They lay there, and went on talking.  Inger is a matchless woman, after all; and with a full heart, “I’ve not been as I ought towards you,” she says, “and I’m that sorry about it.”

The simple words move him; this barge of a man is touched, ay, he wants to comfort her, knowing nothing of what is the matter, but only that there is none like her.  “Naught to cry about, my dear,” says Isak.  “There’s none of us can be as we ought.”

“Nay, ’tis true,” she answers gratefully.  Oh, Isak had a strong, sound way of taking things; straightened them out, he did, when they turned crooked.  “None of us can be as we ought.”  Ay, he was right.  The god of the heart—­for all that he is a god, he goes a deal of crooked ways, goes out adventuring, the wild thing that he is, and we can see it in his looks.  One day rolling in a bed of roses and licking his lips and remembering things; next day with a thorn in his foot, desperately trying to get it out.  Die of it?  Never a bit, he’s as well as ever.  A nice look-out it would be if he were to die!

And Inger’s trouble passed off too; she got over it, but she keeps on with her hours of devotion, and finds a merciful refuge there.  Hard-working and patient and good she is now every day, knowing Isak different from all other men, and wanting none but him.  No gay young spark of a singer, true, in his looks and ways, but good enough, ay, good enough indeed!  And once more it is seen that the fear of the Lord and contentment therewith are a precious gain.

And now it was that the little chief clerk from Storborg, Andresen, came up to Sellanraa one Sunday, and Inger was not in the least affected, far from it; she did not so much as go in herself to give him a mug of milk, but sent Leopoldine in with it, by reason that Jensine the maid was out.  And Leopoldine could carry a mug of milk as well as need be, and she gave it him and said, “Here you are,” and blushed, for all she was wearing her Sunday clothes and had nothing to be ashamed of, anyway.

“Thanks, ’tis overkind of you,” says Andresen.  “Is your father at home?” says he.

“Ay; he’ll be about the place somewhere.”

Andresen drank and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief and looked at the time.  “Is it far up to the mines?” he asked.

“No, ’tis an hour’s walk, or hardly that.”

“I’m going up to look over them, d’you see, for him, Aronsen—­I’m his chief clerk.”

“Ho!”

“You’ll know me yourself, no doubt; I’m Aronsen’s chief clerk.  You’ve been down buying things at our place before.”

“Ay.”

“And I remember you well enough,” says Andresen.  “You’ve been down twice buying things.”

“’Tis more than could be thought, you’d remember that,” says Leopoldine, and had no more strength after that, but stood holding by a chair.

But Andresen had strength enough, he went on, and said:  “Remember you?  Well, of course I should.”  And he said more: