"Naught to cry about, my dear," says
Isak. "There's none of us can be as we ought."
"Nay, 'tis true," she answers gratefully. Oh, Isak had a strong, sound
way of taking things; straightened them out, he did, when they turned
crooked. "None of us can be as we ought." Ay, he was right. The god of
the heart--for all that he is a god, he goes a deal of crooked ways,
goes out adventuring, the wild thing that he is, and we can see it in
his looks. One day rolling in a bed of roses and licking his lips and
remembering things; next day with a thorn in his foot, desperately
trying to get it out. Die of it? Never a bit, he's as well as ever. A
nice look-out it would be if he were to die!
And Inger's trouble passed off too; she got over it, but she keeps
on with her hours of devotion, and finds a merciful refuge there.
Hard-working and patient and good she is now every day, knowing Isak
different from all other men, and wanting none but him. No gay young
spark of a singer, true, in his looks and ways, but good enough, ay,
good enough indeed! And once more it is seen that the fear of the Lord
and contentment therewith are a precious gain.
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