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But now are th' dangers passin' wid ivery mile, hark to th' men singin'! 'Tis bad business whin men do not sing at th' day's work. 'Tis glad I am f'r safe deliverance from that counthry av nightmares wid its outlandish name, Athabasca, where Terence must moon from post to post av th' Hudson's Bay " "Athabasca!" Maren's head was up and she was looking at the little woman with an eager wistfulness.
He snarled and bit at Maren's wrist, but she picked him up and flung him, half-dragging on the ground, for he was a mighty beast, into the first canoe.
And as to the farmer of the Sand farm, he only got what he deserved. Maren's fame was established after this. People have short memories, when it is to their own advantage, and Anders Olsen was seldom generous to them. There would be long intervals in between his visits, then suddenly he would take to coming often. The men of the Sand farm had always been plagued by witchcraft.
The arrangement was good, inasmuch as Sörine need no longer go in fear of tramps, and all that a timid young girl might encounter; but, on the other hand, it did not answer Maren's expectations. Far from having taken any harm from the long walks, it was now proved what good they had done her. She became even more delicate than before, and dainty about her food.
"Aye, I have said, and I thank God, M'sieu, for such friendship. I am rich, indeed." "Oho! Marc Dupre does better at the lovemaking than at the trapping! His account at the factory suffers from les amours!" A childish voice broke in upon them, and Francette's impish face peeped round the corner of the nearest cabin. "Let it be, Marc Dupre," as the youth dropped his and from Maren's arm.
How beautiful it would have been to go with Sören now; Maren would willingly have made the journey with him, to see what was on the other side had it not been for Ditte. A child had always kept her back, and thus it was now. Maren's own time was not yet; she must wait, letting Sören go alone. Sören now slept more quietly, and she drew her hand gently out of his.
Last Whitsuntide she sang in the church with the musical people; she sang louder than the organ!" Otto approached the sofa, over which a large piece of needlework hung, in a splendid gold frame. "That is Maren's name-sampler," said the mistress of the house. "It is very pretty. See! there stand all our names! Can Mr. Thostrup guess who this is? Here are all the figures worked in open stitch.
"Maren," she said this day, as she took the bread pan which had been borrowed, "I fear there is something troubling you. Is there bad news from Athabasca?" Always there lay behind Maren's eagerness a fear, sleeping like a hidden fawn but ever ready to quiver into life, a fear of news from the Whispering Hills, news that should make the promise of the trail a sudden void.
He came rushing suddenly out of a corner with a towel in front of his face and said: "Bo!" and you jumped. If the towel were taken away there soon emerged a laughing face from behind it. That at once made the bogey-man less terrible. And perhaps that was the reason Maren's threat: "Now, if you are not good, the bogey-man will come and take you," quickly lost its effect.
She was better dressed than the young wives of the neighborhood, and had a kind face and gentle manners. She asked them into the living room, took off their shawls, which she hung by the fire to dry. She then made them sit down and gave them food and drink, speaking kindly to them all the while; to Ditte in particular, which softened Maren's heart.
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