church and schoolhouse; the
river and the bridge were also to be included. Everything had to be
quite complete, of course.
She had already got a good part of it done. The whole wreath of
hills that went round the parish was made up of smaller and larger
stones. In all the crevices she had planted forests of little
spruce twigs, and with two jagged stones she had erected Klack
Mountain and Olaf's Peak on either side of the Dal River. The long
valley in between the mountains had been covered with mould taken
from one of her mother's flowerpots. So far everything was all
right, only she had not been able to make the galley blossom. But
she comforted herself by pretending it was early springtime, before
grass and grain had sprouted.
The broad, beautiful Dal River that flows through the valley she
had managed to lay out effectively with a long and narrow piece of
glass, and the floating bridge connecting both sides of the parish,
had been making on the water this long while. The more distant
farms and settlements were marked off by pieces of red brick.
Farthest north, amid fields and meadows, lay the Ingmar Farm. To
the east was the village of Kolasen, at the foot of the mountain.
At the extreme south, where the river, with rapids and falls,
leaves the valley and rushes under the mountain, was Bergsana
Foundry.
The entire landscape was now ready, with country roads laid out
along the river, sanded and gravelled. Groves had also been set
out, here and there, on the plains and near the cottages. The
little girl had only to cast a glance at her structure of glass and
stone and earth and twigs to see before her the whole parish. And
she thought it all very beautiful.
Time after time she raised her head to call her mother and show her
what she had done, then changed her mind. She had always found it
wiser not to call attention to herself. But the most difficult work
of all was yet to come: the building up of the town on both sides
of the river. It meant much shifting about of stones and bits of
glass. The sheriff's house wanted to crowd out the merchant's shop;
there was no room for the judge's house next door to the doctor's.
There were the church and the parsonage, the drug-store and post-office,
the peasant homesteads, with their barns and outhouses, the inn,
the hunter's lodge, the telegraph station. To remember everything
was no small task!
Finally, the whole town of white and red houses stood embedded in
green. Now there was only one thing left: she had worked hard to
get everything else done so as to begin on the schoolhouse. She
wanted plenty of space for the school, which was to be built on the
riverside, and must have a big yard, with a flagpole right in the
middle of the lawn.
She had saved all her best blocks for the schoolhouse. Now she
wondered how she had best go about it. She wanted it to be just
like their school, with a big classroom on the ground floor and
another upstairs; then there was the kitchen and also the big room
where she and her parents lived. But all that would take a good
while. "They won't leave me in peace long enough," she said to
herself.
Just then footsteps were heard in the entry; some one was stamping
off snow. In a twinkling she went ahead with her building. "Here
comes the parson to chat with father and mother," she thought. Now
she would have the whole evening to herself. And with renewed
courage she began to lay the foundation of a schoolhouse as big as
half the parish.
Her mother, who had also heard the steps in the hall, got up
quickly and drew an old armchair up to the fireplace. Then turning
to her husband, she said: "Shall you tell him about it to-night?"
"Yes," answered the schoolmaster, "as soon as I can get round to
it."
Presently the pastor came in, half frozen and glad to be in a warm
room where he could sit by an open fire. He was very talkative, as
usual. It would be hard to find a more likable man than the parson
when he came in of an evening to chat about all sorts of things,
big and little. He spoke with such ease and assurance of everything
pertaining to this world, that one could scarcely believe that he
and the dull preacher were one and the same person. But if you
happened to speak to him about spiritual things he grew red in the
face, began fishing for words, and never said anything that was
convincing, unless he chanced to mention that "God governs wisely."
When the parson had settled himself comfortably, the schoolmaster
suddenly turned to him and said in a cheery tone:
"Now I must tell you the news: I'm going to build a mission house."
The clergyman became as white as a sheet and sank back in his
chair.
"What are you saying, Storm?" he gasped. "Are they really thinking
of building a mission house here? Then what's to become of me and
the church? Are we to be dispensed with?"
"The church and the pastor will be needed just the same," returned
the schoolmaster with a confident air. "It is my purpose that the
mission house shall promote the welfare of the church. With so many
schisms cropping up all over the country, the church is sorely in
need of help."
"I thought you were my friend, Storm," said the parson, mournfully.
Only a few moments before he had come in confident and happy, and
now all at once his spirit was gone, and he looked as if he were
entirely done for.
The schoolmaster understood quite well why the pastor was so
distressed. He and every one else knew that at one time the
clergyman had been a man of rare promise; but in his student days
he had "gone the pace," so to speak, and, in consequence, had
suffered a stroke. After that he was never the same. Sometimes he
seemed to forget that he was only the ruin of a man; but when
reminded of it, a sense of deep despondency came over him. Now he
sat there as if paralyzed. It was a long time before any one
ventured to speak.
"You mustn't take it like that, Parson," the schoolmaster said at
last, trying to make his voice very soft and low.
"Hush, Storm! I know that I'm not a great preacher; still I
couldn't have believed it possible that you would wish to take the
living from me."
Storm made a gesture of protest, which said, in effect, that
anything of the sort had never entered his mind, but he had not the
courage to put it into words.
The schoolmaster was a man of sixty and, despite all the work and
responsibility which had fallen to his lot, he was still master of
his forces. There was a great contrast between him and the parson.
Storm was one of the biggest men in Dalecarlia. His head was
covered with a mass of black bushy hair, his skin was as dark as
bronze, and his features were strong and clear cut. He looked
singularly powerful beside the pastor, who was a little
narrow-chested, bald-headed man.
The schoolmaster's wife thought that her husband, as the stronger,
ought to give in, and motioned to him to drop the matter. Whatever
of regret he may have felt, there was nothing in his manner to
indicate that he had any idea of relinquishing his project.
Then the schoolmaster began to speak plainly and to the point. He
said he was certain that before long the heretics would invade
their parish; therefore, it was very necessary that they should
have a meeting place where one could talk to the people in a more
informal way than at a regular church service; where one might
choose one's own text, expound the whole Bible, and interpret its
most difficult passages to the people.
His wife again signed to him to keep still. She knew what the
clergyman was thinking while her husband talked. "So I haven't
taught them anything, and I haven't given them any sort of
protection against unbelief? I must be a poor specimen of a pastor
when the schoolmaster in my own parish thinks himself a better
preacher than I."
The schoolmaster, however, did not keep still, but went on talking
of all that must be done to protect the flock from the wolves.
"I haven't seen any wolves," said the pastor.
"But I know they are on their way."
"And you, Storm, are opening the door to them," declared the
minister, rising. The schoolmaster's talk had irritated him. The
blood mounted to his face, and he regained a little of his old
dignity.
"My dear Storm, let us drop the subject," he said. Then turning to
the housewife, he passed some pleasant remark about the last pretty
bride she had dressed. For Mother Stina dressed all the brides in
the parish.
Peasant woman though she was, she understood how it must hurt him
to be so cruelly reminded of his own impotence. She wept from
compassion, and could not answer him for the tears; so the pastor
had to do most of the talking.
Meanwhile, he kept thinking: "Oh, if I only had some of the power
and the capacity of my younger days, I would convince this peasant
at once of the wrong he is doing." With that he turned again to the
schoolmaster:
"Where did you get the money, Storm?" he asked.
"A company has been formed," Storm explained; then he mentioned the
names of several men who had pledged their support, just to show
the parson that they were the kind of people who would harm neither
the church nor its pastor.
"Is Ingmar Ingmarsson in it, too?" the parson exclaimed. The effect
of this was like a deathblow. "And to think that I was as sure of
Ingmar Ingmarsson as I had been of you, Storm!"
He said nothing more about this just then, but instead turned to
Mother Stina and talked to her. He must have seen that she was
crying, but acted as if he had not noticed it. In a little while he
again addressed the schoolmaster.
"Drop it, Storm!" he begged. "Drop it for my sake. You wouldn't
like it if somebody put up another school next to yours."
The schoolmaster sat gazing at the floor and reflected a moment.
Presently he said, almost reluctantly, "I can't, Parson."
For fully ten minutes there was a dead silence. Where upon the
pastor put on his overcoat and cap, and went toward the door.
The whole evening he had been trying to find words with which to
prove to Storm that he was not only doing harm to the pastor with
this undertaking, but he was undermining the parish. Although
thoughts and words kept crowding into his head, he could neither
arrange them into an orderly sequence nor give utterance to them,
because he was a broken man. Walking toward the door, he espied
Gertrude sitting in her corner playing with her blocks and bits of
glass. He stopped and looked at her. Evidently she had not heard a
word of the conversation, for her eyes sparkled with delight and
her cheeks were like fresh-blown roses.
The pastor was startled at the sight of all this innocent happiness
of the child in contrast to his own heart heaviness.
"What are you making?" he asked, and went up to her.
The little girl had got through with her parish long before that;
in fact, she had already pulled it down and started something new.
"If you had only come a minute sooner!" exclaimed the child. "I had
made such a beautiful parish, with both church and schoolhouse--"
"But where is it now?"
"Oh, I've destroyed the parish, and now I'm building a Jerusalem,
and--"
"What?" interrupted the parson. "Have you destroyed the parish in
order to build a Jerusalem?"
"Yes," said Gertrude, "and it was such a fine parish! But we read
about Jerusalem yesterday in school, and now I have pulled down the
parish to build a Jerusalem."
The preacher stood regarding the child. He put his hand to his
forehead and thought a moment, then he said: "It is surely someone
greater than you that speaks through your mouth."
The child's words seemed to him so extraordinarily prophetic that
he kept repeating them to himself, over and over. Gradually his
thoughts drifted back into their old groove, and he began to ponder
the ways of Providence and the means by which He works His will.
Presently he went back to the schoolmaster, his eyes shining with a
new light, and said in his usual cheery tone:
"I'm no longer angry at you, Storm. You are only doing what you
must do. All my life I have been pondering the ways of Providence,
and I can't seem to get any light on them. Nor do I understand this
thing, but I understand that you are doing what you needs must do."
"AND THEY SAW HEAVEN OPEN"
The spring the mission house was built there was a great thaw, and
the Dal River rose to an alarming height. And what quantities of
water that spring brought! It came in showers from the skies; it
came rushing down in streams from the mountainsides, and it welled
out of the earth; water ran in every wheel rut and in every furrow.
All this water found its way to the river, which kept rising higher
and higher, and rolled onward with greater and greater force. It
did not present its usual shiny and placid appearance, but had
turned a dirty brown from all the muddy water that kept flowing in.
The surging stream, filled with logs and cakes of ice, looked
strangely weird and threatening.
At first the grown folks paid no special heed to the spring flood;
only the children ran down to the banks to watch the raging river
and all that it carried along.
But timber and ice floes were not the only things that went
floating by! Presently the stream came driving with washing piers
and bath houses, then with boats and wreckage of bridges.
"It will soon be taking our bridge, too!" the children exclaimed.
They felt a bit uneasy, but were glad at the same time that
something so extraordinary was likely to happen.
Suddenly a huge pine, root and branch, came sailing past, followed
by a white-stemmed aspen tree, its spreading branches thick with
buds which had swelled from being so long in the water. Close upon
the trees came a little hay shed, bottom upward; it was still full
of hay and straw, and floated on its roof like a boat on its keel.
But when things of that sort began to drift past, the grown-ups,
too, bestirred themselves. They realized now that the river had
overflowed its banks somewhere up north, and hurried down to the
shores with poles and boat hooks, to haul up on land buildings and
furniture.
At the northern end of the parish, where the houses were scattered
and people were scarce, Ingmar Ingmarsson alone was standing on the
bank, gazing out at the river. He was then almost sixty, and looked
even older. His face was weatherbeaten and furrowed, his figure
bent; he appeared to be as awkward and helpless as ever. He stood
leaning on a long, heavy boat hook, his dull, sleepy-looking eyes
fixed on the water. The river raged and foamed, arrogantly marching
past with all that it had matched from the shores. It was as if it
were deriding the peasant for his slowness. "Oh, you're not the one
to wrest from me any of the things I'm carrying away!" it seemed to
say.
Ingmar Ingmarsson made no attempt to rescue any of the floating
bridges or boat hulls that passed quite close to the bank. "All
that will be seen to down at the village," he thought. Not for a
second did his gaze wander from the river. He took note of
everything that drifted past. All at once he sighted something
bright and yellow floating on some loosely nailed boards quite a
distance up the river. "Ah, this is what I have been expecting all
along!" he said aloud. At first he could not quite make out what
the yellow was; but for one who knew how little children in
Dalecarlia are dressed it was easy to guess. "Those must be
youngsters who were out on a washing pier playing," he said, "and
hadn't the sense to get back on land before the river took them."
It was not long until the peasant saw that he had guessed rightly.
Now he could distinctly see three little children, in their yellow
homespun frocks and round yellow hats, being carried downstream on
a poorly constructed raft that was being slowly torn apart by the
swift current and the moving ice floes.
The children were still a long way off. Big Ingmar knew there was a
bend in the river where it touched his land. If God in His mercy
would only direct the raft with the children into this current, he
thought, he might be able to get them ashore.
He stood very still, watching the raft. All at once it seemed as if
some one had given it a push; it swung round and headed straight
for the shore. By that time the children were so close that he
could see their frightened little faces and hear their cries. But
they were still too far out to be reached by the boat hook, from
the bank at least; so he hurried down to the water's edge, and
waded into the river.
As he did so, he had a strange sort of feeling that some one was
calling to him to comeback. "You are no longer a young man, Ingmar;
this may prove a perilous business for you!" a voice said to him.
He reflected a moment, wondering whether he had the right to risk
his life. The wife, whom he had once fetched from the prison, had
died during the winter, and since her going his one longing had
been that he might soon follow. But, on the other hand, there was
his son who needed a father's care, for he was only a little lad
and could not look after the farm.
"In any case, it must be as God wills," he said.
Now Big Ingmar was no longer either awkward or slow. As he plunged
into the raging river, he planted his boat hook firmly into the
bottom, so as not to be carried away by the current, and he took
good care to dodge the floating ice and driftwood. When the raft
with the children was quite near, he pressed his feet down in the
river bed, thrust out his boat hook, and got a purchase on it.
"Hold on tight!" he shouted to the children, for just then the raft
made a sudden turn and all its planks creaked. But the wretched
structure held together, and Big Ingmar managed to pull it out of
the strongest current. That done, he let go of it, for he knew that
the raft would now drift shoreward by itself.
Touching bottom with his boat hook again, he turned to go back to
the bank. This time, however, he failed to notice a huge log that
was coming toward him with a rush. It caught him in the side just
below the armpit. It was a terrific blow, for the log was hurled
against him with a violent force that sent him staggering in the
water. Yet he kept a tight grip on the boat hook until he reached
the bank. When he again stood on firm ground, he hardly dared touch
his body, for he felt that his chest had been crushed. Then his
mouth suddenly filled with blood. "It's all up with you, Ingmar!"
he thought, and sank down on the bank, for he could not go a step
farther. The little children whom he had rescued gave the alarm,
and soon people came running down to the bank, and Big Ingmar was
carried home.
The pastor was called in, and he remained at the Ingmar Farm the
whole afternoon. On his way home, he stopped at the schoolmaster's.
He had experienced things in the course of the day which he felt
the need of telling to some one who would understand.
Storm and Mother Stina were deeply grieved, for they had already
heard that Ingmar Ingmarsson was dead. The clergyman, on the other
hand, looked almost radiant as he stepped into the schoolmaster's
kitchen.
Immediately Storm asked the pastor if he had been in time.
"Yes," he said, "but on this occasion I was not needed."
"Weren't you?" said Mother Stina.
"No," answered the pastor with a mysterious smile. "He would have
got on just as well without me. Sometimes it is very hard to sit by
a deathbed," he added.
"It is indeed," nodded the schoolmaster.
"Particularly when the one who is passing from among us happens to
be the best man in your parish."
"Just so."
"But things can also be quite different from what one had imagined."
For a moment the pastor sat quietly gazing into space; his eyes
looked clearer than usual behind the spectacles.
"Have you, Strong, or you, Mother Stina, ever heard of the
wonderful thing that once happened to Big Ingmar when he was a
young man?" he asked.
The schoolmaster said that he had heard many wonderful things about
him.
"Why, of course; but this is the most wonderful of all! I never
knew of it myself until to-day. Big Ingmar had a good friend who
has always lived in a little cabin on his estate," the pastor
continued.
"Yes, I know," said the schoolmaster. "He is also named Ingmar;
folks call him Strong Ingmar by way of distinction."
"True," said the pastor; "his father named him Ingmar in honour of
the master's family. One Saturday evening, at midsummer, when the
nights are almost as light as the days, Big Ingmar and his friend,
Strong Ingmar, after finishing their work, put on their Sunday
clothes and went down to the village in quest of amusement."
The pastor paused a moment, and pondered. "I can imagine that the
night must have been a beautiful one," he went on, "clear and
still--one of those nights when earth and sky seem to exchange
hues, the sky turning a bright green while the earth becomes veiled
in white mists, lending to everything a white or bluish tinge. When
Big Ingmar and Strong Ingmar were crossing the bridge to the
village, it was as if some one had told them to stop and look
upward. They did so. And they saw heaven open! The whole firmament
had been drawn back to right and left, like a pair of curtains, and
the two stood there, hand in hand, and beheld all the glories of
heaven. Have you ever heard anything like it, Mother Stina, or you,
Storm?" said the pastor in awed tones. "Only think of those two
standing on the bridge and seeing heaven open! But what they saw
they have never divulged to a soul. Sometimes they would tell a
child or a kinsman that they had once seen heaven open, but they
never spoke of it to outsiders. But the vision lived in their
memories as their greatest treasure, their Holy of Holies."
The pastor closed his eyes for a moment, and heaved a deep sigh. "I
have never before heard tell of such things." His voice shook a
little as he proceeded. "I only wish I had stood on the bridge with
Big Ingmar and Strong Ingmar, and seen heaven open!
"This morning, immediately after Big Ingmar had been carried home,
he requested that Strong Ingmar be sent for. At once a messenger
was dispatched to the croft to fetch him, only to find that Strong
Ingmar was not at home. He was in the forest somewhere, chopping
firewood, and was not easy to find. Messenger after messenger went
in search of him. In the meantime, Big Ingmar felt very anxious
lest he should not get to see his old friend again in this life.
First the doctor came, then I came, but Strong Ingmar they couldn't
seem to find. Big Ingmar took very little notice of us. He was
sinking fast. 'I shall soon be gone, Parson,' he said to me. 'I
only wish I might see Strong Ingmar before I go.' He was lying on
the broad bed in the little chamber off the living-room. His eyes
were wide open and he seemed to be looking all the while at
something that was far, far away, and which no one else saw. The
three little children he had rescued sat huddled at the foot of his
bed. Whenever his eyes wandered for an instant from that which he
saw in the distance, they rested upon the children, and then his
whole face was wreathed in smiles.
"At last they had succeeded in finding the crofter. Big Ingmar
glanced away from the children with a sigh of relief when he heard
Strong Ingmar's heavy step in the hallway. And when his friend came
over to the bedside, he took his hand and patted it gently, saying:
'Do you remember the time when you and I stood on the bridge and
saw heaven open?' 'As if I could ever forget that night when we two
had a vision of Paradise!' Strong Ingmar responded. Then Big Ingmar
turned toward him, his face beaming as if he had the most glorious
news to impart. 'Now I'm going there,' he said. Then the crofter
bent over him and looked straight into his eyes. 'I shall come
after,' he said. Big Ingmar nodded. 'But you know I cannot come
before your son returns from the pilgrimage.' 'Yes, yes, I know,'
Big Ingmar whispered. Then he drew in a few deep breaths and,
before we knew it, he was gone."
The schoolmaster and his wife thought, with the pastor, that it was
a beautiful death. All three of them sat profoundly silent for a
long while.
"But what could Strong Ingmar have meant," asked Mother Stina
abruptly, "when he spoke of the pilgrimage?"
The pastor looked up, somewhat perplexed. "I don't know," he
replied. "Big Ingmar died just after that was said, and I have not
had time to ponder it." He fell to thinking, then he spoke kind of
half to himself: "It was a strange sort of thing to say, you're
right about that, Mother Stina."
"You know, of course, that it has been said of Strong Ingmar that
he can see into the future?" she said reflectively.
The pastor sat stroking his forehead in an effort to collect his
thoughts. "The ways of Providence cannot be reasoned out by the
finite mind," he mused. "I cannot fathom them, yet seeking to know
them is the most satisfying thing in all the world."