"No, that I won't," thought Ovind, and looked defiantly up over the
hill.
It was not long before an old man came into sight on the top of the
hill; resting, then going a little further, and resting again. The
father and the mother both left off working to look at him. Thore
smiled; but the mother, on the contrary, changed colour.
"Do you know him?"
"Yes, there's no mistaking him."
The old man came slowly nearer and nearer. He was somewhat tall and
burly, and being rather lame, he could only with difficulty walk by the
help of his staff. When he came close to, he stopped, took off his cap,
and wiped his forehead. His head was quite bald at the back; he had a
round tight-drawn face, small piercing eyes, bushy eyebrows, and a full
row of teeth. He spoke in a sharp shrill voice, hopping, as it were,
over gravel and stone, and every now and then resting with great
delight upon an inviting R. In his younger days he had been known as a
cheerful, but hot tempered, man; now, after many adversities, he had
grown peevish and distrustful.
Thore and his son had many journeys backwards and forwards before old
Ole got up to them, but at last, as they came out from the hay loft,
they saw him standing in front of the kitchen door, as though doubtful
what to do; he held his cap and staff in one hand, and with the other
wiped his bald head with a handkerchief. Ovind stood behind his father
as he went up and accosted him.
"You must be tired, will you not come in?"
Ole turned and looked sharply at him, at the same time adjusting his
cap, before he replied:
"No, I can rest where I stand, I shall not be long."
Since he had lost his hair his cap was far too big for him, it came
down over his eyes; so that to be able to see, he had to hold his head
right back.
"Is that your son standing there behind you?" he began in a harsh
voice.
"They say so."
"His name is Ovind, is it not?"
"Yes, they call him Ovind."
"He has been to one of those Agricultural Schools in the south, hasn't
he?"
"Yes, something of that kind."
"H'm, my girl, my granddaughter, Marit seems to have lost her senses in
these latter days."
"That's a pity."
"She will not marry."
"What?"
"She won't have any of the fine young men who come to pay their
addresses to her."
"Indeed?"
"And it is his fault, his that stands there."
"Indeed?"
"He has completely turned her head, that son of yours, Ovind."
"Do you say so?"
"See now, I don't like that any one should take my horses when I let
them go to the mountains; and neither do I like that any one should
take my daughters when I let them go to the dance, don't like it at
all."
"No, of course not."
"I cannot go after them, I am old, I cannot take care of them."
"No no, no no."
"You see I wish to keep order, and when I say a thing must be done, it
must, and when I say to her, not him, but him, it must be him, and not
him!"
"Certainly!"
"But it is not so; for three years she has said no, and for three years
there hasn't been a good understanding between us. That is not good,
and if it is he who is the cause of it, I will only say to him, so that
you hear it, you who are his father, that it is no use, he must give
up."
"Well."