In order to be able to see he
threw his head pretty far back; he held his staff in his right hand,
while the left was firmly pressed against his side when he was not
gesticulating; and this he never did more vigorously than by stretching
the hand half way out and holding it passive a moment, as a guard for
his dignity.
"Is that your son who is standing behind you?" he began, abruptly.
"So they say."
"Oyvind is his name, is it not?"
"Yes; they call him Oyvind."
"He has been at one of those agricultural schools down south, I
believe?"
"There was something of the kind; yes."
"Well, my girl--she--my granddaughter--Marit, you know--she has gone
mad of late."
"That is too bad."
"She refuses to marry."
"Well, really?"
"She will not have any of the gard boys who offer themselves."
"Ah, indeed."
"But people say he is to blame; he who is standing there."
"Is that so?"
"He is said to have turned her head--yes; he there, your son Oyvind."
"The deuce he has!"
"See you, I do not like to have any one take my horses when I let them
loose on the mountains, neither do I choose to have any one take my
daughters when I allow them to go to a dance. I will not have it."
"No, of course not."
"I cannot go with them; I am old, I cannot be forever on the lookout."
"No, no! no, no!"
"Yes, you see, I will have order and propriety; there the block must
stand, and there the axe must lie, and there the knife, and there they
must sweep, and there throw rubbish out,--not outside the door, but
yonder in the corner, just there--yes; and nowhere else.
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