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A buzz of content filled the air. Crows loitered and gossiped in the sky. The dog had been let out and after a dance of excitement he settled down to a steady quartering of the field, forth and back, forth and back, his nose down. "Pete Rustad owns this farm, and he told me he saw a small covey of chickens in the west forty, last week.
The girls gazed at him for a moment, and he at them, all three with a hesitating smile. At last Peer lifted his hat and asked the way to Rustad saeter. It took them some time to explain this, and then they asked him the time. He told them exactly to the minute, and then showed them his watch so that they might see for themselves. All this took more time.
And she adores you. You are the Lord of the Manor." "Oh no," much pleased, "but still they do ask my advice about things. Bully people, these Scandinavian farmers. And prosperous, too. Helga Rustad, she's still scared of America, but her kids will be doctors and lawyers and governors of the state and any darn thing they want to." "I wonder " Carol was plunged back into last night's Weltschmerz.
She was twanging a Swedish patois not in monotone, like English, but singing it, with a lyrical whine: "Pete he say you kom pretty soon hunting, doctor. My, dot's fine you kom. Is dis de bride? Ohhhh! Ve yoost say las' night, ve hope maybe ve see her som day. My, soch a pretty lady!" Mrs. Rustad was shining with welcome. "Vell, vell! Ay hope you lak dis country! Von't you stay for dinner, doctor?"
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