He harked back to Lars Gunnarson several times, relating in part what had occurred at the catechetical meeting, and he even dragged in all the gossip that had been circulated about Lars in the Ashdales since Eric’s death.

The son granted that Lars might not be altogether blameless; if he had now begun drinking it was a bad sign.

“I’m curious to see how he’ll get through this day,” said Ol’ Bengtsa.

Just then the son felt a nibble, and did not have to answer.  There was nothing in this whole story that had any bearing upon the common interests of himself and his father, yet he could not but feel there was some hidden intent back of the old man’s words.

“I hope he’ll drive over to the parsonage this evening,” pursued Ol’ Bengtsa.  “There is forgiveness of sins for him who will seek it.”

A long silence ensued.  The son was too busy baiting his hook to think of replying.  Besides, this was not anything which called for a response.  Presently there came from the old man such a heavy sigh that he had to look over toward him.

“Father!  Can’t you see you’ve got a nibble?  I believe you are letting the perch jerk the rod away from you.”

The old man quickly pulled up his line and released the fish from the hook.  His fingers seemed to be all thumbs and the perch slipped from his hands back into the water.

“It isn’t meant that I shall catch any fish to-day, however much I may want to.”

Yes, there was certainly something he wished the son to say—­to Confess—­but surely he did not expect him to liken himself to one who was suspected of having caused the death of his father-in-law?

Ol’ Bengtsa did not bait his hook again.  He stood upon a stone, with his hands folded—­his half-dead eyes fixed on the smooth water.

“Yes—­there is pardon for all,” he said musingly, “for all who let their old parents lie waiting and freezing in icy chilliness—­ pardon even to this day.  But afterward it will be too late!”

Surely this could never have been said for the son’s benefit.  The father was no doubt thinking aloud, as is the habit of old people.

Anyhow, the son thought he would try to make the old man talk about something else.  So he said: 

“How is the man who went crazy last year getting on?”

“Oh, you mean Jan of Ruffluck!  Well, he has been in his right mind since last fall.  He’ll not be at the party, either.  He’s only a poor crofter like myself; so him you’ll not miss, of course.”

This was true enough.  However, the son was so glad of an excuse to speak of some one other than Lars Gunnarson, that he asked with genuine concern what was wrong with Jan of Ruffluck.

“Oh, he’s just sick from pining for a daughter who went away about two years ago, and who never writes to him.”

“The girl who went wrong?”

“So you knew about it, eh?  But it isn’t because of that he’s grieving himself to death.  It is the awful hardness and lack of love that he can’t bear up under.”