No one answered.  Olof marked how the dark brows drew together like two murky storm-clouds.

“Good-day,” came the answer at last, sharp and hard—­as if the speaker were unwilling to deny a certain courtesy, even to the most unwelcome guest, in his own house.

Having said so much, however, he felt no further obligation, and went on sternly: 

“I told you last time that I did not wish to see you again.  What brings you here now?”

The words fell like strokes of an axe; the girl turned pale, and leaned against the wall.

“This,” said Olof calmly.  “When I spoke to you last time, matters did not pass off as they should.  I beg your forgiveness for that.  And now I have come to ask again for your daughter’s hand.”

“You—­a wastrel...!” The old man’s voice trembled with anger.

“I have been.  But let us talk calmly, if you please.”

“Lumberman!” The word was flung out with a bitterness and contempt that cut like a knife.

A dark flush rose to Olof’s cheek; he was hard put to it already to control himself.

“True,” he said, slowly and with emphasis.  “I have been a lumberman.  There are clodhoppers enough to ditch and plough, but good lumbermen are none so easy to find.”

The old man raised his eyebrows, then lowered them again with an expression as of a beast about to spring.

“Go!” he thundered.

A deep silence followed.  Olof bit his lip, then drawing himself up defiantly, he poured out a flood of words.

“You—­you drove me out from here once before, and I went at your bidding.  Now, I move not a step till we have fought this out between us.  I came to you to-day with all respect—­yes, and asked your pardon for last time, though even now I do not know which of us two was more in the wrong.  And I am going now, but not at your bidding—­and not alone.  I have come to ask for what is mine by right—­and I would do the same if she were a star in the skies of heaven!”

The old man was leaning forward with clenched fists; without a word he rushed towards the door.

Olof’s mind was made up on the instant—­he would take the man by the arms and set him down and bid him talk over matters quietly and decently, as became his age.  He stepped forward resolutely.

“Father!” The girl sprang forward hastily between them, “Father—­I ... it is true.  I am his by right!”

The words came like a blow from behind—­the father turned and looked long at the girl.

“You...!” he cried, astounded.  “You say—­you are his by right?  Ho!  And perhaps you’ve been waiting for him, then, all these years, when you said ‘No’ to one after another?”

“Yes,” she answered calmly.  “And I have made up my mind to be his wife.”

The old man took a step towards her.

“Made up your mind, have you...?”

“Yes,” said the girl gently; “and I want you, father, to consent.”