Ay, but Margrave, what was he now? A pitiful thing, nothing
superhuman, but old and fading, going the way of all flesh. What
though he had good bowels, and could eat well, when it gave him no
strength? 'Twas Sivert had the strength now, and a mercy it was
so--but think, if Isak had had it too! A sorry thing, to find his
works running down. He had toiled like a man, carrying loads enough
for any beast of burden; now, he could exercise his patience in
resting.
Isak is ill-pleased, heavy at heart.
Here lies an old hat, an old sou'wester, rotting on the ground.
Carried there by the gale, maybe, or maybe the lads had brought it
there to the edge of the wood years ago, when they were little ones.
It lies there year after year, rotting and rotting away; but once it
had been a new sou'wester, all yellow and new. Isak remembers the day
he came home with it from the store, and Inger had said it was a fine
hat. A year or so after, he had taken it to a painter down in the
village, and had it blacked and polished, and the brim done in green.
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