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Ol' Bengtsa's son had liked the late Eric of Falla best, but he also entertained in a high regard for Lars Gunnarson, the present master of Falla. Lars Gunnarson came of rather obscure people, but he was a man who had the good sense to marry well, and who would doubtless forge ahead and gain for himself both wealth and position.
Many ugly words were on the tip of his tongue, but now he had no time to give vent to them. What did he care about being revenged on Lars Gunnarson? Why should he bother to defend himself? The letter drew him away with a power that was irresistible.
So Jan pictured himself going on the morrow to the sexton, or to some other person who could write, to ask him to write to Glory Goldie and tell her to come home. When Jan came into the living-room at Falla he naturally drew himself up a bit. The old housewife was pouring coffee and he did not wonder at it when she handed him his cup before even Lars Gunnarson had been served.
He knew he was not the right person for that, and would simply make bad worse. Quietly withdrawing from the crowd, he walked down to the end of the pier just as the boat hove into view from behind the nearest point. Long before his marriage to Anna Ericsdotter of Falla, Lars Gunnarson happened one day to be present at an auction sale.
"Some words are too heavy for utterance," she said with great gravity. "Answer me with just a nod, Jan, if you will. Can I give these to Lars Gunnarson?" Jan drew back a step. This was a matter he had entirely dismissed from his mind. It seemed such a long time since Eric of Falla died he hardly remembered how it happened.
He seemed to be making a great sacrifice when he finally decided to knock down the sour old butter tub. After that he turned his attention to the water buckets, the cowls, and washtubs. Lars Gunnarson seemed somewhat less reluctant when it came to disposing of the older ones, which he sold without indulging in overmuch sighing; but the newer lots he did not want to offer at all.
He harked back to Lars Gunnarson several times, relating in part what had occurred at the catechetical meeting, and he even dragged in all the gossip that had been circulated about Lars in the Ashdales since Eric's death. The son granted that Lars might not be altogether blameless; if he had now begun drinking it was a bad sign.
Somehow they had come to regard the things he offered as of real worth. It suddenly occurred to them that one thing or another was needed at home and here were veritable bargains, which they were not buying now just for the fun of it, as had been the case when Jöns of Kisterud did the auctioning. After this master stroke Lars Gunnarson was in great demand at all auctions.
Of a sudden he put his hand on Lars's shoulder and tried to read his face. "I'm not your judge, Lars Gunnarson," he said in warm, reassuring tones, "but if you have something on your conscience, you can come to me. I shall look for you every day. Only don't put it off too long!" The second winter of the little girl's absence from home was an extremely severe one.
It was over there, in the doorway, he had stood when the sun peeped out through the clouds to name the little girl. The hut was one with himself; with Katrina; with Glory Goldie. It could never be lost to them. He saw Glory Goldie clench her fist, and felt that she would come to their aid very soon. Presently Lars Gunnarson and the shopkeeper's clerk got up and moved toward the door.
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