Settlers of the Marsh Read Free

years old. He did not wear overalls under his sheep-skin but a grey suit, the legs of his trousers being tucked into high leather boots which were well greased. About his neck he wore a neatly-tied, plaid-pattern sateen tie. His head was covered with a wedgeshaped cap of black fur. He had a small moustache, trimmed to a short, bristly brush; his cheeks and chin were freshly shaved. His eyes were small and blue and had a trick of avoiding those of his interlocutor. He shrugged his shoulders when he spoke and gesticulated with both hands. Before he spoke, he thought; and, having thought, he spoke with decision. He seemed to realise with great force and made others realise that thought could be changed and modified, but that a spoken word was binding. Every motion of his showed that he watched jealously over his dignity. But his voice was harsh and loud as if he were trying to give a special emphasis and significance to every word. When he listened, he bent his head to one side and looked at the ground, drawing up his thin brows and lending ear with all his might. That gave him the air of being constantly on his guard.
    â€œIf it please God,” Amundsen said at last decisively, “we shall find water … Well, shall we go in?” And he led the way to the house.
    â€œMrs. Amundsen still poorly?” Nelson asked.
    â€œIt has pleased God to confine her to her bed,” Amundsen replied with corresponding choice of words in Swedish. He shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands in a deprecatory gesture. “It is a visitation. One must be resigned.”
    When they entered the house, Amundsen ceremoniously letting the two others precede, a girl of perhaps eighteen or nineteen years was busy at the range. The bed on the floor had been removed; the table was spread.
    Niels looked at the girl and expected some kind of introduction; but none was vouchsafed. Neither did she seem to take any notice of the guests.
    She was somewhat above medium height, taller than her father, with wide hips and a mature bust. Her hair was straw-yellow and neatly but plainly brushed back and gathered into a knot above the nape of her neck. Her dress was of dark-blue print, made with no view to prettiness or style, but spotlessly clean.
    Her whole attitude, even to her father, spoke of self-centred repose and somewhat defiant aloofness.
    It was not till the three men were seated at the table that Niels had a glimpse of her face. Her eyes were light-blue, her features round, and her complexion a pure, Scandinavian white. But it was the expression that held him: hers was the face of a woman; not of a girl. There was a great, ripe maturity in it, and a look as if she saw through pretences and shams and knew more of life than her age would warrant. No smile lighted her features; her eyes were stern and nearly condemnatory. But somehow, when Niels looked at her, a great desire came over him to make her smile.
    Amundsen noticed his scrutiny and disapproved of it; for with his loud and matter-of-fact voice he cut it short.
    â€œWell,” he said, “pray.” And, standing up, he spoke with a firm and insistent voice a prayer which sounded as if he were rather laying down the law to his creator than invoking his blessing.
    Then, without looking up, he sat down. “Ellen, coffee.”
    â€œYes, father,” replied the girl with an unexpected note of obsequience oddly at variance with her preoccupied air.
    Breakfast was eaten in silence. The girl did not sit down with the men but ate while standing at the range.
    Nelson was the first to rise. “Well,” he said, “I guess we better get started.”
    They went out.
    Amundsen remained on the yard, busying himself with the sleighs to which apparently he intended to transfer the box from the wagon.
    Soon after, when the two men had gathered their tools, picks and shovels, Niels saw to his surprise the girl, clad like a man in sheepskin and big overshoes, crossing the