When M. Kollsen appeared the next morning, the household had so much of its usual air that no stranger would have imagined how it had been occupied the day before.  The large room was fresh strewn with evergreen sprigs; the breakfast-table stood at one end, where each took breakfast, standing, immediately on coming downstairs.  At the bottom of the room was a busy group.  The shoemaker, who travelled this way twice a year, had appeared this morning, and was already engaged upon the skins which had been tanned on the farm, and kept in readiness for him.  He was instructing Oddo in the making of the tall boots of the country; and Oddo was so eager to have a pair in which he might walk knee-deep in the snow when the frosts should be over, that he gave all his attention to the work.  Peder was twisting strips of leather, thin and narrow, into whips.  Rolf and Hund were silently intent upon a sort of work which the Norwegian peasant delights in, ­carving wood.  They spoke only to answer Peder’s questions about the progress of the work.  Peder loved to hear about their carving, and to feel it; for he had been remarkable for his skill in the art, as long as his sight lasted.

Erlingsen was reading the newspaper, which must go away in the pastor’s pocket.  Madame was spinning; and her daughters sat busily plying their needles with Erica, in a corner of the apartment.  The three were putting the last stitches to the piece of work which the pastor was also to carry away with him, as his fee for his services of yesterday.  It was an eider-down coverlid, of which Rolf had procured the down, from the islets in the fiord frequented by the eider-duck, and Erica had woven the cover and quilted it, with the assistance of her young ladies, in an elegant pattern.  The other house-maiden was in the chambers, hanging out the bedding in an upper gallery to air, as she did on all days of fair weather.

The whole party rose when M. Kollsen entered the room, but presently resumed their employments, except Madame Erlingsen, who conducted the pastor to the breakfast-table, and helped him plentifully to reindeer ham, bread-and-butter, and corn-brandy, ­the usual breakfast.  M. Kollsen carried his plate and ate, as he went round to converse with each group.  First, he talked politics a little with his host, by the fire-side; in the midst of which conversation Erlingsen managed to intimate that nothing would be heard of Nipen to-day, if the subject was let alone by themselves:  a hint which the clergyman was willing to take, as he supposed it meant in deference to his views.  Then he complimented Madame Erlingsen on the excellence of her ham, and helped himself again; and next drew near the girls.

Erica blushed, and was thinking how she should explain that she wished his acceptance of her work, when Frolich saved her the awkwardness by saying ­

“We hope you will like this coverlid, for we have made an entirely new pattern on purpose for it.  Orga, you have the pattern.  Do show M. Kollsen how pretty it looks on paper.”

M. Kollsen did not know much about such things; but he admired as much as he could.

“That lily of the valley, see, is mamma’s idea; and the barberry, answering to it, is mine.  That tree in the middle is all Erica’s work ­ entirely; but the squirrel upon it, we never should have thought of.  It was papa who put that in our heads; and it is the most original thing in the whole pattern.  Erica has worked it beautifully, to be sure.”

“I think we have said quite enough about it,” observed Erica, smiling and blushing.  “I hope M. Kollsen will accept it.  The down is Rolfs present.”

Rolf rose, and made his bow, and said he had had pleasure in preparing his small offering.

“And I think,” said Erlingsen, “it is pretty plain that my little girls have had pleasure in their part of the work.  It is my belief that they are sorry it is so nearly done.”

M. Kollsen graciously accepted the gift, ­took up the coverlid and weighed it in his hand, in order to admire its lightness, compared with its handsome size; and then bent over the carvers, to see what work was under their hands.

“A bell-collar, sir,” said Hund, showing his piece of wood.  “I am making a complete set for our cows, against they go to the mountain, come summer.”

“A pulpit, sir,” explained Rolf, showing his work in his turn.

“A pulpit!  Really!  And who is to preach in it?”

“You, sir, of course,” replied Erlingsen.  “Long before you came, ­from the time the new church was begun, we meant it should have a handsome pulpit.  Six of us, within a round of twenty miles, undertook the six sides; and Rolf has great hopes of having the basement allotted to him afterwards.  The best workman is to do the basement, and I think Rolf bids fair to be the one.  This is good work, sir.”

“Exquisite,” said the pastor.  “I question whether our native carvers may not be found to be equal to any whose works we hear so much of in Popish churches, in other countries.  And there is no doubt of the superiority of their subjects.  Look at these elegant twining flowers, and that fine brooding eagle!  How much better to copy the beautiful works of God that are before our eyes, than to make durable pictures of the Popish idolâtries and superstitions, which should all have been forgotten as soon as possible!  I hope that none of the impious idolâtries which, I am ashamed to say, still linger among us, will find their way into the arts by which future generations will judge us.”

The pastor stopped, on seeing that his hearers looked at one another, as if conscious.  A few words, he judged, would be better than more; and he went on to Peder, passing by Oddo without a word of notice.  The party had indeed glanced consciously at each other; for it so happened that the very prettiest piece Rolf had ever carved was a bowl on which he had shown the water-sprite’s hand (and never was hand so delicate as the water-sprite’s) beckoning the heron to come and fish when the river begins to flow.

When Erica heard M. Kollsen inquiring of Peder about his old wife, she started up from her work, and said she must run and prepare Ulla for the pastor’s visit.  Poor Ulla would think herself forgotten this morning, it was growing so late, and nobody had been over to see her.

Ulla, however, was far from having any such thoughts.  There sat the old woman, propped up in bed, knitting as fast as fingers could move, and singing, with her soul in her song, though her voice was weak and unsteady.  She was covered with an eider-down quilt, like the first lady in the land; but this luxury was a consequence of her being old and ill, and having friends who cared for her infirmities.  There was no other luxury.  Her window was glazed with thick flaky glass, through which nothing could be seen distinctly.  The shelf, the table, the clothes-chest, were all of rough fir-wood; and the walls of the house were of logs, well stuffed with moss in all the crevices, to keep out the cold.  There are no dwellings so warm in winter and cool in summer as well-built log-houses; and this house had everything essential to health and comfort:  but there was nothing more, unless it was the green sprinkling of the floor, and the clean appearance of everything the room contained, from Ulla’s cap to the wooden platters on the shelf.

“I thought you would come,” said Ulla.  “I knew you would come, and take my blessing on your betrothment, and my wishes that you may soon be seen with the golden crown [Note 1].  I must not say that I hope to see you crowned, for we all know, ­and nobody so well as I, ­that it is I that stand between you and your crown.  I often think of it, my dear ­”

“Then I wish you would not, Ulla:  you know that.”

“I do know it, my dear, and I would not be for hastening God’s appointments.  Let all be in His own time.  And I know, by myself, how happy you may be, ­you and Rolf, ­while Peder and I are failing and dying.  I only say that none wish for your crowning more than we.  O, Erica! you have a fine lot in having Rolf.”

“Indeed, I know it, Ulla.”

“Do but look about you, dear, and see how he keeps the house.  And if you were to see him give me my cup of coffee, and watch over Peder, you would consider what he is likely to be to a pretty young thing like you, when he is what he is to two worn-out old creatures like us.”

Erica did not need convincing about these things, but she liked to hear them.

“Where is he now?” asked Ulla.  “I always ask where everybody is, at this season; people go about staring at the snow, as if they had no eyes to lose.  That is the way my husband did.  Do make Rolf take care of his precious eyes, Erica.  Is he abroad to-day, my dear?”

“By this time he is,” replied Erica, “I left him at work at the pulpit ­”

“Ay! trying his eyes with fine carving, as Peder did!”

“But,” continued Erica, “there was news this morning of a lodgment of logs at the top of the foss [Note 2]; and they were all going, except Peder, to slide them down the gully to the fiord.  The gully is frozen so slippery, that the work will not take long.  They will make a raft of the logs in the fiord, and either Rolf or Hund will carry them out to the islands when the tide ebbs.”

“Will it be Rolf, do you think, or Hund, dear?”

“I wish it may be Hund.  If it be Rolf, I shall go with him.  O, Ulla!  I cannot lose sight of him, after what happened last night.  Did you hear?  I do wish Oddo would grow wiser.”

Ulla shook her head, and then nodded, to intimate that they would not talk of Nipen; and she began to speak of something else.

“How did Hund conduct himself yesterday?  I heard my husband’s account:  but you know Peder could say nothing of his looks.  Did you mark his countenance, dear?”

“Indeed, there was no helping it, any more than one can help watching a storm-cloud as it comes up.”

“So it was dark and wrathful, was it, ­that ugly face of his?  Well it might be, dear; well it might be!”

“The worst was, ­worse than all his dark looks together, ­O, Ulla! the worst was his leap and cry of joy when he heard what Oddo had done, and that Nipen was made our enemy.  He looked like an evil spirit when he fixed his eyes on me, and snapped his fingers.”

Ulla shook her head mournfully, and then asked Erica to put another peat on the fire.

“I really should like to know,” said Erica, in a low voice, when she resumed her seat on the bed, “I am sure you can tell me if you would, what is the real truth about Hund, what it is that weighs upon his heart.”

“I will tell you,” replied Ulla.  “You are not one that will go babbling it, so that Hund shall meet with taunts, and have his sore heart made sorer.  I will tell you, my dear, though there is no one else but our mistress that I would tell, and she, no doubt, knows it already.  Hund was born and reared a good way to the south, not far from Bergen.  In mid-winter four years since, his master sent him on an errand of twenty miles, to carry some provisions to a village in the upper country.  He did his errand, and so far all was well.  The village people asked him for charity to carry three orphan children on his sledge some miles on the way to Bergen, and to leave them at a house he had to pass on his road, where they would be taken care of till they could be fetched from Bergen.  Hund was an obliging young fellow then, and he made no objection.  He took the little things, and saw that the two elder were well wrapped up from the cold.  The third he took within his arms and on his knee as he drove, clasping it warm against his breast.  So those say who saw them set off; and it is confirmed by one who met the sledge on the road, and heard the children prattling to Hund, and Hund laughing merrily at their little talk.  Before they had got half-way, however, a pack of hungry wolves burst out upon them from a hollow to the right of the road.  The brutes followed close at the back of the sledge, and ­”

“O, stop!” cried Erica; “I know that story.  Is it possible that Hund is the man?  No need to go on, Ulla.”

But Ulla thought there was always need to finish a story that she had begun, and she proceeded.

“Closer and closer the wolves pressed, and it is thought Hund saw one about to spring at his throat.  It was impossible for the horse to go faster than it did, for it went like the wind; but so did the beasts.  Hund snatched up one of the children behind him, and threw it over the back of the sledge, and this stopped the pack for a little.  On galloped the horse, but the wolves were soon crowding round again, with the blood freezing on their muzzles.  It was easier to throw the second child than the first, and Hund did it.  It was harder to give up the third ­the dumb infant that nestled to his breast, but Hund was in mortal terror; and a man beside himself with terror has all the cruelty of a pack of wolves.  Hund flung away the infant, and just saved himself.  Nobody at home questioned him, for nobody knew about the orphans, and he did not tell.  But he was unsettled and looked wild; and his talk, whenever he did speak, night or day, was of wolves, for the three days that he remained after his return.  Then there was a questioning along the road about the orphan children; and Hund heard of it, and started off into the woods.  By putting things together ­what Hund had dropped in his agony of mind, and what had been seen and heard on the road, the whole was made out, and the country rose to find Hund.  He was hunted like a bear in the forest and on the mountain; but he had got to the coast in time, and was taken in a boat, it is thought, to Hammerfest.  At any rate, he came here as from the north, and wishes to pass for a northern man.”

“And does Erlingsen know all this?”

“Yes.  The same person who told me told him.  Erlingsen thinks he must meet with mercy, for that none need mercy so much as the weak; and Hund’s act was an act of weakness.”

“Weakness!” cried Erica, with disgust.

“He is a coward, my dear; and death stared him in the face.”

“I have often wondered,” said Erica, “where on the face of the earth that wretch was wandering:  and it is Hund!  And he wanted to live in this very house,” she continued, looking round the room.

“And to marry you, dear.  Erlingsen would never have allowed that.  But the thought has plunged the poor fellow deeper, instead of saving him, as he hoped.  He now has envy and jealousy at his heart, besides the remorse which he will carry to his grave.”

“And revenge!” said Erica, shuddering.  “I tell you he leaped for joy that Nipen was offended.  Here is some one coming,” she exclaimed, starting from her seat, as a shadow flitted over the thick window-pane, and a hasty knock was heard at the door.

“You are a coward, if ever there was one,” said Ulla, smiling.  “Hund never comes here, so you need not look so frightened.  What is to be done if you look so at dinner, or the next time you meet him?  It will be the ruin of some of us.  Go, ­open the door, and do not keep the pastor waiting.”

There was another knock before Erica could reach the door, and Frolich burst in.

“Such news!” she cried; “you never heard such news.”

“I wish there never was any news,” exclaimed Erica, almost pettishly.

“Good or bad?” inquired Ulla.

“O, bad, ­very bad,” declared Frolich, who yet looked as if she would rather have it than none.  “Here is company.  Olaf, the drug-merchant, is come.  Father did not expect him these three weeks.”

“This is not bad news, but good,” said Ulla.  “Who knows but he may bring me a cure?”

“We will all beg him to cure you, dear Ulla,” said Frolich, stroking the old woman’s white hair smooth upon her forehead.  “But he tells us shocking things.  There is a pirate-vessel among the islands.  She was seen off Soroe, some time ago; but she is much nearer to us now.  There was a farm-house seen burning on Alten fiord, last week; and as the family are all gone, and nothing but ruins left, there is little doubt the pirates lit the torch that did it.  And the cod has been carried off from the beach, in the few places where any has been caught yet.”

“They have not found out our fiord yet?” inquired Ulla.

“O, dear!  I hope not.  But they may, any day.  And father says, the coast must be raised, from Hammerfest to Tronyem, and a watch set till this wicked vessel can be taken or driven away.  He was going to send a running message both ways; but here is something else to be done first.”

“Another misfortune?” asked Erica, faintly.

“No:  they say it is a piece of very good fortune; ­at least, for those who like bears’ feet for dinner.  Somebody or other has lighted upon the great bear that got away in the summer, and poked her out of her den, on the fjelde.  She is certainly abroad, with her two last year’s cubs; and their traces have been found just above, near the foss.  Olaf had heard of her being roused; and Rolf and Hund have found her traces.  Oddo has come running home to tell us:  and father says he must get up a hunt before more snow falls, and we lose the tracks, or the family may establish themselves among us, and make away with our first calves.”

“Does he expect to kill them all?”

“I tell you, we are all to grow stout on bears’ feet.  For my part, I like bears’ feet best on the other side of Tronyem.”

“You will change your mind, Miss Frolich, when you see them on the table,” observed Ulla.

“That is just what father said.  And he asked how I thought Erica and Stiorna would like to have a den in their neighbourhood when they go up to the mountain for the summer.  O, it will be all right when the hunt is well over, and all the bears dead.  Meantime, I thought they were at my heels as I crossed the yard.”

“And that made you burst in as you did.  Did Olaf say anything about coming to see me?  Has he plenty of medicines with him?”

“O, certainly.  That was the thing I came to say.  He is laying out his medicines, while he warms himself; and then he is coming over, to see what he can do for your poor head.  He asked about you, directly; and he is frowning over his drugs, as if he meant to let them know that they must not trifle with you.”

Ulla was highly pleased, and gave her directions very briskly about the arrangement of the room.  If it had been the grandest apartment of a palace, she could not have been more particular as to where everything should stand.  When all was to her mind, she begged Erica to step over, and inform Olaf that she was ready.

When Erica opened the door, she instantly drew back, and shut it again.

“What now?” asked Frolich.  “Are all the bears in the porch?”

“Olaf is there,” replied Erica, in a whisper, “talking with Hund.”

“Hund wants a cure for the head-ache,” Frolich whispered in return; “or a charm to make some girl betroth herself to him; ­a thing which no girl will do, but under a charm:  for I don’t believe Stiorna would when it came to the point, though she likes to be attended to.”

When Olaf entered, and Hund walked away, Frolich ran home, and Erica stood by the window, ready to receive the travelling doctor’s opinion and directions if he should vouchsafe any.

“So I am not the first to consult you to-day,” said Ulla.  “It is rather hard that I should not have the best chance of luck, having been so long ill.”

Olaf assured her that he would hear no complaints from another till he had given her the first-fruits of his wisdom in this district of his rounds.  Hund was only inquiring of him where the pirate-schooner was, having slid down from the height, as fast as his snow-skaits would carry him, on hearing the news from Oddo.  He was also eager to know whence these pirates came, ­what nation they were of, or whether a crew gathered from many nations.  Olaf had advised Hund to go and ask the pirates themselves all that he wanted to know; for there was no one else who could satisfy him.  Whereupon Hund had smiled grimly, and gone back to his work.

Erica observed that she had heard her master say that it was foolish to boast that Norway need not mind when Denmark went to war, because it would be carried on far out of sight and hearing.  So far from this, Erlingsen had said, that Denmark never went to war but pirates came to ravage the coast, from the North Cape to the Naze.  Was not this the case now?  Denmark had gone to war; and here were the pirates come to make her poor partner suffer.

Olaf said this explained the matter:  and he feared the business of the coast would suffer till a time of peace.  Meanwhile, he must mind his business.  When he had heard all Ulla’s complaints, and ordered exactly what she wished ­large doses of camphor and corn-brandy to keep off the night-fever and daily cough, he was ready to hear whatever else Erica had to ask, for Ulla had hinted that Erica wanted advice.

“I do not mind Ulla hearing my words,” said Erica.  “She knows my trouble.”

“It is of the mind,” observed Olaf, solemnly, on discovering that Erica did not desire to have her pulse felt.

“Yesterday was ­I was ­” Erica began.

“She was betrothed yesterday,” said Ulla, “to the man of her heart.  Rolf is such a young man ­”

“Olaf knows Rolf,” observed Erica.  “An unfortunate thing happened at the end of the day, Olaf.  Nipen was insulted.”  And she told the story of Oddo’s prank, and implored the doctor to say if anything could be done to avert bad consequences.

“No doubt,” replied Olaf.  “Look here!  This will preserve you from any particular evil that you dread.”  And he took from the box he carried under his arm a round piece of white paper, with a hole in the middle, through which a string was to be passed, to tie the charm round the neck.  Erica shook her head.  Such a charm would be of no use, as she did not know under what particular shape of misfortune Nipen’s displeasure would show itself.  Besides, she was certain that nothing would make Rolf wear a charm; and she disdained to use any security which he might not share.  Olaf could not help her in any other way; but inquired with sympathy when the next festival would take place.  Then, all might be repaired by handsome treatment of Nipen.  Till then, he advised Erica to wear his charm, as her lover could not be the worse for her being so far safe.  Erica blushed:  she knew, but did not say, that harm would be done which no charm could repair if her lover saw her trying to save herself from dangers to which he remained exposed:  and she did not know what their betrothment was worth, if it did not give them the privilege of suffering together.  So she put back the charm into its place in the box, and, with a sigh, rose to return to the house.

In the porch she found Oddo, eating something which caused him to make faces.  Though it was in the open air, there was a strong smell of camphor, and of something else less pleasant.

“What are you doing, Oddo?” asked Erica:  the question which Oddo was asked every day of his life.

Oddo had observed Olaf’s practice among his patients of the household, and perceived that, for all complaints, of body or mind, he gave the two things camphor and asafoetida, ­sometimes together, and sometimes separately; and always in corn-brandy.  Oddo could not refrain from trying what these drugs were like; so he helped himself to some of each; and, as he could get no corn-brandy till dinner-time, he was eating the medicines without.  Such was the cause of his wry faces.  If he had been anything but a Norway boy, he would have been the invalid of the house to-day, from the quantity of rich cake he had eaten:  but Oddo seemed to share the privilege, common to Norwegians, of being able to eat anything, in any quantity, without injury.  His wry faces were from no indigestion, but from the savour of asafoetida, unrelieved by brandy.

Wooden dwellings resound so much as to be inconvenient for those who have secrets to tell.  In the porch of Peder’s house, Oddo had heard all that passed within.  It was good for him to have done so.  He became more sensible of the pain he had given, and more anxious to repair it.  “Dear Erica,” said he, “I want you to do a very kind thing for me.  Do get leave for me to go with Rolf after the bears.  If I get one stroke at them, ­if I can but wound one of them, I shall have a paw for my share; and I will lay it out for Nipen.  You will, will you not?”

“It must be as Erlingsen chooses, Oddo:  but I fancy you will not be allowed to go just now.  The bears will think the doctor’s physic-sledge is coming through the woods, and they will be shy.  Do stand a little further off.  I cannot think how it is that you are not choked.”

“Suppose you go for an airing,” said the doctor, who now joined them.  “If you must not go in the way of the bears, there is a reindeer, ­”

“O, where?” cried Oddo.

“I saw one, ­all alone, ­on the Salten heights.  If you run that way, with the wind behind you, the deer will give you a good run; ­up Sulitelma, if you like, and you will have got rid of the camphor before you come back.  And be sure you bring me some Iceland moss, to pay me for what you have been helping yourself to.”

When Oddo had convinced himself that Olaf really had seen a reindeer on the heights, three miles off, he said to himself, that if deer do not like camphor, they are fond of salt; and he was presently at the salt-box, and then quickly on his way to the hills with his bait.  He considered his chance of training home the deer much more probable than that Erlingsen and his grandfather would allow him to hunt the bears:  And he doubtless judged rightly.