Peer stood up straight, wiped his hands on his trousers, and came towards him. "Good heavens! how old he has grown!" thought Uthoug to himself. But aloud he said, "Well, you do look fit. I'd hardly have known you again."

Merle caught sight of the pair from the kitchen window. "Why, I do believe--" she exclaimed, and came running out. It was so long since she had seen any of her people, that she forgot her dignity and in a moment had her arms round her brother's neck, hugging him.

No, certainly Uthoug junior had not come with lamentations and condolences. He had a bottle of good wine in his bag, and at supper he filled the gla.s.ses and drank with them both, and talked about theatres and variety shows, and gave imitations of well-known actors, till he had set the two poor hara.s.sed creatures laughing. They must need a little joy and laughter--ah! well he knew how they must need it.

But he knew, too, that Merle and Peer were on tenterhooks waiting to know what the family had decided about their future. The days of their life here had been evil and sad, but they only hoped now that they might be able to stay on. If the help they had received up to now were taken from them, they could neither afford to stay here nor to go elsewhere.

What then could they do? No wonder they were anxious as they sat there.

After supper he went out for a stroll with Peer, while Merle waited at home in suspense. She understood that their fate was being settled as she waited.

At last they returned--and to her astonishment they came in laughing.

Her brother said good-night, and kissed her on the forehead, and patted her arm and was kindness itself. She took him up to his room, and would have liked to sit there a while and talk to him; but she knew Peer had waited till they were alone to tell her the news that concerned them so nearly. "Good-night, then, Carsten," she said to her brother, and went downstairs.

And then at last she and Peer were sitting alone together, at her work-table by the window.

"Well?" said Merle.

"The thing is this, Merle. If we have courage to live at all, we must look facts in the face as they are."

"Yes, dear, but tell me . . ."

"And the facts are that with my health as it now is I cannot possibly get any employment. It is certain that I cannot. And as that is the case, we may as well be here as anywhere else."

"But can we stay on here, Peer?"

"If you can bear to stay with a miserable bungler like me--that, of course, is a question."

"Answer me--can we stay here?"

"Yes. But it may be years, Merle, before I'm fit to work again--we've got to reckon with that. And to live on charity year after year is what I cannot and will not endure."

"But what are we to do, then, Peer? There seems to be no possible way for me to earn any money."

"I can try, at any rate," he answered, looking out of the window.

"You? Oh no, Peer. Even if you could get work as a draughtsman, you know quite well that your eyes would never stand . . ."

"I can do blacksmith's work," he said.

There was a pause. Merle glanced at him involuntarily, as if she could hardly believe her ears. Could he be in earnest? Was the engineer of the Nile Barrage to sink into a country blacksmith?

She sighed. But she felt she must not dishearten him. And at last she said with an effort: "It would help to pa.s.s the time, I daresay. And perhaps you would get into the way of sleeping better." She looked out of the window with tightly compressed lips.

"And if I do that, Merle, we can't stay on in this house. In fact a great box of a place like this is too big for us in any case--when you haven't even a maid to help you."

"But do you know of any smaller house we could take?"

"Yes, there's a little place for sale, with a rood or two of ground. If we had a cow and a pig, Merle--and a few fowls--and could raise a bushel or two of corn--and if I could earn a few shillings a week in the smithy--we wouldn't come on the parish, at any rate. I could manage the little jobs that I'd get--in fact, pottering about at them would do me good. What do you say?"

Merle did not answer; her eyes were turned away, gazing fixedly out of the window.

"But there's another question--about you, Merle. Are you willing to sink along with me into a life like that? I shall be all right. I lived in just such a place when I was a boy. But you! Honestly, Merle, I don't think I should ask it of you." His voice began to tremble; he pressed his lips together and his eyes avoided her face.

There was a pause. "How about the money?" she said, at last. "How will you buy the place?"

"Your brother has promised to arrange about a loan. But I say again, Merle--I shall not blame you in the least if you would rather go and live with your aunt at Bruseth. I fancy she'd be glad to have you, and the children too."

Again there was silence for a while. Then she said: "If there are two decent rooms in the cottage, we could be comfortable enough. And as you say, it would be easier to look after."

Peer waited a little. There was something in his throat that prevented speech. He understood now that it was to be taken for granted, without words, that they should not part company. And it took him a little time to get over the discovery.

Merle sat facing him, but her eyes were turned to the window as before.

She had still the same beautiful dark eyebrows, but her face was faded and worn, and there were streaks of grey in her hair.

At last he spoke again. "And about the children, Merle."

She started. "The children--what about them?" Had it come at last, the thing she had gone in fear of so long?

"Aunt Marit has sent word to ask if we will let your brother take Louise over to stay with her."

"No!" Merle flung out. "No, Peer. Surely you said no at once. Surely you wouldn't let her go. You know what it means, their wanting to have her over there."

"I know," he nodded. "But there's another question: in Louise's own interest, have we any right to say no?"

"Peer," she cried, springing up and wringing her hands, "you mustn't ask it of me. You don't want to do it yourself. Surely we have not come to that--to begin sending--giving away--no, no, no!" she moaned. "Do you hear me, Peer? I cannot do it."

"As you please, Merle," he said, rising, and forcing himself to speak calmly. "We can think it over, at any rate, till your brother leaves tomorrow. There are two sides to the thing: one way of it may hurt us now; the other way may be a very serious matter for Louise, poor thing."

Next morning, when it was time to wake the children, Peer and Merle went into the nursery together. They stopped by Louise's bed, and stood looking down at her. The child had grown a great deal since they came to Raastad; she lay now with her nose buried in the pillow and the fair hair hiding her cheek. She slept so soundly and securely. This was home to her still; she was safer with father and mother than anywhere else in the world.

"Louise," said Merle, shaking her. "Time to get up, dear."

The child sat up, still half asleep, and looked wonderingly at the two faces. What was it?

"Make haste and get dressed," said Peer. "Fancy! You're going off with Uncle Carsten today, to see Aunt Marit at Bruseth. What do you say to that?"

The little girl was wide awake in a moment, and hopped out of bed at once to begin dressing. But there was something in her parents' faces which a little subdued her joy.

That morning there was much whispering among the children. The two youngest looked with wondering eyes at their elder sister, who was going away. Little Lorentz gave her his horse as a keepsake, and Asta gave her youngest doll. And Merle went about trying to make believe that Louise was only going on a short visit, and would soon be coming back.

By dinner-time they had packed a little trunk, and Louise, in her best dress, was rushing about saying goodbye all round the farm, the harvesters, whom she had helped to drive in the hay, coming in for a specially affectionate farewell. Her last visit was to Musin, the grey horse, that was grazing tethered behind the smithy. Musin was busy cropping the turf, but he just lifted his head and looked at her--she plucked a handful of gra.s.s, and offered it, and when he had disposed of that, she patted his muzzle, and he let her cling round his neck for a moment.

"I'll be sure to write," she cried out to no one in particular, as she went back over the courtyard again.

The train moved out of the station, taking with it Uthoug junior and Louise, each waving from one of the windows of the compartment.

And Peer and Merle were left on the platform, holding their two youngest children by the hand. They could still see a small hand with a white handkerchief waving from the carriage window. Then the last carriage disappeared into the cutting, and the smoke and the rumble of the train were all that was left.