Chapter XXI: Book II: Founding the Kingdom (8)

The mildness of the afternoon greeted her like a friend. She breathed in the pure air deeply, straightening her body, throwing back her arms.... What fine weather, these days!... The trees around the yard caught her eye; again she had the feeling of having just returned from a long journey. The idea! Look how big that grove is getting to be!... Over on the prairie, some distance away, rose a half-finished house. Well, that’s Hans Olsa’s. It will be fine for Sörrina to move into that new house! No matter how good care you take of a sod house, it’s never very satisfactory—dust and dirt keep falling from the ceiling all the time, especially when it gets old.... But who was that tall, stooping man coming out of the barn? Now he had greeted her quietly in a deep voice and walked on.... Beret began to be worried. Wasn’t that Hans Olsa? Didn’t she know her own neighbour?... Hearing some one still in the barn, she hurried across the yard and peered in.

“Are you in there?” she called.

A stocky, broad-shouldered man appeared in the barn door; his face was deeply furrowed; his hair and beard, heavily sprinkled with grey, were now full of dust and straw. As she looked at him she felt strangely uneasy and disturbed; but she couldn’t help giving him a bright smile:

“What in the world has happened to you, Per Hansa?”

He stood staring fixedly at her, unable to stir a muscle. No power on earth could have taken his eyes away from her face at that moment; he caught hold of the jamb of the door to steady himself.... God in heaven!—what had happened....

Beret saw his great agitation. Now her disturbance increased—her concern over him grew genuine. “Are you sick, Per Hansa?” she asked in tones of deepest sympathy, coming closer to him. “You mustn’t keep on with this work when you aren’t feeling well; there can’t be such a hurry about it, you know.”

Per Hansa cleared his throat to speak, but no words came ... he could only look at her.

She noticed his pale, haggard face, and her anxiety grew insistent. “You’ve got to quit right now!... I’ll run in and boil some milk for you!” ... She hurried off to the house, too full of her new-found solicitude to wait for an answer.

In the open door Per Hansa stood gazing at her as she went; he longed to follow her, to touch her, to talk to her, but he dared not do it.... There was a spade standing beside the door; he picked it up and set it down inside....

“No, it better not stand in here.” He picked it up again and put it back.... His eyes rested on a hammer lying on the floor—the one he had been using a moment ago. “I must remember to put that hammer away before it gets tramped into the ground.” ... Next moment he forgot all about it.... He was shaking violently from head to foot; he had to lean up against the wall.... “God be merciful! I haven’t seen her like this for many years!” ... Then he sighed wearily.... “But I don’t suppose it means anything.”

Beret came into the house, moving with purpose and confidence now, and hurried to light the fire. The boy was still sitting at the table; no sooner did he see her than he wanted more to eat. But she had no time to bother with him; she put a pan on the stove and filled it with milk.... “Poor fellow, he must have caught a cold, in all this rainy weather,” she thought. “And summer colds are hard to get rid of, unless they’re taken in time. I’d better mix some pepper with the milk.... If I could only persuade him to lie down so that I’d have a chance to cover him up and get him good and warm, I’d soon have him all right again.... Colds don’t usually last very long with him.”

As she was tidying up the bed she chanced to get a glimpse of herself in the mirror that hung on the wall behind it; she had to take a second look.... “Good gracious! What a sight I am to-day! No wonder he looked worried—he who always wants me so nice!” ... While she was waiting for the milk to simmer, she washed her face and combed her hair; that done, she opened the big chest, found her best Sunday garments, and hurriedly put them on.... Now then, she wasn’t quite so much of a scarecrow....

The milk boiled; she lifted it off the stove, went to the door, and called Per Hansa.... As a timid child enters a stranger’s house and does not dare to put aside his cap, so now Per Hansa stepped across his own threshold. Permand was still sitting by the table; his father caught sight of him there, and walking over to him, picked the boy up and sat down in his stead; then he put him on his lap and gently stroked his hair.... His voice was gone—it would not come.... All the while he was casting furtive glances at his wife; big beads of sweat stood on his forehead.

She brought him a cup of the steaming milk. “I put pepper in it; now you must get it down while it’s still hot.... Then you shall go right to bed and get good and warm!”

Without protest he did as she bade him, sipping cup after cup of the strong hot mixture; he couldn’t keep his eyes off her face.... But still he found no words to say to her; whenever he tried to speak his throat closed....

While he was drinking she came and sat down by his side, telling him innocently how topsy-turvy things had seemed to her to-day. Why, she had just lain down for a moment with the child, and when she woke up it had seemed as though she had been gone for years and a day! She laughed merrily as she told him about it.

Per Hansa listened in silence, looked at her, and drank of the hot mixture until the tears rolled down his cheeks.... She chatted on unconsciously, her voice low but full and very sweet; as he gazed at her, he saw in her face only intelligent concern—only loving solicitude—exactly like the dear Beret-girl that he used to know!... When he found it impossible to swallow another drop of the hot pepper-and-milk, she insisted that he lie down at once; if he would only take a good sweat, this cold would soon pass off. Per Hansa obeyed like a docile child, while she herself came and tucked the quilt around him.... “Now try to drop off to sleep.... Don’t worry—you’ll soon be all right.”

He turned his face to the wall, crying silently; he had clasped his hands together with a grip of iron, but soon he had to break the grip, to wipe the tears away....

He lay thus until the paroxysm had passed and he felt that he could master himself. Then he flung the covers aside, sat up suddenly on the edge of the bed, and looked intently at Beret, long and slow.... He began to believe ... and as he looked, he felt his old self returning....

“Are you getting up already?” she asked, greatly surprised. “I really think you ought to stay in bed the rest of the day.”

“Oh, well ...!” He laughed boisterously, rose to his feet, and stretched himself. “I guess I’d better hurry up and get that rickety roof fixed.... We must begin building here as soon as Hans Olsa can find time to help with the hauling!... By God, we’re not going to live like moles all our days!... That drink of yours was pretty good. Have you got a drop left?” He came forward and began pacing up and down the room.... “_God_!” ... But then he checked himself in time, caught Permand in his arms, and flung him up to the ceiling again and again, until the boy shrieked with delight.

“My, my, how funny we all are to-day!” smiled Beret as she stood there with the bowl in her hands, waiting for them to come to their senses.

IV. The Great Plain Drinks the Blood of
Christian Men and Is Satisfied

I

Many and incredible are the tales the grandfathers tell from those days when the wilderness was yet untamed, and when they, unwittingly, founded the Kingdom. There was the Red Son of the Great Prairie, who hated the Palefaces with a hot hatred; stealthily he swooped down upon them, tore up and laid waste the little settlements. Great was the terror he spread; bloody the saga concerning him.

But more to be dreaded than this tribulation was the strange spell of sadness which the unbroken solitude cast upon the minds of some. Many took their own lives; asylum after asylum was filled with disordered beings who had once been human. It is hard for the eye to wander from sky line to sky line, year in and year out, without finding a resting place!...

Then, too, there were the years of pestilence—toil and travail, famine and disease. God knows how human beings could endure it all. And many did not—they lay down and died. “There is nothing to do about that,” said they who survived. “We are all destined to die—that’s certain. Some must go now; others will have to go later. It’s all the same, is it not?” The poor could find much wherewith to console themselves. And whisky was cheap in those days, and easy to get....

And on the hot summer days terrible storms might come. In the twinkling of an eye they would smash to splinters the habitations which man had built for himself, so that they resembled nothing so much as a few stray hairs on a worn-out pelt. Man have power? Breathe it not, for that is to tempt the Almighty!...

Some feared most the prairie fire. Terrible, too, it was, before people had learned how to guard against it.

Others remembered best the trips to town. They were the jolliest days, said some; no, they were the worst of all, said the others. It may be that both were right.... The oxen moved slowly—whether the distance was thirty miles or ninety made little difference. In the sod house back there, somewhere along the horizon, life got on your nerves at times. There sat a wife with a flock of starving children; she had grown very pale of late, and the mouths of the children were always open—always crying for food.... But in the town it was cheerful and pleasant. There one could get a drink; there one could talk with people who spoke with enthusiasm and certainty about the future. This was the land of promise, they said. Sometimes one met these people in the saloons; and then it was more fascinating to listen to them than to any talk about the millennium. Their words lay like embers in the mind during the whole of the interminable, jolting journey homeward, and made it less long.... It helps so much to have something pleasant to think about, say the Old.

And it was as if nothing affected people in those days. They threw themselves blindly into the Impossible, and accomplished the Unbelievable. If anyone succumbed in the struggle—and that happened often—another would come and take his place. Youth was in the race; the unknown, the untried, the unheard-of, was in the air; people caught it, were intoxicated by it, threw themselves away, and laughed at the cost. Of course it was possible—everything was possible out here. There was no such thing as the Impossible any more. The human race has not known such faith and such self-confidence since history began.... And so had been the Spirit since the day the first settlers landed on the eastern shores; it would rise and fall at intervals, would swell and surge on again with every new wave of settlers that rolled westward into the unbroken solitude.

II

They say it rained forty days and forty nights once in the old days, and that was terrible; but during the winter of 1880–81 it snowed twice forty days; that was more terrible.... Day and night the snow fell. From the 15th of October, when it began, until after the middle of April, it seldom ceased. From the four corners of the earth it flew; but of all the winds that brought it, the south wind was the worst; for that whisked and matted the flakes into huge grey discs, which fell to the ground in clinging, woolly folds.... And all winter the sun stayed in his house; he crept out only now and then to pack down the snow; that was to make room for more.... Morning after morning folk would wake up in the dead, heavy cold, and would lie in bed listening to the _ooo-h-ooo-h-ooo-h-ing_ of the wind about the corners of the house. But what was this low, muffled roar in the chimney? One would leap out of bed, dress himself hurriedly in his heaviest garments, and start to go out—only to find that some one was holding the door. It wouldn’t budge an inch. An immovable monster lay close outside. Against this monster one pushed and pushed, until one could scoop a little of the snow through the crack into the room; finally one was able to force an opening large enough for a man to work himself out and flounder up to the air. Once outside, he found himself standing in an immense flour bin, out of which whirled the whiteness, a solid cloud. Then he had to dig his way down to the house again. And tunnels had to be burrowed from house to barn, and from neighbour to neighbour, wherever the distances were not too long and where there were children who liked to play at such things.

In the late spring, when all this snow had to thaw, the floods would come, covering all the land. Once again it would be just as it had been in the days of Noah; on the roofs of houses, on the gables of barns, in wagon boxes, even, people would go sailing away. Many would perish—for there was no Ark in those days!...

The suffering was great that winter. Famine came; supplies of all kinds gave out; for no one had thought, when the first snowfall began, that winter had come. Who had ever heard of its setting in in the middle of the autumn?... And for a while not much snow did come; the fall was light in November, though the days were grey and chill; in December there was more; January began to pile and drift it up; and in February the very demon himself arrived. Some had to leave their potatoes in the ground; others could not thresh the grain; fuel, if not provided beforehand, was scarcely to be had at all; and it was impossible for anyone to get through to town to fetch what might be needed.

In the houses round about folks were grinding away at their own wheat; for little by little the flour had given out, and then they had to resort to the coffee mill. Everyone came to it—rich and poor alike. Those who had no mill of their own were forced to borrow; in some neighbourhoods there were as many as four families using one mill.

That winter Torkel Tallaksen had two newcomer boys working for their board; he also kept a hired girl; in addition to these he had a big family of his own, so that his supply of flour was soon exhausted. Now, he owned one mill, but he wasn’t satisfied with that, so he went and borrowed four more; one might as well grind enough to last for a time while one was at it, he maintained. And so they ground away at his house for two days; but at the end of that time they were all so tired of it that they refused to grind any more.

When the mills had to be returned one of the little Tallaksen boys put on his skis and started off for Tönseten’s with the one they had borrowed there. The slight thaw of the day before and the frost of the previous night had left a hard crust on the snow; in some places this would bear him up, but more often it was so thin that he broke through. Down by the creek the snowdrifts lay like mountains. Here the boy let himself go, gathered more speed than he had expected to, and went head over heels into a huge snowdrift. His skis flew one way, the mill another. When he tried to recover the mill he broke through the drift, and then both he and the mill were buried in snow. He dug himself out, began to hunt wildly for the mill, broke through again, floundered around, and at last managed to lose the mill completely. After hunting until he was tired, he had to give it up; there was nothing to do but to go to Tönseten and tell him what had happened.

“You haven’t lost the mill?” gasped Tönseten, seriously alarmed.

“No,” said the boy, laughing. He knew exactly where it was, but he just couldn’t find it.

“And you laugh at that, you young idiot!” Tönseten was so angry that he boxed the boy’s ears; then he pulled on his coat and rushed off to ask his neighbours to help him hunt for the lost treasure. It was on this occasion that he coined a saying that later became a by-word in the settlement—“Never mind your lives, boys, if you can only find the mill!”

But the greatest hardship of all for the settlers was the scarcity of fuel—no wood, no coal. In every home people sat twisting fagots of hay with which to feed the fire.

Whole herds of cattle were smothered in the snow. They disappeared during the great early storm in October, and were never seen again; when the snow was gone in the spring, they would reappear low on some hillside. After lying there for six months, they would be a horrible sight.

And the same thing happened to people: some disappeared like the cattle; others fell ill with the cough; people died needlessly, for want of a doctor’s care; they did not even have the old household remedies—nothing of any kind. And when some one died, he was laid out in what the family could spare, and put away in a snowbank—until some later day.... There would be many burials in the settlement next spring.

III

The third quarter-section which Hans Olsa owned lay near the creek, north of Solums’. This he had fenced in and was using as a pasture for a large herd. During the summer he did not need to look after the cattle at all, except to give them salt; the grass was plentiful up north and they could drink at the creek. The preceding year the herd had pastured there until late in the fall. This year he had hauled over all the straw he could spare, and had bought more where he could find it. Then he had built a shed of poles and banked it in with the straw, with the intention of wintering the cattle on that quarter. He had finished the shed before winter set in; and now that he had managed to keep the cattle there until February, he felt fairly safe; surely the winter would be over pretty soon.... But the winter had only begun!

The 7th of February dawned bleak and cold. Large, tousled snowflakes came flying out of the west, filling the whole sky with a grey, woolly blanket. As the wind stiffened steadily throughout the morning, the flakes grew smaller and finer; but for all that, they fell in a thicker cloud. By noon, heaven and earth were a swirl of drifting snow. The west wind cut in more and more savagely; it waxed to a fury at times, driving the snowflakes before it with such violence that they were pinned to the walls.... As the afternoon wore on, the weather became so bad that Hans Olsa thought it best to go over north and look after the cattle. Had he not been so familiar with the lay of the land, or had he not known how to take his bearings by the direction of the wind, he would never have been able to find the place.

Things were in pretty bad shape there. Most of the straw had been blown away from the west side of the shed. The cattle had left the open inclosure, and had sought what shelter they could find to leeward of the straw stacks on the north side. At a glance he saw that unless he could repair the shed at once and get the animals under some sort of protection, he would find himself a considerably poorer man on the morrow. So he set to work as hard as he could to carry straw and fill it in between the poles, in order to shut out the wind; that done, he spread more straw all over the floor.

It was dark by the time he had got the shed into fit condition to drive the cattle in again. In the meanwhile they had been standing behind the stacks. But now his trouble began in earnest; the moment he drove the beasts far enough away from their shelter to feel the full force of the wind, they wheeled sharply, put their noses close to the ground, and headed back for the stacks. This would never do! He waited awhile until they were quiet again, and then he led them over one by one, taking the biggest first; the smaller animals he literally picked up and carried in. These had burrowed themselves so far into the stack that it was difficult even to get them out. With the snow beating on him, and the wind constantly taking his breath away, he found this a tough job; but he kept on at it without pause, though the sweat was pouring from him in streams.

The evening was gone when he had finished. Round about him lay the night, full of a whirling menace thicker, more desperate, than he had ever seen before—a surge which the wind drove before it in roaring breakers; in the eddies around the corners it was impossible to keep one’s eyes open.... Hans Olsa stood at the door of the shed, his work done, looking out at the storm; he was so weary that every limb trembled. At last he started out mechanically, walked a few steps, but had to stop to catch his breath. Then he began to realize that in this darkness, with such a blizzard raging, he would never be able to steer a straight course home. He felt his way back to the shed, went in again, and remained standing in the door.... His mind was too exhausted to think clearly; something kept telling him that he had done well to save the cattle. If they had been left outside, there wouldn’t have been many of them alive when the storm was over. If they only had a little more straw under them, they would really be quite comfortable now.

After he had been standing there a short while a succession of slight shivers began to run through his body. He wasn’t exactly cold—it was only that his muscles wouldn’t keep quiet. Now they tautened and cramped convulsively; now they arched and slacked up like released steel springs.... “If I lie down close to the animals, I’ll easily be able to keep warm,” he thought. “Day will soon come, and then I can go home to Sörrina and the children. I suppose she’ll have sense enough to go to bed and not sit up to wait for me all night.”

He felt his way over to where the herd had snuggled together, and lay down with his back close up against a large bull. He recognized the animal by a broken horn which his hand happened to fall on. His underclothes were so wet that they stuck to his body; but the warmth of the bull soon penetrated to him, and then he felt better. He lay there thinking how fine it was that he had saved the herd. About hurrying home he needn’t worry, for all was well there....

He did not intend to go to sleep—wasn’t aware that he was dropping off, either. He merely felt a heavy drowsiness stealing over him, and surrendered himself to it for a moment. It seemed so restful after that strenuous labor. Behind him rose the sound of quiet, regular breathing—_up ... down; up ... down_—like a light undertow on a summer’s day. If only he could have such pleasant warmth in front of him, too! Involuntarily he stretched out his arms, caught hold of the first creature he came to, and raised himself up sufficiently to drag it close to him. Fearing that he might have hurt the poor thing, he began to pet it and talk to it.... Really, now, he was as comfortable as a man could expect to be on such a night—anywhere but at home. Hans Olsa settled back and curled himself up snugly between the animals.

The gusts of wind shook and tore at the frail shelter. The storm raged terribly; all evil powers were loose that night. The worst of it was that it had turned so bitterly cold. Through every crack in the shed the snow came whirling; it settled everywhere, piling itself up in little mounds, which the wind alternately levelled and raised again, as it sucked and swirled through the place.... Hans Olsa began to twitch violently; he thought that he felt some one pricking his arms and legs. Next instant he _knew_ there must be somebody there—somebody who was using both hands on him; one hand was working upward from the legs; the other from the elbow toward the shoulder. When these two hands met, he jumped—a shock seemed to go over him.... With great difficulty he heaved himself up and stood on his knees; the heavy mantle of snow slipped off him, shedding an icy shower which struck him full in the face.... Now, what was this—had he lost his feet?... And where were his hands?... With infinite pains he raised himself and stood unsteadily on his legs. Then he tried to go to the door, to look at the weather; but in a moment he was down again; at the first step he had stumbled against a living mound under the snow, which reared up wildly and then was gone in the impenetrable darkness. With each movement now, a blast of wind and snow struck his face. This happened many times.

He could not understand it—what had happened to him? He knew that he wasn’t drunk, but his legs would not carry him. And one of his arms was gone.... Well, here was the wall. He leaned against it, and stood there, panting.... What! Was his hand frozen?... He pulled the mitten off his good hand, took hold of the fingers of the other and bent them—yet he could not feel them move. He saw them bend, too—but he could not feel them.... This would have to be attended to at once! He let himself sink down, and began to rub the hand with snow—he breathed on it hard, and rubbed. Now he began to feel himself frozen through and through; his teeth were chattering; his whole body was shaking violently; well, there was no time to waste in idle thinking....

Even now he was trying to make the best of it. “As soon as this hand is all right, I’ll have to get my feet thawed out. If I don’t get that done, I’ll be a cripple for life.” ... In his usual level-headed way, he tried to pull his boots off, but couldn’t accomplish it. Then he took out his pocket knife, and ripped them both open—first one, then the other, and placed them methodically against the wall. The socks came off easily enough; these he stuck in the bosom of his shirt.

He got up and started to run in his bare feet, holding to the wall; he stumbled a good deal, but kept on with his shambling run. After a spell of this, he sat down and chafed his feet. He rubbed a long while, got up again and ran—ran as hard as he could, and then sat down again to rub anew. His mind was calm, but it worked very slowly—his thoughts seemed to be far away; he saw them in bright letters against the darkness: “I had better be careful—I’ve often seen people rub the skin from a frozen limb.... If I only had some cold water, this would be easy.” ... He pulled his socks on again, and found his boots. In one corner of the shed, he remembered, stood two crotches, which he had bound together with steel wire. He felt his way there, unfastened the wire, and wound it around his bootlegs.

Then he began to stamp up and down along the wall . . . to beat his arms ... to run. The pricking seemed to be going away, he thought ... everything seemed better . . . yet he wasn’t certain of anything at all. His thoughts were working somewhere outside himself; they stood and stared at him through the whirling drift.... “It is certain,” said something away there in the dark, “that if you stay here to-night, you’re done for.... If the wind continues steady, you ought to be able to find Henry’s fence—you know where that takes off in the direction of Per Hansa’s—you follow it from there on, and then you come to your own—that runs right to the cattle barn at home. You might as well freeze to death out there, as here.” ... “Well, well,” he assented, as if tired of arguing. “That may be right—it may be.” ... Pulling himself together, he went out of the shed and started off before the wind....

IV

That night Hans Olsa received his death blow. He stumbled into his own house in the small hours of the morning; he was then so exhausted that he could not get his clothes off unaided.... Sörine had been up all night, well-nigh crazed with fear; twice she had started to go to Per Hansa’s for help, but the storm had driven her back each time; then she had lighted a candle and placed it in the window, in hopes of its doing some good. She had fed the fire with desperate resolution, trying to face the fact that now the worst had happened and there was nothing to do about it, for Fate is inexorable.

As soon as she had got him into the house she began tending him with frantic haste. She made him drink several bowls of hot milk with black pepper in it; then she put him to bed, warmed the clothes and tucked them around him. But he lay there shivering, in spite of all she did, so that the whole bed shook. Later in the day he began to cough—a dry, rasping cough, it was, that seemed to grate on something hard as iron down in the bottom of his chest. During the night that followed he was delirious; he wanted to get up all the time and go north to look after the cattle. Sörine had all she could do to quiet him and keep him in bed. When the cough came from deep down in his lungs it seemed to scrape off flecks of rust that stuck in his throat and threatened to choke him.

Day came at last, after a long, dismal night; and then he seemed better. Between the coughing spells he talked calmly to his wife, telling her what she and Sofie had to do about the chores. He felt condemned that they should be left to do all the outside work alone. As soon as they had gone out, he tried to get out of bed and put on his clothes; but the chills grew so violent that he could not stand on his feet. He fell back on the bed....

For two full days the blizzard raged. During the forenoon of the third day the snow ceased falling and the storm abated; but the air was still grey and bitterly cold. As soon as Hans Olsa saw that the storm was really letting up, he told Sofie to put on her skis and go over to get Per Hansa. “This will never do,” he said to his wife. “For three days and nights you haven’t been out of your clothes. I may be a long time in getting over the cough.” ... He wanted to say more, but the words were lost in a paroxysm of coughing.

Per Hansa and the oldest two boys were making hay twists out in the barn when Sofie brought the first news that her father had been out in the storm the other night and was now very sick. Per Hansa immediately dropped his work and went back with her. Sörine looked worn out and very much worried. She turned her head aside when she spoke to him, saying that things didn’t look very well. Then she went to the stove, put her apron up to her eyes, and murmured again—things didn’t look very well! But Per Hansa’s coming cheered her up a little and even seemed to take away some of her anxiety. In a moment her old buoyancy had come back; she dried her eyes and asked him to follow her into the bedroom.

In a hut on the border of the Irish settlement lived an old woman who was so queer at times that she was called “Crazy Bridget.” In fact, she had brought this name with her to the settlement; Tönseten long ago had picked it up from her countrymen, and had translated it into Norwegian—he made it _Kræsi-Brita_. All the Norwegians called her that now. This Bridget had come west with her son, had taken the quarter of land next to his, and had herself put up the hut in which she now lived. Very little was known about her except that she was extremely religious, and that as a rule she spoke a language which none of the Norwegians had ever heard before, and which, apparently, few of her own people understood. She seldom visited the other settlers of her own accord; but many—especially those of her own race—came often to her for help in time of sickness. She had a great store of old-fashioned remedies, both for humans and for beasts, and she gave of them freely, without pay. Most of the Norwegians had consulted her at one time or another, in spite of the fact that they went on saying she was only a fraud. And though they said it, they all had to admit, when it came down to known cases, that she had a remarkable way with sick folks.

When Per Hansa saw how seriously ill his neighbour was he went out into the kitchen and said to Sörine that some one must go and fetch Bridget. They ought not to scorn her powers at a time like this—she might be able to help; at least, they must try every chance that offered.

Suiting the action to the word, he went for her himself. A little later the old woman came trudging over on snowshoes, carrying an odd-looking bag on her back. She warmed herself at the fire, went into the bedroom, and looked at the suffering man. Then she asked for a kettle and opened her bag; first she took out four large onions; these she cut into tiny bits and dumped into the kettle; then she opened a bottle of vile-smelling stuff and poured some of its contents on the onions; at last she set the kettle over the fire and let it boil awhile. From this mixture she made thick poultices, which she put on Hans Olsa’s back and chest; but before she put them on she took out of her pocket a small rusty crucifix, mumbled some words over it, and stuck it into the poultice which was to lie on his chest. As she fixed these applications she made the sign of the cross over his chest and back. All the while she was muttering strange words, in a language they did not understand—whether a prayer or something worse they could not say. These poultices were to be kept on for twelve hours, she explained in broken English, and hot cloths must be put over them to keep them warm. When the twelve hours were gone they must make a fresh poultice. She instructed Sörine how to make it—with onions, a cup of linseed oil, one cup of fresh milk, and some flour. They must take good care of the crucifix, she said; she would hold them responsible for it. After giving some more good advice, she wished them God’s blessing, put her bag on her back, fastened her snowshoes, and trudged away.

Both Sörine and Hans Olsa had faith in the woman and were glad that she had come.... One must try such remedies as one had....

Per Hansa was very busy that forenoon; there was much to do at his own place, and more at his neighbour’s. He had hurried home from Hans Olsa’s after going for Bridget; had called the two boys, and taken them with him at once to look after the cattle up north. Before he left he told Beret briefly how things were at their neighbour’s, and asked her to arrange her own work so that she could go over toward evening and stay there for the night. It might be late before he could get back....

At supper time Tönseten called at Per Hansa’s as he was going by. He was on his way home from the east part of the settlement, and just wanted to drop in to see how they were after the storm. When he heard the news about Hans Olsa—how he had come down with such a bad cough, that it was doubtful if he would pull through—he decided to go over at once and tell Sörine what to do. If anyone in these parts knew all there was to know about a cough, he was the man! Tönseten was in an extraordinarily bright humour that evening. He told Per Hansa not to worry, if it was nothing worse than the cough; put on his skis and started off for Hans Olsa’s.

Out in the bedroom lay the sick man, propped up by pillows; Little-Hans sat at the foot of the bed with his playthings; Sörine and the daughter had finished the chores and were now working in the kitchen; Beret sat in the bedroom, taking care that the poultices were kept hot and that the patient’s shoulders were covered up warm; she had her knitting in her hands and was singing a hymn when Tönseten came in.

On entering the room Tönseten greeted them both cheerily; but instantly he began to feel ill at ease.... No need, surely, to begin the funeral before the man was in the coffin!... He managed to hold his tongue, however. Since Beret had recovered, he couldn’t stand her. She had become so pious that if a fellow made the most innocent remark, she was sure to preach at him. And never a drop of whisky would she tolerate, either for rheumatism or for cough.... One ought to have some sense, even if one was going to be religious. Surely he who was both _klokker_ and deacon ought to be privileged to talk a little sense into her!... But such was the respect which she commanded, that even though he had thought about it for two years, he had never dared to say the first word.

To-night Tönseten could think only of how serious things looked for Hans Olsa; he went straight to the bedside, and said in a tone of voice that was meant to be cheerful: “I’m surprised at you, Hans Olsa!... What do you mean by lying here like this, _you slugabed_? And here you have the finest ski-slide the Lord ever made, clear from your housetop all the way down to my place!” ... The sick man’s face brightened as he looked into Tönseten’s merry eyes; a breath of fresh air flurried from out the red, icicled beard; the whole face bending above him radiated good humour.... “I’m glad you came, Syvert,” said Hans Olsa in a faint voice.

Tönseten now began to feel that the right atmosphere had been established; he hummed a tune, took a chair, and sat down beside the bed. Without further prelude, he started to relate what had happened to him that day.... Yesterday morning, when Kjersti had tried to make the fire, the stove wouldn’t draw and the room had filled with smoke; not being able to manage the thing, she had come and roused him. He had got up, had dressed, and had then tried to open the door, only to find that the whole house was snowed under; from the hillside to the creek stretched one huge, solid drift, and the chimney itself was packed full of snow....

Well, he had succeeded after a while in getting a hole through, so that at last they could have their morning coffee. It was simply terrible how much snow there was down his way. Yesterday he had been busy all day, making steps in the snow down to the house; these had packed fairly well during the day, but to-day they were as solid as ice.... And this morning when Kjersti had come along carrying a pail of water, she had been so unfortunate as to slip on the top step—“ha-ha!” ... She had thrown the pail into the air, her feet had shot out from under her, and she hadn’t stopped until she’d landed on her backsides in the middle of the floor!... “ha-ha-ha!” ... There she sat.... “What in Heaven’s name are you up to, Kjersti?” he had said, when he saw that she hadn’t hurt herself very much; and then he naturally had gone off into a fit of laughing. This had infuriated Kjersti; and when he saw that he’d tried his damnedest to stop—but for the life of him he couldn’t! He’d laughed and laughed, and the more he’d laughed the worse things had got; until finally she had lost her temper completely and just driven him out of the house....

Well, this is what he had done next; he had put on his skis and gone over east in the settlement—had spent the whole afternoon there—just to visit around and see how folks were getting along. At last he had dropped in to see Johannes Mörstad and his wife Josie—Josie was about to have her fifth child, you know, and was expecting it any day now; Tönseten felt compelled to keep himself posted on the intimate progress of that family. So he had sat there gossiping with them a long while, and had just been telling them what had happened at home that day, when there!—he’d burst out laughing again, and laughed so hard that they all had to join in. And this had thrown Johannes into such a good humour that he had hunted up a bottle which he was saving for the coming event, and had given Tönseten a drop or two—perhaps it was three—well, it may have been four—if one must be accurate.... All this about the stove, and the steps, and Kjersti, and about how he had had to take to his heels in order to find peace, he related in epic detail to Hans Olsa—there seemed to be need of something jolly here!... But the number of drinks he really had had, he didn’t fully reveal.

There was something so infectious about Tönseten’s good spirits that they almost coaxed Hans Olsa into a brighter mood. But then a spell of coughing came on; he choked it back and asked if Kjersti hadn’t hurt herself pretty badly?

“Oh no, boys, never you fear!” hiccoughed Tönseten, wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands. “She’s all right, except for a few scratches here and there in the bottom—_here_ and _there_—but they’ll heal up in a little while.... Everything grows so big and fat around here, you know!” ... Tönseten went off into such another gale of laughter that he almost fell out of his chair.

“Well, well!” ... he said as soon as he could control himself, getting up to leave. “To-morrow I shall bring Kjersti over here with me. You just wait—we’ll get the cough boiled out of that chest of yours! Kjersti knows how to treat a cough, I can tell you!” ...

V

Beret had stopped her singing abruptly when Tönseten came in. As he rambled on she sat and watched his face—something made her look at him in spite of herself. She listened to his half-maudlin laughter—and it seemed to her she never had realized before how disgusting his laugh was. His breath smelled of whisky. At first she felt furious with him and wanted to order him out of the house. Didn’t the fool know that it was unseemly to talk that way at a deathbed.... But she only took her chair and moved farther off, as a child draws away from one of whom it is afraid.

When Tönseten had at last gone the air of the room seemed close and foul to Beret; filth and pollution had entered in where all should have been the serenity and holiness of a Sabbath. In a vision of startling clearness she saw how evil besmirches all life. What a degraded thing man’s life on earth had become! Here was one neighbour calling on another at the point of death; if ever there was need of godly speech, it was at this moment; and yet there had been nothing but vileness in his mouth! She felt a physical desire to cleanse the place of its corruption; folding her hands, she began to sing, soft and low:

“O Jesus, see
My misery:
God’s image out is blotted,
And with snow-white leprosy
Sin my soul has spotted.

“Once heavenly bright
Thy own delight,
It was—a new creation;
Now, because of sin’s dread blight,
Under condemnation.

“In death’s dark night,
Devoid of light,
It sought to find its pleasure;
All in vain, since it did slight
God, its greatest treasure.

“No tongue can tell
How low it fell
In sin’s dire degradation;
By forgetting heaven and hell,
It sought consolation.

“Thus it was found
In darkness bound,
With all its powers shattered,
Led at will by Satan round,
And with filth bespattered.

“O Christ, in Thee,
Who cam’st to be
A ransom for us given,
Is our only sanctity
And our way to heaven.

“Thy mercy be
My only plea;
Thy light my soul enlighten,
That it God again may see,
And life’s pathway brighten.

“Let morning rays
Of Thy mild grace
Upon my heart be streaming,
And from death my soul thus raise
By Thy love redeeming.

“O sinner’s friend,
Whom thorns did lend
Death’s scornful coronation,
Grant me peace with God again,
And with it salvation.”

She sang the whole hymn through before she got up again to change the cloths; that duty done, she went out to help Sörine and Sofie in the kitchen.

All that night Beret sat by the bedside. Though the sick man seemed no worse, the specks of rust that he raised from the depths of his chest appeared to her to be larger and more numerous. He slept little, but she didn’t wonder at that—he must have solemn things to think about now. She wanted to talk them over with him, but did not like to disturb his thoughts yet awhile. During the early part of the night they exchanged few words. But along toward morning the paroxysms of coughing became more frequent and violent; there were times when they almost choked him. Once she grew frightened and got up to hold his head; his face was turning blue as he struggled for breath; then she said, slowly: “Now I think you must prepare yourself, Hans Olsa.”

He turned his head sharply and looked at her.... “Prepare myself?” ...

“You will hardly be able to stand this very much longer.”

The big bulk of Hans Olsa lay very quiet; only his hand was moving nervously over the cover; his eyes had a questioning, startled look.... “Well ... many have got over the cough.” ....

She did not answer him. After a while he added, thoughtfully, “It will be worse for those who are left.” ...

“You ought not to say that, Hans Olsa—their time has not yet come. But remember that for you the day of grace is nearly over.” She spoke quietly and compassionately, in a tone of voice which, whenever she used it, always carried conviction by its confident faith.

For a long time Hans Olsa made no reply; he turned his face to the wall and closed his eyes. Beret stood looking at him.... “He does not like what I said. That’s how we are, we sinners. But I am glad I said it. I don’t believe he will ever get up again.”

... “Oh, well,” murmured Hans Olsa after a while. “He has had mercy on many a sinner before. I suppose there will be a little left for me, too.” ...

A great eagerness suddenly welled up in Beret’s soul.... “If only you will bring him a contrite heart! But how can one forgive the erring child who does not repent?... Woe unto you that are rich!—For ye have received your consolation.... Woe unto you that are full!—For ye shall hunger.... Woe unto you that laugh now!—For ye shall weep and mourn.... Oh no, we cannot only comfort ourselves with the belief that there is mercy enough—that it is free!” ... With firm hands, she changed the cloths again.

One severe coughing spell after another began to attack him now, and nothing more was said; but after a prolonged struggle he got his breath again; completely exhausted, he turned his face to the wall, and it looked as if he might drop off to sleep.... He lay perfectly quiet a long time.

Beret knit steadily until her hands grew tired; she wondered if she couldn’t find something to do for Sörine, took the lamp and went into the kitchen. Here she found a great pile of coarse hay stacked against the wall; she set to work at once, making twists of it for the fire. All the while she was thinking about her conversation with Hans Olsa.... “It will seem strange not to meet Hans Olsa in the hereafter—that it will. In the old country we grew up together.... They are good folk, both he and she.... And now he is starting out on his long journey—and will not pass through the heavenly gates!... His mother, Ellen, was a very God-fearing woman; his father I didn’t know, but I never heard a word against him.... Now they have waited there for him these many years; it will be hard for me to meet them some day and tell them how it all happened here.... Perhaps I will be to blame, too; I certainly haven’t done what I should.... Oh, how can he hope to get in? Not many from the Dakota prairie will ever stand in glory _there_—that I am sure of!... For here Earth takes us. What she cannot get easily she wrests by subtle force, and we do not even know it.... I see what happens in my own home.... It is awful!... Here he lay at the point of death, enjoying Tönseten’s ribaldry!... With thoughts like this, he is now to meet his God!” ...

The lamp burned low. The room was growing cold. She got up and threw some fagots into the fire, waited until it burned up briskly, then put on a couple of sticks of wood—there were not many left in the box.... “It will not be easy for Sörrina when he is gone.... But nothing else matters, if only he could reach the Heavenly Home! We can take care of things here.” ...

She went into the bedroom again, to see if she could do anything for the sick man. He was awake when she came in; his manner showed that he had been waiting for her.

“How is the weather outside?” he asked, slowly. “Would it be possible for a man to travel in it?”

“What do you say?” She came close to the bed.

“Could we try to get the doctor, do you suppose?... Others out here have had him.” ...

“We shall see when daylight comes.... But how about the minister, Hans Olsa?”

“The minister?”

“Yes—when the Lord’s hour is at hand, man’s help is of no avail; for from His wrath no man can flee!... What you need most of all is Communion, Hans Olsa!”

“Communion . . .? Well ... yes ... I suppose so . . . that is true.”