To think that a man's hard grip
could work such wonders! But it was right; here was a strong and
healthy woman, sensible enough, but spoiled and warped by long
confinement in an artificial air--and she had butted into a man who
stood firmly on his feet. Never for a moment had he left his natural
place on the earth, on the soil. Nothing could move him.
Many sorts of times. Next year came the drought again, killing the
growth off slowly, and wearing down human courage. The corn stood
there and shrivelled up; the potatoes--the wonderful potatoes--they
did not shrivel up, but flowered and flowered. The meadows turned
grey, but the potatoes flowered. The powers above guided all things,
no doubt, but the meadows were turning grey.
Then one day came Geissler--ex-Lensmand Geissler came again at last.
It was good to find that he was not dead, but had turned up again. And
what had he come for now?
Geissler had no grand surprises with him this time, by the look of it;
no purchases of mining rights and documents and such-like. Geissler
was poorly dressed, his hair and beard turned greyer, and his eyes
redder at the edges than before.
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